“I wish he were here now,” sighed Laughlin. “It’s hard to get hold of such fellows. Lindsay here is the only good recruit that I’ve caught for the line next year.” Wolcott reddened as the eyes of the company were turned curiously upon him. “I’m going to try, that’s all,” he said humbly. “I don’t know that I shall be able to play.” “And I’m going to try, though I know I shan’t be able to play,” lamented Durand. “If I could gain about forty pounds this summer, there would be some hope for me.” Laughlin and Lindsay came downstairs together a few minutes later. “I’ve committed you now before witnesses,” said Laughlin. “You see you have your work cut out for you.” “So you guarantee me a place in the line, do you?” asked Wolcott, smiling. “Not much!” the captain retorted. “Guarantee you nothing but the chance to work for one.” The next day school closed for the spring recess. The grip that Wolcott gave to Laughlin’s big fist was an earnest of growing regard as well as a measure of self-defence. He went out of his way to say good-by to Salter, whose loneliness was the more apparent amid the boisterous leave-takings of friends. For Marchmont he had but a brief word, and yet a month before he had written for permission to bring Marchmont home with him at this very time. Fortunately the invitation had never been given. CHAPTER XIV PATRON AND CLIENT The spring term was but a few days old when Salter received a summons to present himself at the Principal’s office immediately after his morning recitation. Such invitations were not frequent with Salter, who, as we have seen, led a particularly inoffensive life, gave scrupulous heed to the rules, and did his work with exemplary regularity. His record was clear of all sins of omission and of commission; but on the score of permission he was not so innocent. He had a gloomy presentiment, as he dragged himself up the walk to his destination, that the long-deferred reckoning for the trap-door and the nocturnal exits through his window was now at hand. He went hopeless and helpless in the horns of his dilemma, forbidden by the perverse principle of school honor to confess the truth, yet bound to be credited with deception and wrong-doing if he did not. “Salter,” began the Principal, with the cautious deliberateness which he habitually used in his interviews with suspected boys, “you were allowed to occupy Mrs. Winter’s lower room because you were considered trustworthy, were you not?” “Yes, sir.” “And in taking that room you were put on your honor to conform to the school rules.” “Yes, sir.” “Explain, then, your absence from your room last night and your return through the window at half-past twelve.” “I wasn’t out last night at all, sir,” replied Salter in a low voice, but without raising his eyes to meet Mr. Graham’s searching gaze. “When did you go to bed?” “About ten.” “You did not go out or come in by your window last night?”