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“Yes, I had to when Gooch went home. I’m at Mrs. Dorlon’s, down the row there.”

“Oh, are you? I was just going there. Doesn’t young Weatherby room there?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in now, do you know?”

Anthony settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose before he replied.

“No, he’s not in just now.” He hesitated a moment. Then, “Guess you might as well know about it,” he said musingly.

“About what?”

“’Bout Weatherby.”

“What’s he done?”

“Gone home.”

“Gone home?”

“Yes, left college.”

“But what for? When did he go?” asked Joe in surprise.

“This morning. He left a note for me. Don’t know whether it’s my place to tell folks or not. Maybe you’d better keep it quiet. He might change his mind, you know.”

“I see,” replied Joe thoughtfully. “Do you – do you happen to know why he left?”

“Yes, and I guess you do, too.”

“You mean – ?”

“Yes. He stuck it out as long as he could, but I guess things got too hot for him. His note made mention of something that happened this morning at training-table.”

“By Jove!” muttered the other. “It’s a blamed shame! You know, Tidball, I never quite believed him the – er – coward they say he is. What do you think?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know,” answered Anthony uneasily, puckering his lips together. “Maybe he isn’t.”

Joe looked a little surprised.

“I don’t know just why,” he said, “but I had an idea you’d support my judgment of him. Well, perhaps it’s just as well that he’s gone. Although he had the making of – ”

“No, no,” cried Anthony in sudden contrition, the blood rushing into his thin face. “I didn’t mean that! I shouldn’t have said it, Perkins! I think he’s – I don’t believe he’s a coward!” He pressed the other’s arm convulsively with his long fingers as though seeking to give added weight to the emphatic assertion and hurried away. “Come and see me,” he called back.

Joe stared after him in bewilderment.

“Strange duffer, Tidball,” he reflected. “Wonder if he and Weatherby had a row? Sounds like it. Poor old Weatherby! I’m sorry he’s gone; by Jove, I am sorry! And I fancy I might have prevented it if I’d got after Tracy sooner. Hang him, he ought to be licked!”

CHAPTER X
FLIGHT

When Jack left the house he hesitated a moment at the little gate. Then he turned to the left and hurried to Murdoch Street and down that to the railroad track. He was taking the longest route to the station; but, since his main desire was to avoid meeting any one he knew, it was also the safest. His battered valise, although by no means full, soon grew heavy and began to bump against his legs at every stride. When he reached the track, what with the aggravating behavior of the valise and the difficulty of walking over the uneven ties, speed was no longer possible. He had barely reached the Washington Street crossing when a whistle down the track behind him brought consternation. It was the 9.22 train, he told himself; and he knew that if he missed that he would have to wait a whole hour at the station before he could get another – an hour which might serve to bring Anthony upon him with a wealth of unanswerable argument in favor of his return.

So, after a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the warning blast, he shifted the valise again and set out over the ties at a run. Once he stumbled and the bag went hurtling down the bank and brought up against a board fence. When he had recovered it and had scrambled back to the track the train was but a few hundred yards away. But the station was almost gained now. He retired to a hand-car siding while the engine and its three cars whizzed past him with much grinding of brakes, and then ran on in the wake of dust.

There was no time to buy a ticket. When he reached the platform and the last car, the conductor had already swung his hand to the engineer. Jack pushed his valise on to the car-steps and crawled, breathless, after it. Then the train moved again, and a minute later Centerport was lost to sight. Jack, huddled upon the rear platform, saw it disappear with mingled emotions. Regret was prominent. He wondered at this. Surely, he thought, he had been miserable enough at Erskine to make the parting anything but regretful. And yet, even as he thought that, the idea of leaving the train at the next station and walking back came to him with strange attractiveness. Anthony would be glad; none else would know that he had contemplated flight; he would go back to the training-table, secure a place on the nine, and do great things – things that would make the college proud of him. And Gilberth might —

But at the recollection of Gilberth the plan lost its attractiveness. Jack gritted his teeth and shook his fist toward where the tower of College Hall was still just visible above the tree-tops. Then, having recovered his breath, he took up his bag and passed into the car. It proved to be the smoker and was almost deserted. He selected a seat on the riverside, placed his valise beside him, and gave himself up to his thoughts. These were not cheerful. He wondered what his father and mother would say to his return. As for the latter, he could count with certainty upon her sympathy and support. But his father was different. He was a man with a stern conscience, and one singularly devoid of the finer sensibilities. For him the path of duty was always clearly defined and he trod it unswervingly, no matter what might befall. And, as Jack well knew, he looked for and demanded the same moral courage from others that he himself displayed. No, there would be no sympathy forthcoming from his father. Jack could almost hear him now:

“You had done no wrong, my son. With a clear conscience you had nothing to fear. The wrong was in running away.”

