Consequently, he was not a little dismayed to find, instead, a typewritten note signed by the dean himself, asking him kindly to call at the latter’s office at half-past two. “What in calamity does he mean by that?” he muttered, crinkling his forehead into a dozen worried wrinkles. “I reckon I’m in for a good roast this time.” Outwardly calm, but with considerable inward trepidation, he reached the dean’s office five minutes before the appointed time, and, on sending in his name, was at once summoned to the inner office. The dean looked up from his desk as the senior entered. “Sit down, Mr. Hollister,” he said, indicating a chair which stood near the desk. Hollister dropped down in the chair and crossed his legs. There was silence for a moment while the older man reached out to take up several papers which had been pinned together, and glanced them over. Then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Bob meditatively through his gold-rimmed glasses. “You are aware, of course, Mr. Hollister,” he remarked presently, “that an undergraduate who has been the recipient of three separate notices warning him that his rank in as many different studies is not satisfactory, has sent to him what is called a general warning?” “Yes, sir,” Bob returned quietly. “You know, I suppose, the meaning of this general warning?” “Yes, sir—er—well, not exactly,” Bob said hastily. “I haven’t had one so far myself, but I always thought that they were a pretty emphatic hint for a fellow to brace up and attend to business.” The dean’s eyes twinkled. “You have the right notion,” he remarked. “To deserve a general warning, a man’s record must be pretty bad. I am sorry to say that yours is more than bad. It is atrocious.” Hollister’s face flushed and he dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. The dean placed the tips of his fingers lightly together and surveyed the troubled face of the senior over the tops of them. “It is in such marked contrast to your record of the past three years,” he went on quietly, “that I decided to have a talk with you and find out what was the matter. Can you tell me, Mr. Hollister, why it is that you seem to have done absolutely nothing in any class this term?” “I’ve—been thinking—a lot about—football,” stammered Bob. “Ah! Giving time to it away from the field, you mean?” the older man inquired. Hollister nodded. “Yes, sir.” “Is that necessary to a proper performance of the game?” the dean asked quietly. “I do not seem to recall any such complaints as these about the work of other members of the eleven.” He tapped the papers on the desk in front of him lightly. Hollister glanced up quickly.