could be in the travesty of home that had been his father's giving. Upon his life here rested the possibilities of the future toward which he looked dreamingly sometimes when his notes were written up, and the laundry accounts checked. Assuredly, his father had no claim on this; to admit it would be an injustice to himself, to his ambition, and to his work. And yet this face which had come between him and his book the first night the fight had been on must haunt him always in the hour when his tide was turning. A thump on the window which opened on the front piazza recalled him from his reverie. A dozen feet were shuffling on the stones outside, and a ruddy face glowed over the sash. "Go away, Pellams. Got to plug," said Jimmie, hastily resuming his book. "Relate your predicaments to a constable," said Pellams. "There's going to be a Thirsting Bee at the----" "Can't go. Got to work on my thesis." "Relate _that_ to your Uncle Adderclaws. Tumble out, now." Jimmie only shook his head. There was a conference outside in whispers; then the gang withdrew with suspicious alacrity. Two minutes later, the lock grated with the cautious insertion of a key, and the mob rushed in; Jimmie had forgotten the passkey, for whose possession Pellams had held up the Jap. "Ah, say, get out of here, you fellows. I'm digging." "I know it. And you're going to stop. Gentlemen adventurers"--here Pellams mounted a chair--"James Mason, our small but thirsty friend, has sourball. Now, I ask you, gentlemen, what is the universal cure for his affliction?" "Beer!" The unanimity of the response would have done credit to a Roman mob. "Quite right ye are, my merry retainers. And will ye, in loving kindness to him, apply that remedy?" "We will! We will!" "Well said, me liegemen. Jimmie, move along!" and Pellams fell to strolling around the room and criticizing its collection of stolen signs with the air of one who has discharged his business and stands at ease. The rest threw themselves on the man with sourball and were for tearing off his outer garments and forcing on his sweater, but Lyman by some occult means of his own got the boy aside. One never knew how Frank managed the gang; it was always that way; his methods never obtruded themselves, all one saw was results. "I wouldn't if I were you," said he; "they won't understand it, and it doesn't do you any good--this sort of thing. Better jolly up." The Sophomore did not speak; he only shook his head. "I know what you're holding back for," went on the other; "but going down there isn't the same sort of thing; really, it isn't."