It was still early when they reached the dormitory and they went into Malcolm’s room and made themselves comfortable and continued their discussion of the football situation. Rob was extremely eloquent this evening and derived a lot of pleasure in hauling Hopkins and Prentiss over the coals. “I don’t see,” he said finally to Evan, “why you want to give those chaps money for their old team after the way they treated you.” “Well, I dare say I didn’t do very well,” Evan replied. “In fact, I’m sure I didn’t. I can’t play end and I told Devens so when I started. And he didn’t need a quarter or a half――” “The dickens he didn’t! Call that chap Hinkley a half-back, do you? Well, I don’t. And they need a good quarter on the First Team, too. Miller’s a frost. How’s the ankle getting on?” “Oh, it’s all right now,” Evan replied. “That’s good. You may need the use of it before long.” “Why?” “Oh, you’ll see.” “Say, Rob, you’re beastly mysterious to-night,” complained Malcolm. “What have you got up your sleeve?” “Only my arm,” answered Rob. “I’ll tell you all about it, Mal, as soon as――as my plans are perfected.” “You and your plans!” grunted Malcolm derisively. When Rob and Evan said good-night and returned to their own room Evan got ready for bed, but Rob, after partially undressing, went to the lower drawer of his bureau and began hauling things over. That lower drawer was Rob’s workshop. There were all sorts of tools there and spools of wire and pieces of metal and odds and ends of all kinds. Evan called it the junk-shop. When working on one of his numerous inventions Rob produced a board about three feet long and eighteen inches wide from the closet and set it on his bed. Then he drew his chair up to it and filed or hammered or whittled to his heart’s content. There was usually a litter of shavings or metal filings――sometimes both――on bed and floor, and Evan had long ago learned to avoid that part of the room unless his feet were protected with slippers. It isn’t pleasant to step on nails or screws or ends of wire, as Evan was continually doing at first. To-night Rob emptied a cigar-box of its contents, fixed his improvised bench in place and set to work with knife and paste-pot. “What are you up to?” inquired Evan. “You wait and see,” was the pre-occupied answer. Evan laid hold of a book and threatened Rob’s head with it. “If you say that to me again to-night, Rob, I’ll brain you!” he declared. Rob looked up, laughed and went on with his work. “All right, chum, I’ll tell you, then. It’s this way. Your eloquence in behalf of the football team this evening has touched my calloused heart, Evan. Something ought to be done to secure the money they need, and I’m doing it.” “Well, what’s the cigar-box for?”