That settled, he and Loring arranged the chess-men and Clif settled himself with a book. At five minutes to eight, the game being still undecided, the board was set aside until after study hour and Tom hurried up to Number 34 for his books. Billy Desmond met him at the head of the stairs. “‘Alick’s’ been looking for you, Tom,” announced Billy casually. “Wants to converse with you in his study, young feller.” “‘Alick’! Golly! Say, did he look――er――pleasant?” “Extremely jovial, I thought.” Tom groaned. “There’s breakers ahead then. He’s always sweet and pleasant just before he bites! Well, he will have to wait until after study. Heck, I wish I’d put in more time on my English this morning, instead of wasting it on math!” Clif pushed Loring’s chair along the corridor after study hour and informed him that the chess game was going to be delayed. “Tom’s got to see Mr. Wyatt, and he’s scared to death.” Clif chuckled. “Wyatt’s the only person he ever was scared of, I guess!” “I hope ‘Alick’ isn’t going to be nasty,” said Loring uneasily. “You know, Clif, Tom’s an awful dumbbell about English. Yesterday I thought ‘Alick’ was going to have a conniption when Tom gave those perfectly inane answers about ‘The Ancient Mariner.’” “He was quaint,” laughed Clif. “But I guess ‘Alick’s’ just reading him the riot-act. Hang it, you know, Tom _does_ try!” “Y-yes, I know, but――” Loring shook his head. “Oh, well, he will pull through. He’s an awfully lucky dub!” Half an hour later, however, the lucky dub didn’t look the part as, closing the door of Number 4 West behind him, he thrust his hands into his pockets and stared dazedly down the short corridor. He stood there a long minute before, with a shrug and a hardening of his features, he made his way briskly around the corner and set out for East Hall. He did a great deal of thinking on the way, but the more he thought the less happy he became, and when he at last reached Loring’s room he had to pause for an instant to wet his lips and work his face back into shape. When he went in he was grinning, and, since Clif had grown to know him fairly well by now, there was one occupant of the room not deceived by that grin. Loring asked anxiously: “Was he bad, Tom?” “Well, depends,” replied Tom, seating himself with unusual decorum. “What would you call bad, old son?” “Why――” But Clif interrupted bruskly. “What’s he done, Tom? Don’t act the fool! Let’s hear it.” “All right! He’s handed me a dirty wallop, if you must know, the old skunk! I’m on restriction.” “Restriction!” exclaimed Loring. “Why, then――then you can’t――”