“Hush, don’t call it a one-horse revolution, Beans,” returned Darry Crane, in a warning voice. “The people who live here think it’s just as important as any revolution that ever was--and it probably is, to them.” “There goes the professor for letters now!” burst out Frank Newton. “Oh, I do hope he gets lots of them!” Frank was always more anxious for letters from home than anyone else. “Yes, here he comes with a handful, and an armful of papers in the bargain.” The coming of the mail always attracted a crowd of patrons of the hotel, and soon the boys found themselves surrounded by those anxious to get their letters and papers. Looking, they saw the gentleman who had their mail wave his hand to them and disappear in the direction of the hotel courtyard and they speedily followed. “What have you for me, Professor?” was the question asked by one and all, and now two more boys hurried up, making five in all who waited eagerly for news from home. It was an interesting group, and while the mail matter is being distributed, we will take the opportunity of introducing each individual to the reader. The oldest boy present was Mark Robertson. He was a lad of seventeen, and was the son of a dry goods importer. His father owned an interest in several mills in England and Scotland and made semi-yearly trips across the Atlantic, and the family were well-to-do. When at home Mark lived on Madison Avenue in New York city, and directly opposite to him lived Frank Newton, another of the boys of the group. Although Frank was a year younger than Mark, the two were warm chums. Frank’s father was a banker, and if he was not a millionaire he was certainly well provided for financially. The liveliest boy in the crowd was Dartworth Crane, always called Darry for short. He was but fifteen, the son of a rich Chicago cattle dealer, and to him life was one long, sunshiny holiday. It was very hard for Darry to take anything seriously, and his good nature was as spontaneous as it was catching. “Darry would make a cow laugh,” said Frank, more than once, and the others agreed with him. As said before, Mark was Frank’s closest chum, but Darry was no mean second. The fourth lad of the group was a tall, well-built individual of sixteen, with a high forehead and a thick mass of curly hair. This was Samuel Winthrop, generally called “Beans,” because he had been born and brought up in Boston. Sam was the son of a well-to-do widow of the Back Bay district. He was a studious, observant young fellow, seldom, however, given to “airing his knowledge,” and he and Mark were as friendly as were Frank and Darry.