Dick liked that smile and answered it. But for a moment neither followed the suggestion. Gard was looking critically at the pictures he had hung, and Dick had a good chance to size him up. His room-mate was a bit taller than Dick, with rather a loose-jointed way of moving. He didn’t look exactly thin, but there certainly wasn’t any excess flesh about him. The running shoes suggested that he was a track athlete, and Dick surmised that he was a good one. You couldn’t call Gard handsome; perhaps he wasn’t even good-looking in the general acceptance of the word; but Dick liked his face none the less. The forehead was high and the lightish hair of a rather indeterminate shade of brown was brushed straight back from it. That happened to be a style of wearing the hair that Dick had always objected to, but he had to own that the fashion suited Gard very well. It emphasised the lean length of the face and added to the sharp, hawk-like appearance produced by a curved beak of a nose, thin and pointed, and the narrow jaws. But if Gard reminded Dick of a hawk, it was a gentle and kindly one, for the mouth was good-natured and the eyes, darkly grey, were soft and honest. Gard wore good clothes with no suggestion of extravagance. In age he was fully seventeen, perhaps a year more. He moved his gaze from the wall and it met Dick’s. Involuntarily both boys smiled. Then each began to speak at once, stopped simultaneously and laughed. “You say it,” said Gard. “I was going to ask if you were a runner.” “I’m a hurdler. I’ve tried the sprints, but I’m only as good as a dozen others. Sometimes I ‘double’ in the broad-jump if we need the points. You look as if you might be fast on the track, Bates. By the way, what’s the rest of your name?” “Richard C. The C’s for Corliss.” “That means Dick, doesn’t it?” “Surely,” laughed the other. “All right. Mine’s Stanley; usually abbreviated to Stan. Have you ever done any running, Dick?” “Yes, I’ve done some sprinting. What’s the hundred-yards record here?” “A fifth. It hasn’t been bettered in years.” “That’s a fifth better than I can do.” “Same here. I tried often enough, too, but I only did it once, and that was in practice, with a hard wind at my back. You play football, you said?” “Yes, do you?” Stanley shook his head. “Too strenuous for me. I like baseball pretty well, but it interferes with track work. Guess we’re going to have a corking good eleven this year, and I hope you’ll make it, Dick.” “Thanks. I may. The fellows look a bit older and bigger than I expected they would, though.” “Well, they say you have a good deal of fun on the Second Team, if you don’t make the first. And next year you’ll probably be a lot heavier. I don’t know many of the football crowd, or I’d take you around and introduce you. I wonder if Blash would do you any good.” “Who is he?”