He couldn’t help contrasting that upstairs chamber of horrors with his rooms at home, and he wondered if it were possible to live contentedly with that floor and those bare walls for eight long months. Of course he could send home for things or buy them in the village, but what could any one put up there that would look as though it belonged? He wondered whether, after all, he was going to like Broadmoor. He had taken Clyde’s word for everything. They had been chums――well, not exactly chums, perhaps, but friends――for years, had gone to high school together, lived within three houses of each other in Hazen, New York, and shared acquaintances and interests. Clyde had come to Broadmoor the year before; he was sixteen years old to Barry’s fifteen, and a class ahead of him, and Barry had quite naturally chosen Broadmoor too. His parents had approved enthusiastically, for they shared Barry’s admiration for Clyde. The two boys were to room together, of course; that had been understood right along, until last week. Then this Stearns fellow, a Second Classman like Clyde, had spoiled that. Barry wondered whether or not Clyde was really disappointed. He had said he was, but somehow his tone hadn’t carried conviction. And, after all, it was natural enough for Clyde to prefer a fellow of his own age as room-mate. Barry could understand that, of course, only――well, gee! look what it had done to him! He hadn’t forgotten about his trunk, but in his present mood that article didn’t seem very important. Nevertheless, if the matter were to be attended to it was high time he bestirred himself, for it was almost a quarter after five. He got up with a sigh for wasted dreams and sought the telephone inside. He was putting the receiver back when the doorway was darkened and a pleasant voice said: “Is that you, Crawford? Would you mind taking this basket of grapes before――” “Not at all,” said Barry. “I’m not Crawford, though. I suppose you’re Mrs. Lyle.” He rescued the grapes and drew aside, smiling. “Why, gracious!” exclaimed the lady; “so you aren’t! You must be the new boy. Is it Key? No, not――” “Locke!” laughed Barry. “It’s the next thing to Key, though. Shall I take these――” “Oh, you mustn’t trouble!” Mrs. Lyle was plainly flustered. “If you’ll just put them on top, I’m sure――” “Better not, I guess,” Barry demurred. The landlady’s arms were already laden to capacity with packages, and one, plainly labeled “Fresh Eggs,” looked none too secure. “Then if you’ll just bring them into the dining-room,” said Mrs. Lyle. “I hate to take any one into it, too.” She opened a door at the end of the hall. “Betty’s been away all day and I’ve been so busy――”