“It would be much better if he asked me, or one of the other faculty members,” responded “Lovey” gravely. “His own permission, supposing he obtained it, would hardly be sufficient, I fear.” Clif laughed. For once he didn’t find Mr. McKnight’s fooling very funny, but he must be diplomatic. “I guess I can’t say it right, sir, but you know mighty well what I mean.” “I suspect I do, Bingham. Kemble wants to be excused from study hour, and has sent you as his ambassador. I am to presume, I fancy, that he is too ill to make the request himself. Or does he think that you’ll prove more successful than he would?” Mr. McKnight’s eyes were twinkling. “No, sir,” answered Clif earnestly, “it really isn’t that way, Mr. McKnight. He――he isn’t able to come.” “I’m sorry. It isn’t anything serious, I hope.” The instructor’s voice was so genuinely sympathetic that Clif felt ashamed of the deception he was attempting. “I don’t think so, sir. He didn’t go down to supper, but I guess he will be all right by morning.” “I hope so. I’m not so sure, though, you shouldn’t have gone to some one on Kemble’s floor. He’s in 34, isn’t he? However, as you are acting in his behalf, and you are on my floor, I’ll take the responsibility of excusing him. Is he in bed?” “N-no, sir. That is, he wasn’t when I was up there.” “Oh, better tell him to get to bed, Bingham. That’s the best place for him, no matter what’s wrong. Probably just an upset of his tummy. You chaps take awful chances, the way in which you stuff yourselves with sweet chocolate and peanuts and Heaven only knows what! By the way, Kemble’s on restriction, isn’t he?” “Yes, sir. He got in wrong with ‘Alick’――I mean Mr. Wyatt!” Mr. McKnight’s nose twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Too bad. I dare say that’s upset him somewhat, too. I’ll look in on him a little later and see if he needs anything.” “I’m sure he doesn’t, sir,” said Clif hurriedly, striving to keep the sound of panic from his voice. “I think he means to go to sleep.” “Best thing for him. Tell him it’s all right about study hour, Bingham, and that he’s to get into bed. I don’t want to find him up, reading stories, when I call!” “Yes, sir――I mean no, sir!” stammered Clif. “I’ll tell him. I don’t believe he’d want you to bother about looking in on him, though.” Then, seeing or fancying he saw, the dawning of suspicion in “Lovey’s” eyes, Clif abandoned that line quickly. “Well, thank you, sir.” “Not at all, Bingham.” When the visitor had gone Mr. McKnight protruded his lower lip, closed his eyes slightly and stared thoughtfully at the ink-well. Finally he shook his head. “If it were any one but Bingham, now,” he murmured, “I’d be inclined to suspect that something had been put over on me!” Upstairs again, in Number 34, Clif related to Billy Desmond, in a somewhat small voice, the result of his visit. “Gee, if he does come up it’s all off! What’ll I do, Billy? I didn’t lie to him, but he will think I did, and I’d hate that!”