“Yes, sir.” Toby went out. After all, he told himself outside, scowling challengingly at one of the plaster statues that loomed ghost-like along the corridor, he had done what was honorable. He found a trifle of consolation in that. Whatever was to be, was to be, and there was nothing more he could do in the matter. His record until to-day had been good and he didn’t believe that faculty would deprive him of that scholarship for just missing one chapel. He was fairly cheerful by the time he entered Whitson again and if luck hadn’t ordained that he should almost collide with Arnold at the top of the first flight he might have kept right on feeling cheerful for awhile longer. But sight of Arnold brought back recollection of that other trouble. Arnold drew aside, in stony silence, and Toby, after one startled glance, stepped aside and passed. Homer Wilkins, behind Arnold, said: “Hello, Toby! What’s the rush?” But Toby made no answer and went on up the next flight, oppressed by a queer, empty sort of feeling. There was nothing to do until nine-thirty, unless he chose to rub up his algebra a little or press the trousers that Will Curran had left during his absence. Toby didn’t feel like studying, though, and, after reading the note that Curran had pinned to the garment, he only crumpled it up and tossed it in the waste basket and laid the trousers down again. At another time Curran’s facetious communication would have won a smile, but to-day it seemed sadly dreary. Curran had written: “Tucker’s Cleansing and Pressing Parlors, Dear Sir: Please heat your little iron And press these trousers nice. I’ll call for them this evening And bring the stated price. Don’t crease them much above the knees, For that’s against the style, But press the cuffs down very flat, So they will stay awhile. William Shakespeare Curran.” Awful rot, Toby thought. CHAPTER XVII THE GRAY CARD