His course took him around the end of Table 10, and as he passed he was surprised to find himself spoken to. “Hi, Bingham,” said a voice. Clif looked, expecting to see Walter Treat, but the boy who had spoken, seated at the farther side of the table, was Kemble. He waved the half of a muffin and followed his hail with: “Wait around, will you? I want to speak to you.” Clif nodded and went on. So, it appeared, Kemble had survived the ordeal after all! Probably he wanted to arrange about that scrap in the morning. Evidently he was a man of his word and didn’t intend to attempt a back-down. Clif followed some other fellows along the corridor, past the reading room and library on one side and the offices on the other, and reached the recreation room. The place appeared pretty well filled, but, after a moment’s hesitation at the doorway, he saw that there were still vacant seats along the leather-cushioned bench that followed the walls from door to great stone fireplace. He picked his way between the chattering groups and found a place by one of the front windows and looked about him. The recreation room was a big square apartment filled with chairs and couches and game tables. Already several games of chess or checkers were in progress, and Clif wondered how the players could put their minds on their problems with such a din of talk and laughter going on about them. There was one huge table in the center of the room, and from it half a dozen fellows swung their feet and took part in a loud discussion with the occupants of several clustered chairs. Clif couldn’t make out what the subject under consideration was, because they all talked at once, but it was undoubtedly important since several of the assemblage were gesticulating excitedly and getting quite red of face. Clif watched for a minute or two and then turned his gaze to a checker battle being waged a few feet distant between two absorbed and silent opponents. He had become quite interested in it when some one squeezed down beside him on the bench and claimed his attention. “Well, I didn’t have any luck,” announced Kemble. “How do you mean? Aren’t you going to stay?” Clif took pains to keep all trace of interest from his voice. “That’s it,” replied Kemble. “I am. Wyatt said he ought to turn me down, but that that would be too easy on me. Said he was going to pass me and devote the next three years to letting light in on the dark places. Or something insulting like that. Anyway, I’ve got to stay.” “But don’t you _want_ to?” asked Clif, surprised. Kemble shook his head gravely. “I don’t know. Of course I did want to when I came, but Wyatt got me scared so I was dead sure I couldn’t, and so I had it all planned to go back home. And now he’s gone and double-crossed me and I’ve got to――to readjust myself, so to say. Isn’t that the dickens?” Clif eyed the other suspiciously. “I guess you’ll live through it,” he said coldly. “What class are you?” “Third. You, too, I suppose.”