"Hits me, Jim," assented Stevens. "What do you say, Budge?" "Same here," agreed Roger. The long-drawn shriek of a locomotive rose from the valley-bottom. "There's the five-ten!" ejaculated Lane. "I pity Whittington when his dad finds how things have gone." "Percy isn't the only one who needs sympathy," said Spurling, soberly. "What about his father?" "I'm sorry for 'em both," was Lane's comment. "But the Whittington family'll have to handle its own troubles. Now, fellow-members, to the question before the house! Unless I raise at least two hundred dollars in the next three months, it's no college for me in September." A short silence followed. Spurling took out his knife and deliberately slithered a long, splintery shaving off the fence-top. "I've an idea," he said, slowly. "Give me till evening and I'll tell you about it. What d'you say to a last game of tennis?" The others agreed and slipped off the fence. Lane glanced up the road. "Here comes Whittington, scorching like a blue streak! And there's Bill Sanders's old auto crawling up May Street hill from the railroad station! If Percy should hit him--good-night!" The gray machine rapidly grew larger. The people on the sidewalks stood still and watched. May Street crossed Main at right angles, and a high cedar hedge before the corner house made it impossible for the two drivers to see each other until they were close together. On sped the gray car. "Isn't he humming!" Suddenly Whittington thrust out his left arm. "He's going to turn down May Street!" shouted Lane. "Bound to the station after his father. He'll hit Sanders, sure as fate! Hi! Hi there, Percy!" Heedless of the warning, Whittington whirled round into May Street and plunged full tilt into the hotel bus, striking it a glancing blow back of its front wheel. There was a tremendous crash. "Come on, fellows!" cried Lane. They ran at top speed toward the wreck. Through the clearing dust three figures were visible, extricating themselves from the ruins. Sanders, the hotel chauffeur, was groaning and rubbing his ankle. His only passenger, a bald, thick-set man, with smooth face and bulldog jaw, had a bleeding scratch down his right cheek and a badly torn coat. Whittington, apparently unharmed, was chalky and stuttering from fright. Spurling, for all his slowness, was the first to reach the wreck. He helped the stout stranger to his feet, and the man turned angrily toward Whittington. An exclamation of surprise burst from both. "Dad!" "Percy!" Understanding struggled with indignation on the older man's face. "Well," he growled, "so you've done it again!" For a moment the lad stood in shamefaced alarm, shaking from head to foot. "Are you much hurt, Dad?" he stammered. "Only a scratch," returned Whittington, senior. "But it's no thanks to you that I wasn't killed." He turned to Sanders, who was still chafing his ankle. "Anything broken?" "No, sir; only a sprain."