He might, thought Jack, even insist upon his returning. But that he would not do. He would find work and, as soon as possible, would pay back to his father the money wasted upon him at Erskine. He had intended becoming a teacher. But now that was impossible. Perhaps he could get employment from Billy Cromwell. But, whatever happened, he would not, having once reached home, go back to Erskine!

Had Jack been less busy with his thoughts he might, perchance, have taken notice of a passenger who sat across the car and a little to the rear. He was a man of about forty years, with small, clearly cut features, brown eyes, and carefully trimmed mustache and beard. His attire was notably neat. In his mouth was a cigar, in his hands a morning paper, and at his feet a handsome suit-case. Ever since Jack’s advent he had been watching him over the top of his paper with a puzzled frown. The boy’s face, seen against the white light of the car window, expressed every passing emotion, and the passenger across the aisle, who was a good reader of expressions, felt a stirring of sympathy at the pervading look of despondency he saw.

Presently the conductor entered, and Jack remembered that he must pay his fare. He felt for the little roll of money that was to take him home, first in his vest pocket, then in his trousers. Then, while an expression of bewilderment came over his face, he searched hurriedly in every pocket he possessed. The conductor came and waited patiently. Jack seized his valise and began to unstrap it. Then he paused and glanced uneasily at the conductor.

“I can’t find my money,” he said. “If you’ll just give me a minute or two – ” The other nodded and passed on down the car. Jack opened the valise and feverishly searched it. But when it was thoroughly upset he was forced to acknowledge with a sinking heart that the money was not there. He had taken it out of the trunk; he remembered doing that perfectly; he had meant to put it into his vest pocket. But it was not there.

He stared blankly out of the window, still searching his clothes hopelessly. Well, he was not going home after all. Fate had intervened. Disappointed and chagrined, he counted the few coins in his trouser’s pocket and found that while they would pay his way to the next station they would not serve to take him back to Centerport. He blinked his eyes to keep back the tears. Tears, he reflected miserably, were always trying to crawl out nowadays. And then —

“What’s wrong, Weatherby?” asked a voice over his shoulder, and Jack looked up with startled eyes into the face of Professor White.

For a moment his surprise kept him silent. And in that moment he saw in the professor’s face a kindliness that he had never before noticed. The professor’s brown eyes were plainly sympathetic and the professor’s lips held a little reassuring smile at their corners. And Jack, wondering more, found his tongue.

“Well, that is hard luck,” said the professor when he had heard the story. “And you’re going home, you say? How much money will it take?”

“About ten dollars,” answered Jack. The other shook his head.

“That’s not much,” he replied, “but I’m sorry to say that it’s more than I’ve got with me. You see, I’m only going to Hampden, three stations up the line, and so didn’t bring much. But wouldn’t it do if you got off at the next station and went back and got your money? Would the delay matter? How long leave have you got?”

The conductor came back and smiled questioningly at the pair. Jack shook his head.

“I’ve got to go on,” he muttered.

“Well, here now, I’ll pay your way to Hampden, anyhow. That will give us time to consider things. Here you are, conductor.”

When the change had been made and the professor was in possession of an elaborate rebate slip, the conductor went off and the professor removed Jack’s valise from the seat and sat down at the boy’s side.

“How long are you going to be gone?” he asked pleasantly.

Jack hesitated. Then —

“I’m not coming back,” he answered defiantly.

“What? Leaving college?”

Jack nodded.

“Why, how’s that? What’s the trouble?” questioned the professor kindly. “Nothing wrong at home, I hope?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what is it?”

Jack was silent, looking scowlingly out of the window at the flying landscape of freshly green hills and meadows with an occasional glimpse of the sparkling river. He would accept the other’s help as far as Hampden, he decided; from there he would work his way home somehow; perhaps he could steal a ride now and then on the trains.

“You don’t want to tell me, I see,” said Professor White. “And I dare say that’s natural, Weatherby. You and I have had a couple of unpleasant conversations, and I suppose the experience doesn’t recommend me as a confident. But you’re in some sort of trouble and I think you’d better make a clean breast of it and let me help you if I can.

“And while we’re speaking of former encounters, Weatherby, I want to tell you that I made a mistake that day down at the coal wharf. I’ve got lots of faults, and one of the worst of them is an inclination to judge hastily. I accused you of cowardice that day, and I’ve regretted it very often since. I can understand how it might be possible for you to have hesitated about going into the river and yet not be guilty of cowardice in the strict sense. You see, I’ve given some thought to the matter, after it was a bit too late. I’ve been watching you since that day, and I think I made a mistake; I’m certain I did. And I want you to forgive me for the injustice I did you and for the hurt I inflicted. Will you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jack drearily. “You only said what all the others thought. I guess it did hurt, but I don’t mind now; you see, there’s been a lot worse since then.”

“Ah!” said the other comprehendingly. “I understand. Don’t you think you might tell me something about it, Weatherby?”

