“Once,” answered David, reaching for his pipe, which had dropped to the floor, leaving a long trail of ashes over his waistcoat and trousers, “only once, John. I was twelve. It was desperate while it lasted. _She_ was my teacher. I discovered that if I failed at my lessons I was kept after school and that she stayed with me. After that I never knew a thing; I developed a sudden colossal ignorance that astounded her and alarmed my parents. Day after day I sat in my seat after the others were dismissed and feasted my eyes on her from behind my geography or slate. Then――” he sighed deeply――“then the natural thing happened. Fate parted us. I was taken out of her room and relegated to the next class below, which was presided over by a young man with mutton-chop whiskers and red neckties. It was an awful blow, John.” “It must have been,” John said sympathetically. “Yes. Of course, my whole ambition then was to get back to her room again. I became the brightest scholar in the class. I astonished every one. The man with the red necktie was tickled to death and went round telling everybody about me and taking great credit to himself. In three months they put me back in her class.” He paused and sighed disconsolately. “But she wasn’t there. She had married a druggist two days before. I never saw her again.” “And your young life was blighted!” “Forever!” “Which being the case,” said John, “let’s go to bed. To-morrow I shall go in search of Phil.” “You might take a dinner bell and go around like a town crier,” suggested David, “yelling ‘Boy lost! Boy lost!’” But Monday was a busy day for John and it was not until three o’clock that he was able to start out on his search. His first step was to look up Everett Kingsford. This occupied him the better part of an hour, but resulted in what apparently meant success. “He’s got a room on Dewolf Street,” said Everett. “He told me the number, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it. However, it won’t be very hard to find, I guess. If you like, I’ll go along with you. “I don’t know what’s come over Phil,” he continued, as they began their quest. “He’s left our table and he hasn’t been around to see me once. I met him at the Union the other day and that’s the only time I’ve had sight of him. He said the reason he left the table was because he couldn’t afford it.” “Ah,” said John. He thought he knew the solution of Phil’s disappearance. Somehow, he told himself, Phil had discovered the condition of the family finances and, animated by some idiotic pride, was keeping aloof from his friends. “Just the sort of fool thing he would do,” thought John. They hadn’t far to seek. The second house they stopped at was the yellow one with the boiled-cabbage aroma. The landlady, a red-haired slattern who wiped the soapsuds from her hands and arms as she opened the door, informed them somewhat crossly that Mr. Ryerson had roomed at her house, but that he had moved away that very day.