“No hurry.” The visitor seated himself gingerly in the dilapidated armchair and draped a pair of gray trousers across his knees. While the boy at the table deftly lifted the dampened cloth and laid it over another part of the coat he was pressing and again pushed the hot iron back and forth, the visitor’s gaze traveled about the little room in mild surprise. There were no pictures on the white walls, nothing in the shape of decoration beyond three gaudily colored posters. Two of them depicted heroic figures in football togs surmounting the word “Yardley” in big blue letters, and the third was an advertisement for an automobile, showing a car of gigantic size, inhabited by a half-dozen lilliputian men and women, perched precariously on the edge of a precipice. The boy holding the gray trousers hoped that the man at the wheel, who seemed to be admiring the view with no thought of danger, had his brakes well set! He hadn’t known that anywhere in Yardley Hall School was there a room so absolutely unattractive and mean as Number 22. To be sure, Whitson was the oldest of all the dormitories and so one naturally wouldn’t look for the modern conveniences found in Merle or Clarke or Dudley, but he had never suspected that Poverty Row, as the top floor of Whitson was factitiously called, held anything so abjectly hideous as the apartment of T. Tucker. Further reflections were cut short by his host, who, returning the iron to the stove and whisking the cloth aside, picked up the coat he had pressed, folded it knowingly and laid it on the foot of the bed. After which, plunging his hands into his trousers pockets, he faced the visitor inquiringly. “Something you want done?” he asked briskly. “Yes, if you can do it this evening,” was the reply. “But you look pretty busy. It’s just this pair of trousers, Tucker. I want to wear them away in the morning.” “All right, I’ll do ’em. Cleaned or just pressed?” Toby Tucker took the garment and examined it with professional interest. “Oh, just pressed. I don’t think they’re spotted. Are you sure you want to do them? You look sort of busy already.” His glance went to the half-dozen coats and waistcoats and trousers lying about. “I am,” replied Toby cheerfully, “but I’ll have these ready for you in the morning. Seven early enough?” “Oh, yes, there’s no chapel to-morrow, you know. If I’m not up just toss them in the room somewhere.” “All right. You’re in Dudley, aren’t you?” “Yes, four. Crowell’s the name.” “I know. You’re hockey captain. I suppose it’s hard to learn that game, isn’t it?” Toby turned the light out under the burner and seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Hockey?” asked Orson Crowell. “N-no, I don’t think so. Of course a fellow’s got to know how to skate a bit, and not mind being roughed, you know. The rest comes with practice. Thinking of trying it, Tucker?” “Me? No, I wouldn’t have time. I just wondered. Arnold Deering’s on the team, and he’s talked a good deal about it.”