"Would this help any?" said Miss Clara extracting a ten dollar bill from a well-filled purse. Skippy gulped in astonishment. "What's the matter?" "How do you mean?" "Gee, sis, are you going to be married?" "The idea, you funny boy!" said his sister, blushing violently. "Run on now and see Sam." "What's the matter with everyone anyhow?" said Skippy to himself. "There's a reason. There certainly is a dark reason." Still pondering over the motives for this unaccountable reception he proceeded along the hall, to the room of his heart's idol, his brother Sam, senior at Yale and star of the nine, Sambones Bedelle, known at school as Skippy the first, about whose athletic prowesses the tradition still remained. "Who's that?" said the great man at the sound of his knock. "Skippy? Come in and let's look you over." "Hello, Sambo," said the young idol-worshipper, sidling in. The older brother caught his hand, slapped him on the back and held him off for inspection. "By Jove, you young rascal, you're sprouting up fast. Whew, what a suit! Pretty strong, bub--pretty strong." "I say, do you think--" "Never mind. I've worn worse. Paid for?" "No-o--not yet." "Anything left of the allowance?" "Sure." "Not possible!" "Seven cents." "Could you use a five spot?" "Gee, Sam!" "All right, all right. Pick it out over there on the bureau. How's your conduct?" "Pretty good." Skippy, perched on the window-seat, watched with an approving eye the splendors that a college education had bestowed. Sam's hair parted without a rebellious ripple and lay down in perfect discipline. There never were such immaculate white flannel trousers, such faultless buckskin shoes and tie, while the socks and the touch of handkerchief which bloomed from the breastpocket were a perfect electric blue. "Well, Skippy, I'll have to look you over," said Sam carelessly. "Time you had a few pointers. What did you do at school?" "Substitute on the eleven and left field on the house nine," said Skippy, who understood at once the meaning of such an inquiry. "First rate. Haven't started on the demon cigarette yet?" Skippy hesitated. "Let's see your fingers," said the mentor, who perceiving no telltales traces of nicotine grunted a qualified approval. "Well, how much?" "Oh, just a few whiffs now and then up the ventilator. You know how it is, Sambo!" "Cut it out this summer. Your business is to grow. Savvy? If ever I catch you, you young whipper-snapper--" "All right, Sam." Skippy the first held him a moment with a stern and disciplinary eye and then relaxing, said as he contemplated the hang of his trousers before the mirror, "I hear you've started in to be a fusser." "Who told you that?" said Skippy with the rising inflection. "I ran in on Turkey Reiter." "Oh," said Skippy relaxing. "With Miss Lafontaine? That was all a put-up game!" Sam considered him and noting the fatuous smile shook his head and said: