By morning it had occurred to some one of Bus’s intimates that the humorous possibilities of the football had not been nearly exhausted. His appearance at breakfast had fallen rather flat, and the fun of knocking the ball off his lap had somewhat palled. Hence a new way of adding to the joy of life must be devised. The plan evolved required Bus’s consent and participation, and, since Bus was not one to deprive a friend of a little innocent amusement, he gave the first and promised the latter. At quarter to eleven, Bus, who was a member of the Junior Class, repaired to Room C, wherein had already gathered Mr. Kincaid and some forty youths. Mr. Kincaid, on the small platform at the end of the room, snapped his watch shut and nodded toward the door. One of the class, awaiting the signal, arose and proceeded to close it. As though he had waited outside for that moment--as in reality he had--Bus entered, the faithful football snuggled in one arm, his book and pad in hand and an earnest, detached look on his face. There were empty seats, a very few, near the door, but Bus for once chose to sit close to the preceptor and went sedately down the aisle to the very first row, observed by the class with breathless interest and by the instructor with interest which, if not exactly breathless, was quite as earnest. Bus seated himself, placed the football--still attached to his person by the cord--in his lap, folded his hands and raised an expectant gaze to Mr. Kincaid. Mr. Kincaid leveled a pencil at the ball and asked mildly: “What have you there, Lovell?” “A football, sir,” replied Bus innocently. “Ah, a football!” The instructor seemed gratified, as though he had suspected the object of being a football and was pleased to have the accuracy of his surmise confirmed. The class maintained a silence quite unusual, anxious to miss no whit of the fun. “You appear,” said Mr. Kincaid, “to be quite attached to it.” Bus recognized the jest with a polite smile and fingered the cord as a further indication that he had “got” it. “Yes, sir,” he replied, “I am.” “And”--Mr. Kincaid blinked, a method used to indicate guilelessness which fooled nobody--“and the football seems to be quite as attached to you. A truly beautiful friendship, Lovell.” “Yes, sir.” Bus spoke more doubtfully. “Yes, indeed,” went on the instructor musingly, “quite--ah--affecting. Just what was it, Lovell, that drew you together, besides a similarity of mental equipment?” “Sir?” Repressed snickers from about him confirmed his suspicion that Mr. Kincaid had scored. The instructor was affably patient. “I asked what first drew you to each other, Lovell, but never mind that. Instead, tell me whether you would be willing to part with your, shall I say alter ego? during a brief period which I propose to devote to the subject of Greek history.” Bus was back on solid ground again. He had been waiting for that question. He shook his head, sadly yet emphatically.