Three boys sat in chairs, three sat on the bed; Westby himself was squatting cross-legged on the window seat, with the banjo across his knees. They all rose politely when Irving entered. “I thought I would drop in and make your acquaintance,” said Irving. “We’re bound to know one another some time.” “My name’s Collingwood,” said the boy nearest him, offering his hand. He was a healthy, light-haired, solidly put together youth, with a genial smile. “This is Scarborough, Mr. Upton.” The biggest of them all came forward at that and shook hands. Irving thought that his deep-set dark eyes were disconcertingly direct in their gaze; and a lock of black hair overhung his brow in a far from propitiating manner. Yet his bearing was dignified and manly; Irving felt that he might be trusted to show magnanimity. “Here’s Carroll,” continued Collingwood; and Irving said, “Oh, I know Carroll; we sat together at supper.” Carroll said nothing, merely smiled in an agreeable, non-committal manner; so far it was all that Irving had discovered he could do. “That fellow with the angel face is Morrill,” Collingwood went on, “and the one next to him, with the aristocratic features, is Baldersnaith, and this red-head here is Dennison,—and that’s Westby.” Irving, shaking hands round the circle, said, “Oh, I know Westby.” “Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Upton?” Westby pushed his armchair forward. “Thank you; don’t let me interrupt the singing.” “Maybe you’ll join us?” Irving shook his head. “I wish I could. But please go on.” Westby squatted again on the window-seat and plucked undecidedly at the banjo-strings. Then he cleared his throat and launched upon a negro melody; he sang it with the unctuous abandon of the darkey, and Irving listened and looked on enviously, admiring the display of talent. Westby sang another song, and then turned and pushed up the window. “Awfully hot for this time of year, isn’t it?” he said. “Fine moonlight night; wouldn’t it be great to go for a swim?” “Um!” said Morrill, appreciatively. “Will you let us go, Mr. Upton?” Westby asked the question pleadingly. “Won’t you please let us go? It’s such a fine warm moonlight night—and it isn’t as if school had really begun, you know.” “But I think the rules don’t permit your being out at this time of night, do they?” said Irving. “Well, but as I say, school hasn’t really begun yet. And besides, Scabby here is almost as good as a master—and so is Lou Collingwood; I’m the only really irresponsible one in the bunch—” “Where do you go to swim?” “In the pond, just beyond the isthmus—only about a quarter of a mile from here. Come on, fellows, Mr. Upton’s going to let us go.” Irving laughed uneasily. “Oh, I didn’t say that. If Mr. Randolph is willing that you should go, I wouldn’t object.” “You’re in charge of this dormitory,” argued Westby. “And if you gave us permission, Mr. Randolph wouldn’t say anything.” “I don’t feel that I can make an exception to the rules,” said Irving.