"He's going to restore to you all the rights and privileges of a student," declared Phil Clinton, who, together with some others of Tom's chums, was in his room. "My uncle says----" began Ford Fenton, but instantly there was a protesting howl. "Give me that water pitcher!" demanded Sid of Phil. "This isn't fit to drink," was the remonstrance. "I know it, but Fenton needs a bath, don't you, Ford? Your uncle! Say, the next time you say that we'll make you repeat the first book of Cæsar backward, eh, fellows?" "That's right," came in a chorus. "Well," went on Fenton in somewhat aggrieved tones, "he once told me----" "Write it out," expostulated Phil. "Move he be given leave to print," came from Sid, who had once heard a long debate in Congress. There was laughter and more chaffing of luckless Fenton, whose uncle, from his own making, was like unto a millstone hung about his neck. "Well, all the same, I'd like to know what Moses wants of you," said Phil, and the others agreed with him. "I'll let you know when I come back," said Tom. "It's early; you can all stay here for a while." He returned in half an hour from his call on the head of the college. "Well?" demanded his chums of him. "Great!" he cried. "He received me in his study. Say, were you ever there? It's a fine place. Books, books, books all over. The floor was piled full of them. There was a fire going on the grate and he was sitting there, reading some book with the queerest letters in it." "Sanskrit," ventured Phil. "I guess so. Well, he brought up a chair for me, and----" "Oh, for the love of Dionysius! give us some facts," cried Sid. "What happened?" "Well, he said he'd had a talk with the proctor and he removed the worst part of my suspension. I can go to the two games here with Boxer Hall and Fairview, but I can't play. I couldn't, anyhow, on account of my arm, so that's all right. And I can attend the special lectures in biology, which I hated to miss. I can't recite for two weeks, but I don't mind that. It's all right. I'll vote for Moses every time!" "I should say yes," agreed Phil. "He's white, he is. But Zane--ugh! He's----" "Treason," counseled Sid quietly. "The walls may not have ears, but the keyhole has. Better cut it, fellows, the time is almost up, and Zane's scouts will be sneaking around." The other lads departed, leaving Tom and Sid alone. "What about your pitching?" asked Sid. "Well, I'll have to give my arm a rest, Mr. Lighton says, so this comes in the nature of a special providence. It isn't so bad as it looked at first." But, in spite of his philosophy, there were dark days for Tom. It was hard to be deprived of the chance to play on the scrub and he missed the daily recitations. His arm, too, began to trouble him, and he was obliged to go to a doctor for treatment, though the medical man said all it needed was a little massage and rest. Tom, in his eagerness to excel, had overworked the muscles.