"And Skippy," said Snorky Green, with a sudden realization of a man's frailties, "whatever you do--never tell a woman. You understand?" Skippy, whose relations with the opposite sex were of the cat-and-dog variety, solemnly raised his hand. "I swear." "Now to be practical. I say, Skippy, we do have to invent the regulator, you know." CHAPTER VI METHODS OF A FINANCIER WHEN, after a dream-ridden night, Skippy started across the campus to morning chapel, the urchin's wabble had gone from his legs forever. He moved with firm and measured tread, shoulders thrown back and head erect, every inch a man, and his glance was set into the future with proud recognition of his place in the complex scheme of things. The imagination, which returns after the sense of humor, was still drowsy with the painful waking effort in chapel, but as he proceeded to Memorial Hall, the glittering future approached a little nearer. Some day he, John C. Bedelle, would return to the old school a patron and a benefactor! "They ought to have a gymnasium," he thought, appraising the campus in a burst of generosity. "I'll give it to them. I'll give them a gym that'll beat anything hollow. I'll give them the finest architect in the country. I will! And when it's all built and ready to dedicate--" But all at once as he started to visualize himself before the applauding crowd Snorky Green jogged his elbow: "Skippy--Gee, I've got it!" "What?" "Sh--sh! You know--the invention! Meet me in the room after first recitation. Mum's the word!" A little unworthy feeling of jealousy came to Skippy at this announcement; almost a feeling of having been defrauded. Yet after all he had only himself to blame. The temptation of the future had beguiled him from the present necessity. He slid into his seat, conveniently protected, by the broad back of Tubby Banks, from the searching gaze of Lucius Cassius Hopkins, better known as the Roman, who presently would number him among the flunked. Then when the attack centered among the R's and S's, across the room, he drew forth a pencil and attacked the problem of a practical foot regulator. But immediately the deplorable deficiency of his education struck him. What preparation had he for his life's vocation? Of mathematics he knew absolutely nothing! The priceless years had been squandered on mere Latin, English prose, French verbs and the vexing grammars. "I must have a scientific education," he said, drawing rough outlines on the margin of Caesar's Gallic Wars. "How in the deuce am I to begin? A foot's sort of different. Shall I make it a button to press on or a sort of slipper to push up and down?"