“I don’t know. I met him in the corridor.” Then, as the applause ceased, Clif gave his attention to the speaker. Doctor Wyndham was a tall, erect man of sixty who looked rather more like a successful business executive than a school principal. His hair, of which he had managed to retain a goodly amount, was scarcely more than grizzled, and his healthily tanned skin spoke of fine physical condition. He was extremely good looking and very distinguished appearing, and the School was proud of him. That he was the business man as well as the pedagogue was proved by the institution of which he was the head and owner. In the brief space of twenty-four years he had built it up from nothing to one of the finest and best-known preparatory schools of the east. The Doctor had been a widower for many years and was without children. It was believed that, at his death, the school would go to Mr. Wyatt, his nephew. He had a wonderfully clear and resonant voice and enunciated each word so distinctly that, listening, one was likely to lose the matter of his discourse in the enjoyment of his delivery. Something of that sort occurred to Clif, for when the frequent patter of applause broke in on the pleasant flow he usually discovered that he didn’t know what the speaker had just said. Then, too, the boy in the wheel chair interested Clif. He stole frequent glances across and wondered a good deal about him. He looked remarkably healthy, with a good deal of color in his cheeks and plenty of sparkle in his dark eyes. His hair was dark, too, almost black, it seemed, and was brushed straight back from a high forehead which, aided by a straight nose and a slightly pointed chin, made Clif think of the Flaxman profiles of ancient Greek heroes. A handsome fellow, Clif decided, and attractive. He had frequently heard the word magnetic used in reference to persons, but this was the first time it had ever occurred to him as appropriate. He concluded that he would rather like to know the boy in the chair. The Principal’s talk was a good deal like a dozen or more other talks he had made on similar occasions. There was a welcome to the new students, a greeting to the old ones, much sensible advice on many subjects, a reference to athletics――and especially football, a touch of humor here and there and, at the last, an appeal to his hearers for a conscientious performance of their duties to themselves, their parents and the School. Outside, Clif hazarded the opinion that it had been a mighty fine talk, hoping that Tom wouldn’t call on him to prove it by quotations. Tom said: “Yes, but I didn’t get much of it. Let’s go over to the big city and buy some peanuts or something, Bingham. I’m starved!” “Will they let us?” “Why not? There’s no study hour to-night. Anyway, we won’t be gone more than ten minutes.”