Samp Elwell, the Hoosier, whose dry wit was a source of never-ending delight to his friends, occupied the piano stool. Across the room sat his chum, Lance Fair, who was not nearly so unsophisticated as his smooth, rosy cheeks and almost girlish manner would lead one to imagine. Buckhart was hunched down on the back of his neck in one of the big easy-chairs near the table, while Merriwell himself was tilted back against the wall in the desk chair, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth and a smile curving the corners of his sensitive mouth. “You fellows ought to have been in Pierson’s classroom this morning,” he remarked. “After the lecture he started in to quiz us, and happened to spy Hollister gazing dreamily out of the window. I suppose Bob was thinking out some new football stunt. Anyway, he was miles away from Roman history, and Pierson caught him. “‘Mr. Hollister,’ he said, in that short, snappy way he has, ‘can you mention one memorable date in Roman history?’ “Bob came out of his trance with a jump and snapped back without thinking, ‘Anthony’s with Cleopatra, sir.’ It brought down the house.” There was a shout of delighted laughter, and when it had died down Samp Elwell looked up, grinning. “He did,” chimed in Fitzgerald from the table. “Piercy was mad as thunder. It isn’t the first time Bob’s flunked by a long shot, either. He’s been awful punky this term.” “I’d like to have seen old Pierson’s face,” he chuckled. “I reckon Bob drew a goose egg for that.” “Too much football, I opine,” growled the Texan. “He can’t get his mind off the game long enough to feed his face, let alone keep track of lectures. He’s plumb locoed about it. You hear me gently warble!” “Oh, say,” Elwell spoke up suddenly; “how about that new stunt of old Bill’s. That forward——” The Texan straightened up like a flash, and, grabbing a book from the table, shied it with swiftness and remarkable accuracy at the Hoosier’s head. Elwell ducked, and the book struck the piano, falling to the keyboard with a discordant crash. “What in time——” began the indignant sophomore, straightening up again. “You don’t seem to recollect what I tried to drill into that solid ivory skull of yours a brief time back,” Buckhart drawled with perfect composure. “Talking shop has got to be cut out around this bunk house. I’m plumb sick of hearing about football. For six weeks I’ve heard nothing else, and now that Tempest is back on the job I’m going to take a rest.” “Great Scott, Brad!” Rose exclaimed aghast. “You’re not going to leave the team!” “Thunderation, no!” the Texan retorted. “I’ll hold down my job till the cows come home; but off the field I’m going to forget it and take a whack at the books I have hardly got a squint at since the term began. So, unless you gents want to start a row promiscuous like, kindly refrain from holding forth on the subject while I’m around.”