“And now,” began Ray, when we were seated in the train, “we must make up our nine without delay. It will be an embarrassment of riches and no easy task to choose, I think, for we have some mighty fine players on the class nines. Suppose you come to my room to-night just after dinner, and we will make a start. Of course there are some men who stand no chance, and would only be in the way, so the best plan, I think, is to select from the class nines twenty of the likely men, and invite them to compete for the ’Varsity. We can post this list on the bulletin board Monday morning, and get down to practice without delay.” This seemed an excellent idea, and so, when we arrived at Belmont, we separated at the station with the understanding that we three were to meet at Ray’s room early that evening. Immediately after dinner I went to the post office to obtain any letters that might have arrived during the day. Nothing but a newspaper from home was in my box, so, on receiving this, I was about to walk away when I heard a familiar voice, and, turning around, I saw Ray Wendell in conversation with the postmaster. As I came up and took hold of his arm, the postmaster was saying, “I really don’t see how I can help you, Mr. Wendell. If your letter arrived――and I have no doubt it did――it was properly looked after. We make no mistakes. I do not, of course, remember every letter, but I have quite a firm recollection of such a letter as you describe――in a pink envelope――and it was given to Ridley to deliver.” Ridley was the young colored boy who carried the mail for the occupants of Warburton Hall. “Well,” answered Ray, “then I’ll have to question Ridley.” “That is the most likely quarter to find the mistake,” said the postmaster. “Perhaps he delivered it to the wrong party, or dropped it.” Ray turned away. “Hullo, Harry,” said he to me. “You see, I am tracing up that letter. I’d give anything to know where the blame lies.” “Probably on Ridley, as the postmaster suggests,” I responded. “You know he is nothing but a small boy, and liable to be careless at times.” “Well, we will see. Come on over to my room,” and Ray linked his arm in mine. When we reached the entrance to Warburton Hall, Ray went to the head of the stairs that led down into the cellar, and called into the darkness, “Hullo, Ridley!” After repeated calls, there was a sound in the regions below. First came the hollow clang of an iron shovel, then the crash of a coal scuttle, and the noise of scattering coal, accompanied by muttered exclamations of a character that betokened disaster. Finally, out of the cellar, and as black as the darkness he left behind him, came the unlucky Ridley, his coat off, his woolen shirt torn, and rubbing his shins where they had come to grief against the coal scuttle. He looked like a veritable imp of the night as he stood there in the glare of the single gas jet that lighted the hallway. Ray looked at him with mock severity. “Ridley!” he exclaimed.