They came to a small frame house on Dickinson Street. Rogers left George in the hall while he entered the study. The door did not quite close, and phrases slipped out in Rogers' glib voice, and, more frequently, in a shrill, querulous one. "Don't know a thing about him. Just met him on the street looking for a coach. No prep." "Haven't the time. I've enough blockheads as it is. He'd better go to Corse's school." "You won't see him?" "Oh, send him in," George heard Bailly say irritably. "You, Rogers, would sacrifice me or the entire universe to spare your brain five minutes' useful work. I'll find out what he knows, and pack him off to Corse. Wait in the hall." Rogers came out, shaking his head. "Guess there's nothing doing, but he'll pump you." George entered and closed the door. Behind a table desk lounged a long, painfully thin figure. The head was nearly bald, but the face carried a luxuriant, carelessly trimmed Van Dyke beard. Above it cheeks and forehead were intricately wrinkled, and the tweed suit, apparently, strove to put itself in harmony. It was difficult to guess how old Squibs Bailly was; probably very ancient, yet in his eyes George caught a flashing spirit of youth. The room was forcefully out of key with its occupant. The desk, extremely neat with papers, blotters, and pens, was arranged according to a careful pattern. On books and shelves no speck of dust showed, and so far the place was scholarly. Then George was a trifle surprised to notice, next to a sepia print of the Parthenon, a photograph of a football team. That, moreover, was the arrangement around the four walls--classic ruins flanked by modern athletes. On a table in the window, occupying what one might call the position of honour, stood a large framed likeness of a young man in football togs. Before George had really closed the door the high voice had opened its attack. "I haven't any more time for dunces." "I'm not a dunce," George said, trying to hold his temper. Bailly didn't go on right away. The youthful glance absorbed each detail of George's face and build. "Anyhow," he said after a moment, less querulously, "let's see what you lack of the infantile requirements needful for entrance in an American university." He probed George's rapid acquaintance with mathematics, history, English, and the classics. With modern languages there was none. Then the verdict came. Two years' work. "I've got to make my eyes and brain do," George said. "I've got to enter college this fall or never. I tell you, Mr. Bailly, I am going to do it. I know you can help me, if you will. I'll pay." Bailly shook his head. "Even if I had the time my charges are high." George showed his whole hand. "I have about five hundred dollars." "For this condensed acquisition of a kindergarten knowledge, or--or----" "For everything. But only let me get in and I'll work my way through." Again Bailly shook his head.