It may throw light upon the personality of Master Reynolds to explain that he was equally well known as Willy and the “Shark,” neither being used offensively, though one had a suggestion of mildness and the other of ferocity. He was, in fact, a little fellow, slender, stoop-shouldered, and physically the weakest boy in the class. Yet no other junior was less teased or picked upon. Practical jokers passed by Willy Reynolds. There was a gravity about him, not owlish, but distinctly discouraging to frivolity; and an almost hypnotic influence in his meditative and unwavering gaze. He had the prominent eyes of the near-sighted; and he had, too, the unconscious trick of staring steadfastly at man or thing of whose very existence he was barely conscious; and as he stared through big, round lenses, set in a heavy black frame, the effect was impressive, if not terrifying. Consequently, even the most mischievous of his mates preferred to let him alone, especially as they had honest respect for his signal ability in his specialty. Young Reynolds was a mathematician born. Languages he endured as unavoidable subjects of study; but he reveled in equations and demonstrations, made child’s play of the required algebra and geometry--thereby earning his nickname of the “Shark”--and carried on advanced work under the eye of the principal, himself an adept of the mathematical brotherhood. Willy, of course, was destined for scientific courses at college; but meanwhile, tarrying with the junior class, he filled his contemporaries with wonder and admiration. For example, he solved at sight a problem to which Tom Orkney had devoted vain and wearisome hours. It was all in the day’s work for the Shark, but Orkney noted another score to be repaid with compound interest. Sam Parker had been a witness of Tom’s discomfiture on both occasions; but, as may be imagined, was not concerning himself deeply with the sullen youth’s moods. As he himself would have put it, he had troubles enough of his own, and was fully occupied with his own affairs when he went to school on Monday morning. On the way he fell in with Step and Poke. The latter was full of the mystery attending the release of Peter Groche. “It’s mighty queer--our folks were talking it over at breakfast,” said he. “Course, there was a mistake somewhere, or Major Bates never would have let him go. But Peter didn’t let out a word--just growled, and grumbled, and took himself off, shaking his head. He wouldn’t deny that he shot the Major. The police asked him about it, but he gave them no satisfaction. He’s a bad one, I tell you! Regular Indian, if he gets down on anybody!” “All the more wonder that the Major dropped the case,” declared Step. “He knows Groche from A to Z.” Poke wagged his head. “There you are! Makes the business all the queerer. Each of them is a sticker, in his own way. And the Major had Groche just where he wanted him. And then, all of a sudden, he let up! What do you make of that, now?”