“Why, for goal, you know. I’ll have to keep an eye on you, Toby. You didn’t do so rottenly to-day, what? Speed it up a bit, my boy, and you’ll get there yet. Heard anything more about Henry’s coming back?” “No, I haven’t,” answered Toby carelessly. “You don’t seem to care, either. Well, it mightn’t make much difference to you. By the way, are those cut-rate prices still on? I’ve got a suit that wouldn’t be any worse for cleaning. I’ll fetch it up some day soon.” Toby was glad when Frank let him go, for the temptation to hold out his hand and say “I’d like my six dollars and a quarter, please!” was strong. And, besides, Toby felt oddly uncomfortable in Frank’s society, knowing what he did. Afterwards it occurred to him that Frank had seemed absolutely at ease, and that puzzled him. “Of course, he doesn’t suspect that I know,” argued Toby, “but, still, you’d think he’d be a bit ashamed of himself and want to keep out of my way. Why, he’s more――more friendly since he stole my money than he was before!” CHAPTER XV TOBY ENTERTAINS Toby had the little room under the roof of Whitson well tidied up by eight o’clock. It still looked far from luxurious, but at least it was clean. There was a faint odor of benzine to be detected, but there was always that, and no amount of airing seemed to entirely banish it. Toby sat down to study at a little after eight, but for the first half-hour he was continually peering around in dubious appraisal of his efforts or pushing back his chair and arising to turn the arm-chair a little more to the left, at which angle its dilapidated seat was more in shadow, or wedge the sagging door of the wardrobe more firmly shut or work some similar improvement. After he finally did become absorbed in study it seemed only a few minutes before nine o’clock struck. Mr. Loring was very prompt, for Toby had only time to rearrange the few articles on the top of the bureau for the fifth or sixth time when his knock came at the door. Alfred Loring was twenty-five or -six years of age and of medium height. His brown eyes had a disconcerting fashion of twinkling merrily even when the other features of a good-looking face proclaimed gravity, as though life was much more of a joke than he wanted you to know. When Toby had somewhat embarrassedly conducted him to the seat of honor and subsided into the straight chair by the table, the visitor opened the conversation in a most unexpected way. “This where you do your tailoring, Tucker?” he asked. “Y-yes, sir,” Toby stammered. He had tried so hard to hide every trace of that occupation, too! The gas-stove, its six feet of tubing wound around it, reposed under the bed and the irons and other things were in the bottom of the wardrobe. He wondered how Mr. Loring knew about it, not surmising that the coach had naturally enough sought to learn all he could of Toby before his visit. “I don’t do any tailoring,” corrected Toby. “I just clean clothes and press them.” “Get much to do?”