The telegram asking for his aunt’s address was duly despatched to his mother in New Haven, and after that there was nothing left to do save wait her reply. Allan parted from Stearns and went dejectedly back to his room. There he found Pete engaged in a carouse with Two Spot. They wouldn’t let Pete practise with the shot to-day, or again before the meet, and he was feeling quite lost in consequence. Allan wanted some one to unfold his tale of woe to, and he was glad to find Pete awaiting him. Pete, as the story was told, grew very indignant, and offered to punch Professor Nast’s head. But Allan finally convinced him that the chairman of the Athletic Committee wasn’t at all to blame. “It’s a beastly way to have things end, after you’ve been practising hard all spring,” he said, as he arose impatiently from his chair and strolled to the desk. A Latin book was lying on the blotter, with a slip of paper marking the page where Allan had been at work when Stearns appeared. Now he opened the book, crumpled the marker into a ball and tossed it disgustedly onto the floor. Then he drew up a chair and plainly hinted that he desired to study. Pete, however, refused to heed the hint. “It’s a mighty foolish business,” he said, thoughtfully. Allan grunted. Two Spot had discovered the little ball of paper and was making believe that it was a mouse. She rolled it from under the couch with playful pawings and frantic rushes, and finally tossing it in the air, so that it fell at Pete’s feet, she stopped, blinked at it and suddenly fell to washing her feet, as though too dignified to do aught else. Pete stooped absent-mindedly and picked up the bit of paper, unfolding it slowly and smoothing it across one huge knee. “Seems to me,” he said presently, “you chaps have forgotten one thing.” “What’s that?” Allan asked, ungraciously. “To wire the St. Thomas Club people and ask them if you ran in their old meeting.” “Well, that’s so,” said Allan, hopefully. “But, then, there was probably some one there named ‘A. Ware,’ and they’d just answer ‘yes.’” “Ask ’em if Allan Ware, of Erskine, ran in the meeting, and, if he didn’t, who the dickens the ‘A. Ware’ was who did run. Tell you’ve got to know in a hurry, and that it’s blamed important.” “By Jove!” exclaimed Allan, “that’s a good idea. Funny we didn’t think of it, wasn’t it?” For answer Pete grunted, as though he didn’t think it at all funny. “Hello, who’s ‘Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.’?” asked Pete, holding up the scrap of paper rescued from Two Spot, and which now proved to be torn from the program of the Boston indoor meeting. “I don’t know; why?” asked Allan. “I used to know a fellow of that name out in Colorado. He was sort of studying mining. What does ‘N. Y. A. C.’ mean?” “New York Athletic Club. It’s probably the same fellow. I remember him now. He was the chap that thought Rindgely was me.” “Eh?” asked Pete. “How was that?”