There seemed to be a curious constraint upon everybody. There was no shouting, no practical joking, no horse-play; but there was much low-toned talk in the groups, in which the classes appeared to have gathered unconsciously. Now and then, when late comers hove in sight, there was a stir of expectancy, and necks were craned as eager glances were directed toward the gate. Sam Parker, arriving with Poke Green, was greeted by a murmur of applause; and, flushed with embarrassment, made his way to a party of his chums, who chanced to be standing near the steps leading to the big door. “Come on--let’s go in!” he said. “What’s everybody waiting for?” Step Jones laughed harshly. “Ho, ho! This is a reception committee, Sam--reception committee and committee of the whole. It’s for T. Orkney’s benefit.” “You’re making a mistake,” Sam protested. “Humph! I may be, but if I am, I’m not lonesome.” “That makes the thing all the worse.” “Can’t be much worse than it is.” Sam shook his head. “Oh, be fair!” he urged. “Remember, Orkney held on to Little Perrine like a good fellow.” “Yes--after he’d driven him into the water!” growled Step. “But----” “But it was like locking the door after the horse was stolen,” Poke put in. “Right you are!” contributed the Trojan. “Well, what’s the latest news?” asked Sam. “How is Perrine this morning?” “Mighty badly off, I hear,” Step told him. “Delirious all night,” added the Trojan. Sam looked perturbed, and with reason. “Little” Perrine, as the boy was known to his mates, was a delicate chap, clever at his books--he was a high school freshman at ten--but weak physically and of an extremely nervous temperament; just the sort of lad, in short, to suffer most from such an experience as he had undergone in the icy water. Moreover, he was the pet of the school, and any harm done him would be bitterly resented by the pupils. Indeed, the case promised to go hard with the unpopular Orkney, even if more encouraging tidings were received from those caring for one regarded generally as the victim of his malicious pursuit. The Shark came hurrying up the walk, carrying a great bundle of books. He nodded at his clubmates, but did not halt. Poke chuckled softly as he passed them. “There’s cold-blooded science for you!” said he. “Much the Shark cares for a trifling matter of life or death when he’s got a real juicy lot of equations on hand! Why, he put in all yesterday afternoon figuring away with the principal, and now he’s going to have another crack at him before the bell rings. I met him last night, and asked him what he was up to, and what do you suppose he said?” “Give it up,” said the Trojan. “So do I,” quoth Step. “Trajectories!” cried Poke with all the scorn he could command.