The quartette passed the end of the gridiron, on which the unfortunate first team members were still toiling monotonously, crossed the practice field and finally reached the boathouse. Fortunately for their undertaking, there was no one inside nor about the landing, and Bowen led the way around the corner of the old building to where a piece of fairly level sward sloped to the river almost in the shadow of the bridge. “Now go to it, you idiots,” he said indifferently, “if you have to. But if I sing out, beat it! For I don’t intend to get yanked up before Charlie, even if you do.” Longley tossed his cap to the ground and impatiently tore off coat and waistcoat, and Hugh, a bit more calmly, similarly divested himself. Then his opponent, scowling ferociously, advanced across the turf, and Hugh squared to meet him. “Shake hands, gentlemen,” said Bowen facetiously, and Peet giggled. “Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled Longley. “Now then, you Little Lord Fauntleroy, where’ll you have it?” * * * * * Some twenty minutes later, Bert, laboriously trying to get out of his coat-sweater without hurting the damaged rib, heard the study door open and close quietly. “That you, Hugh?” he asked. “Yes,” was the quiet reply. But Hugh didn’t appear at the doorway. Instead he crossed to his own bedroom and Bert heard him pouring water into the bowl. “What are you so select for?” Bert sang out. “Aren’t you speaking to your friends today?” There was no audible reply from 29a, and having got rid of the sweater at the cost of a few twinges, Bert sauntered across the study to Hugh’s doorway. Then: “_For――the――love――of――Mike!_” whispered Bert awedly. “Where’d you get it?” Hugh, looking up from his task of applying a wet sponge to a disfigured countenance, smiled painfully. “Longley,” he answered. “Longley! Do you mean that Brew Longley battered you up like that? What was the row? Great Scott, Hugh, you’re an awful mess! What did you do to him?” “Not much, I’m afraid,” replied Hugh dejectedly. “I got in a few, but he was too clever for me.” He turned to the mirror over the dresser and viewed his reflection judicially, the wet sponge trickling water on the rug. “He’s a ripping good fighter, Bert,” he added with what sounded like unwilling admiration. Bert, hands in pockets, gazed fascinatedly at his room-mate’s countenance. He whistled tunelessly and under his breath. Hugh went back to the basin. “I fancy I flattened his nose for him, anyway,” he said more cheerfully. “Well,” said Bert, emerging from his trance, “I hope to thunder you did something to him! For he’s certainly just about ruined you! Here, turn around and let’s see the damage.”