With the feeling that he had escaped a great peril, Salter sat down in his room and meditated on the interview. He had told no lies; he had made no confession; he had given no hint that could be so twisted as to suggest Marchmont. But how was he to fulfil his promise to seek out an adviser and follow his advice? And who was “the strongest, manliest, most honorable fellow you know”? Certain names occurred to him immediately,—names with which we are already acquainted: Poole, Laughlin, Ware, Planter. No one of these fellows had ever taken much notice of him. They had been polite to him,—all but Planter the senior, who probably didn’t know him by sight,—but in his timid soul he shrank from imposing on any of them his private troubles. Who, then, was this adviser to be? If he consulted his inclination, it would be Lindsay, with whom he had already discussed the affair of the closet, and whose later treatment of him invited confidence. And why not Lindsay, indeed? Lindsay was a gentleman, and strong and kind-hearted; had in three months won a position in the social life of the school which Salter himself could never hope to reach; knew Marchmont well, and yet was not of his sort. Lindsay it should be. In response to a knock Wolcott looked up from his books that afternoon to see Salter standing before him. “I want to talk with you about something,” said the visitor, timidly. “May I?” “Sure!” returned Wolcott, encouragingly. “Sit down, won’t you? What’s up?” “You remember what I said to you about that trap-door in my closet, that sooner or later I should be pulled up for it? Well, it came to-day.” “Tell me about it!” cried Wolcott, interested at once. And Salter, whose memory never failed him, went over the conversation with Mr. Graham verbatim. “He told me to choose an adviser, and to follow his advice,” Salter remarked in conclusion, “so I’ve chosen you—that is, if you don’t object,” he added immediately, as he saw the color rush into Lindsay’s face. He need have felt no uncertainty. Wolcott’s cheeks flushed, not from anger, but with pride that, with all the school to choose from, this fellow had come to him, a new boy, for advice and help; and instantly, under the generous impulse that animates every true man when a weaker cries for protection, he had adopted Salter’s cause as his own. If he hesitated, it was only for effect; he knew immediately what he wished to say. “If you want my advice, here it is: go to Marchmont and tell him the thing has got to end, and end now; that if he goes through your room again, you won’t be responsible for what happens.” “But what can happen?” “You could lock him out, if you wanted to, and let him shift for himself. But it won’t come to that. Tell him you won’t have it! Put up a stiff front, and he’ll back down. I’ve seen him do it before now.”