“Am I his keeper?” asked Allan. “You’re his _fidus whatyoucallit_. Seen him to-night?” “No; maybe he’s studying.” “Careless youth,” muttered Tommy. “Say, did you hear about Pete and Bœotia?” “No; who’s Bœotia, anyway?” “Oh, it’s that place in--er--ancient history, you know. It was at recitation this morning; Professor Grove asked Pete how Bœotia was situated. Pete wasn’t prepared, but he thought he’d make a bluff at it. So he gets up and drawls out in his cheerfully idiotic way, ‘Oh, he had a pretty good situation, but he lost it.’” “What did old Grove say?” laughed Allan. “Well, I wasn’t there and can’t tell you. I’m going to settle my debts this week, and we’ll have that dinner at the Elm Tree Saturday night, if that’s all right for you fellows.” “It’s all right for me,” said Allan. “The funny part of it is,” Tommy went on, smiling, “that I made just enough to pay for the dinner out of the reports of Pete’s drowning which I sent to the Boston paper. I got my account yesterday.” “Tell that to Pete,” laughed Allan. “I’m going to. Where’s the angel child?” “The angel child is probably out in the kitchen. I can’t keep her at home since vacation; she found out then where the grub comes from.” “I think she ought to go to the dinner with us, don’t you?” “Well, scarcely. Let’s go down to the ‘Ranch’ and see what Pete’s up to. I can’t study any more to-night.” Town Lane was as dark as pitch save at remote intervals where street lamps flickered half-heartedly, and to reach Pete’s domicile at night without breaking a limb was quite a feat. To-night nothing more exciting occurred than a collision with a stable door which was swinging open, and the two reached the corner to find Pete’s windows brightly illumined. Tommy, being in a musical mood, took up a position underneath and broke into song. “Here ’neath thy window, Love, I am waiting, Waiting thy sweet face to see,” he declared, strumming the while on an imaginary guitar. But the verse came to an end without signs from the window, and so they climbed the stairs. The “Ranch” was deserted. But even as they assured themselves of the fact by looking into the bedroom, soft footfalls sounded on the stairs from the third-story loft, and a moment after Pete, looking like a conspirator, crept into the front room and softly closed the door behind him. Then his eyes fell on Allan and Tommy, and he grinned mysteriously. “Where’d you come from?” Allan demanded. “Up-stairs.” “What’s doing up there?” asked Tommy, suspiciously. “Nothing at all.” But the grin remained. Tommy sniffed. “I’m going up to see,” he threatened. Pete sank into a chair, took up his pipe, and spread his hands apart as if to say, “Please yourself; believe me or not, as you like.” Then he lighted his pipe. “What have you done with your coat?” asked Allan. “And why are you festooned with cobwebs and decorated with dust?” “_Quien sabe?_” answered Pete, shrugging his broad shoulders.