“See here, Jack.” Crawford plucked Kauffman by the elbow and led him to one side. There was a hurried consultation between the two and a sudden decision. When it was reached Crawford slipped from the room and left the hotel by the little street in the rear. Presently those nearest the front windows became aware of some unusual commotion at the entrance to the hotel, and, when somebody cautiously raised the window and reclosed the inside blinds, the sound of Crawford’s voice was distinctly heard. “Blame you fellows,” he was saying; “give me my coat. I left something valuable in the pocket. It’s a mean trick, anyway.” “What was it, Freshie?” came from a lower window in a taunting voice. “Handkerchief?” A laugh and a chorus of derisive responses sounded at once, some of the latter expressing deep sympathy, others suggesting more or less practical substitutes for the supposedly missing handkerchief. The Freshmen above could see that Crawford was the centre of a rapidly increasing crowd of Sophomores, to whom he continued earnestly to appeal for his missing coat. There was a whine in his voice that none of his classmates ever remembered to have heard before, and which stirred the Sophomores to wonderful flights of sarcasm. “What does he mean?” whispered Fanny Berginrose, in genuine perplexity, to the girls about her. “He must know that that kind of talk will never do any good. Catch me begging them for anything. John Kauffman, what’s this all about. Why--where is John?” Nobody knew. He had slipped away unobserved. So, also, had Addison Meyers and Harry Bartlett. While the girls were still expressing their wonder, sounds of cautious footsteps were heard upon the narrow back stairs which connected the second floor with the kitchen. The door was pushed open, and Kauffman appeared, bearing a great covered platter, which was just all he could handle. But he was grinning. Behind him were Meyers and Bartlett, ears deep in heaping armloads of coats. Jack passed into the little private dining-room in which the spread was now ready. For a few minutes there came sounds of protest and explanation, and then Jack and the landlord came in together. Suddenly, as if he had forgotten something, the latter went to the window and gave a low whistle. In a minute, Crawford, bubbling over with laughter, came up the stairs two steps at a time. “How was that, fellows, for an indignant Freshie?” MR. NOBODY There is a funny little man, As quiet as a mouse, Who does the mischief that is done In everybody’s house. There’s no one ever sees his face, And yet we all agree That every plate and cup was cracked By Mr. Nobody. ’Tis he who always tears our books, Who leaves our doors ajar; He pulls the buttons from our shirts, And scatters pins afar. That squeaking door will always squeak For, prithee, don’t you see, We leave the oiling to be done By Mr. Nobody.