Off darted the gray car. The three gazed after it in silence. Then Spurling spoke. "Must seem rather pleasant to have a bank-account you can't touch the bottom of, mustn't it? They say his father's all sorts of a millionaire. Hope he doesn't get smashed up or run over somebody." "He's a good-natured fool," commented Lane. "But you can't help liking him, after all. Now let's get back to business." It was Commencement week in mid-June at the old country academy nestled among the New England hills. The lawns before the substantial white houses were emerald with the fresh, unrivaled green of spring. Fragrant lilacs sweetened the soft air. The walks under the thick-leafed elms were thronged with talking, laughing groups. Bright-colored dresses dotted the campus before the dingy brick buildings. Tennis-courts and ball-field were alive with active figures. A few days more and students and strangers would be gone, and the old town would sink into the drowsy quiet of the long summer vacation. Lounging on the notched, whittled fence, Lane, Spurling, and Stevens fell once more into earnest conversation. Spurling came from a Maine coast town. He was nineteen, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned, deliberate in speech and movements. Physically very strong, he had caught on the academy ball team and played guard in football. Mentally he was a trifle slow; but in the whole school there was no squarer, more solid fellow. So far as finances went, he was dependent on his own resources; whatever education he got he must earn himself. Lane afforded in many respects a decided contrast to Spurling. Reared on a New Hampshire farm in the shadow of the White Mountains, he was of medium build, wiry and active, a practical joker, full of life and spirit. He had red hair and the quick temper that goes with it. Though not much of a student, he had at eighteen a keen, clear business head. Like Spurling, he had been obliged to make his own way; and, like Spurling, he was abundantly able to make it. Winthrop Stevens, or "Throppy," as his friends nicknamed him, claimed a small Massachusetts city as his home. He was the best scholar of the three, dark, quiet, studious, with a decided trend toward mechanics and electricity. Though not obliged to work for his schooling, he had always chummed with the other two, and with them had been a waiter at a shore hotel the previous season. The trio were endeavoring to decide what they should do the coming summer. "Well," said Lane, "what shall it be? Juggling food again at the Beachmont?" "Not for me," answered Spurling, decidedly. "I'm sick of hanging round a table, pretending to do as many unnecessary things as you can, wondering whether the man you've waited on is going to give up a half-dollar or a nickel, knowing that the more uncomfortable you can make him feel the bigger fee you'll pull down. No more tipping for me! I'd rather earn my money, even if I don't get so much."