Jack Curran frowned at his brother. “Cut that out, Will,” he growled. “Try to act like a gentleman even if it hurts you. I say, Glad, I found that book I told you about. If you want it, come around, will you?” Gladwin replied and conversation became general again. But now and then Arnold cast a puzzled glance across at Toby’s lowered head and wondered what had happened to the usually even-tempered chum. By that time Toby was angry with himself for having shown his feelings. He wouldn’t have had the other fellows at the table guess the reason for his glumness for anything in the world. Nor did he want Arnold to guess it. He had meant to treat the latter with chill indifference; he hadn’t intended to act like a sulky kid. When he left the table Arnold followed him to join him on the way out as was usual, but to-night Toby skirted another table, reached the corridor in advance of Arnold and, without a glance, pushed through the swinging door to the stairway and mounted swiftly to his room. Once there he paused on the threshold and listened. If he had thought to hear Arnold’s footsteps in pursuit he was mistaken, for Arnold, viewing his friend’s singular behavior, had merely shrugged his shoulders a bit irritably and let him go. In his room again, Toby turned up the light, which had been reduced to a mere pin-point of flame, dragged the chair to the table again and, settling his head in his hands, determinedly attacked his Latin. But for a long while, although he kept his eyes on the page, his ears were strained for the sound of Arnold’s footsteps. Other footsteps echoed down the corridor and several doors opened and shut. Roy Stillwell, across the corridor, was singing a football song, keeping time with his heels on the floor: “Old Yardley can’t be beat, my boy, She’s bound to win the game! So give a cheer for Yardley, and Hats off to Yardley’s fame!”