Pinckney Payne, college freshman, and nephew of Emily Bates, was very fond of Doctor Waring, his English teacher, and as also fond, in his boyish way, of his aunt. But he was no respecter of authority, and, now that his aunt was to be the wife of his favorite professor, also the President-elect of the college, he assumed an absolute familiarity with the whole household. His nickname was not only an abbreviation, but was descriptive of his exuberant health and invariably red cheeks. For the rest, he was just a rollicking, care-free boy, ring leader in college fun, often punished, but bobbing up serenely again, ready for more mischief. Helen Peyton adored the irrepressible Pinky, and though he liked her, it was no more than he felt for many others and not so much as he had for a few. “Tea, Mrs. Peyton? Oh, yes, indeed, thank you. Yes, two lemon and three sugar. And toasts,—and cakies,—oh, what good ones! What a tuck! Alma Mater doesn’t feed us like this! I say, Aunt Emily, after you are married, may I come to tea every day? And bring the fellows?” “I’ll answer that,—you may,” said John Waring. “And I’ll revise the answer,—you may, with reservations,” Mrs. Bates supplemented. “Now, Pinky, you’re a dear and a sweet, but you can’t annex this house and all its affairs, just because it’s going to be my home.” “Don’t want to, Auntie. I only want you to annex me. You’ll keep the same cook we have at present, won’t you?” He looked solicitously at her, over a large slice of toast and jam he was devouring. “Maybe and maybe not,” Mrs. Peyton spoke up. “Cooks are not always anxious to be kept.” “At any rate, we’ll have a cook, Pinky, of some sort,” his aunt assured him, and the boy turned to tease Helen Peyton, who was quite willing to be teased. “I saw your beau today, Helen,” he said. “Which one?” she asked placidly. “Is there a crowd? Well, I mean the Tyler person. Him as hangs out at Old Salt’s. And, by the way, Uncle President,—yes, I am a bit previous on both counts, but you’ll soon have the honor of being both President and my uncle,—by the way, I say, Bob Tyler says there’s something in the wind.” “A straw to show which way it blows, perhaps,” Waring said. “Perhaps, sir. But it’s blowing. Tyler says there’s a movement on foot to make things hot for you if you take the Presidential chair with your present intentions.” “My intentions?” “Yes, sir; about athletics, and sports in general.” “And what are my so-called intentions?” “They say, you mean to cut out sport—” “Oh, Pinckney, you know better than that!” “Well, Doctor Waring, some seem to think that’s what you have in mind. If you’d declare your intentions now,—” “Look here, Pinky, don’t you think I’ve enough on my mind in the matter of marrying your aunt, without bringing in other matters till that’s settled.” “Going to be married soon, Uncle Doc?”