“I think, perhaps, you were right about him, after all. He certainly seems to be nursing a grudge against me for some reason. Perhaps I had better play him again, and let him beat me badly. It might do him good. Anything to please him, of course.” “Well, it wouldn’t help him much,” returned Tony, “unless you let him win back the money he lost on the last games with you.” Ray made no answer to this, but caught up his notebooks, which had been resting on a box behind the door. “Come up to my room,” he said, “I’ve a telegram from Slade to show you,” and he led the way up stairs. CHAPTER V UNEXPECTED NEWS Ray’s rooms were the handsomest in college, and fully repaid in beauty and comfort the painstaking care with which he had fitted them up. Ray’s father was a well to do merchant in Albany, and, knowing his son’s good sense and steady habits, had never hesitated to supply him liberally with money. Ray was thus able to fully gratify his love of comfortable and tasteful surroundings, and had furnished his apartments in a most attractive manner. The floors, which were hard wood, were oiled, and covered with rare and expensive rugs, the windows were framed by portières of rich and heavy tapestry, while the walls were hung with handsome pictures, and the many little articles of bric à brac and mementos of college life dear to every student’s heart. His rooms were a source of great pride to Ray, and a pleasurable treat to all of his college mates who were in the habit of frequenting them. They had become very familiar to me and were associated with some of the most agreeable recollections of my college life, for Ray Wendell, although a member of the class ahead of me, was one of the oldest and best friends I had in Belmont. Our acquaintance had been formed upon the baseball field in my Freshman year, at the time when I was first chosen member of the nine, and this acquaintance had ripened into a genuine and lasting friendship, which only grew firmer as time went by, and which was strengthened on my part by a warm and enthusiastic appreciation of Ray’s many superior qualities of head and heart. This feeling I shared with all who knew Ray Wendell well, and especially with Tony Larcom, who would have followed him through fire, if necessary. As we entered his large front room and seated ourselves, Ray took up a telegram, which lay upon his desk, and handed it to Tony. “There, what do you think of that?” he asked. Tony read aloud: The baseball convention will take place at the Wyman Hotel, Berkeley, at 10:30 A.M. to-morrow. W. H. SLADE. There was silence for a moment as Tony looked up in astonishment. Then his mouth opened. “Gee whizz!” he exclaimed solemnly. “No wonder you are surprised,” remarked Ray. “You may imagine what I thought when I first opened it.”