And after a doubtful glance at the professor’s face, in which he read only sympathy, Jack told him. He spoke bitterly, giving free rein to the pent-up anger and indignation of the past month; and, perhaps, he may be forgiven if unconsciously he exaggerated the tale of his troubles. When he had finished Professor White nodded gravely, and then, after a momentary silence, asked:

“How old are you, Weatherby?”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in July.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you that the thing is trivial, nor that were you older it would appear less tragic. Nothing is trivial that influences our lives, no matter how small it looks; and it is just the things that happen to us when we are young and receptive that are most important. I said I would help you if I could, and I’m going to. But in order to do it I must first convince you that I am your friend, and I fear that’s going to be difficult. And,” he added, as the train slowed down for the second station, “what’s more, I haven’t much time to do it.”

“Friends,” said Jack sagely, “always advise you to do things you don’t want to.”

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” answered the professor, smiling. “And I think what I’m going to advise will prove me your friend.”

Jack watched the coming and going on the station platform for a minute, then, as the train began to move again, he asked:

“Would you mind telling me – what it is, sir?”

“No; it’s this.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke earnestly. “Come back, Weatherby, and have another try. Wait,” he continued, as the other started to speak, “let me finish first. I’m not going to belittle your trouble; it’s a big one and it’s hard to bear. But you’ve borne it for a month and more. You can bear it longer, if you try. Make up your mind to it and you’ll do it. From what I can see, Weatherby, you’ve given up the fight just on the verge of victory. A while back you had the whole college against you; now there is but one fellow actively opposed to you. From what you have told me I can see that Tidball believes in you, and Perkins, and King. They are all men of prominence and their views have weight. Hold on a little while longer and you’ll find that the college has come around to their way of thinking. If you give up now you’re losing a year of your life that you can’t catch up with again if you live to be a hundred. Stick it out and you’re a year nearer your degree. Besides, there are your parents, Weatherby; what are they going to think about it? Maybe they’ll say you’ve done right in leaving, but down in their hearts they are going to be disappointed over this wasted year.”

Jack stared dumbly at his hands, and presently the other went on.

“Come back, and I’ll do everything I can to help you, my boy. Just what that will be or what it will amount to, I can’t say at this moment; but what assistance I can give you may be certain of having. You won’t find it an empty promise.”

He paused, and Jack looked up.

“I wish I’d – wish I might have talked to you before,” he said.

“So do I, Weatherby; but it isn’t too late now. I have a suspicion that you’ve come away without signing off. You needn’t tell me whether I’m right or wrong. But you may rest assured that there’ll be no trouble about it. To-morrow you and I’ll go back together and try it over.”

“But what – where am I going to go now?” asked Jack dismally.

“Why, you’ll come home with me, of course,” replied the professor. “No one need ever know but that you and I came off together. We’ll have to take a pretty early train back in the morning, but I guess you won’t mind that. My mother and sister will be very glad to see you, and – Hello, here we are! Grab your bag, Weatherby, and come along.”

“But – ” stammered the boy.

“All right; you can tell me about that when you get outside. Besides,” he laughed, “you’ve got to get off here, anyhow; your fare is only paid this far. Hurry up, or we’ll both get left!”

A moment later Jack found himself out on a sunny platform, dodging a baggage-truck and following his hurrying guide through the throng.

CHAPTER XI
ANTHONY MAKES A STATEMENT

The morning after Jack’s departure Anthony turned in through the little gate at Mrs. Dorlon’s and strode quickly up the short path. The time was but a quarter before eight. The sun was out, but was hidden behind a low-lying bank of mist, through which it glowed wanly. In the elms along the street the sparrows were chattering and scolding until one would have thought that every family circle was in the midst of domestic strife, possible because of overlate worms or underdone beetles. It was a tepid sort of morning; the bricks in the pavement were wet with the fog and the air was warm. Anthony wore his coat-collar turned up, not to protect his throat, but to hide the fact that there was no other collar beneath. In his hand he carried a can of condensed milk and a little paper bag of coffee. He had been upset by the events of the preceding day and had neglected to replenish his provision cupboard; hence a postprandial journey to Main Street.

As he climbed the stairs and caught sight of the half-opened door of Jack’s room, recollection of that youth returned to him and he sighed as he crossed the little hall and thrust his own door open. Then he stopped short and gave vent to an exclamation of surprise. The condensed milk dropped with a thud and rolled under the cot-bed. Jack, nodding drowsily in the rocker, opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. Then he grinned sheepishly.

“I – I’ve come back,” he muttered.

He partly extended his hand, thinking Anthony would take it. But the latter, after a moment of silent surprise, only said:

“Well! I’m glad to see you.” He crawled awkwardly under the cot and recovered the milk. “Changed your mind, eh?” he asked, as he emerged.

His voice was hearty enough, and he smiled behind his spectacles as though pleased, yet Jack felt a chill of disappointment and answered soberly:

“Yes, I changed my mind. I came back on an early train. You weren’t in and so I sat down to wait for you; I guess I must have come pretty near to falling asleep. Well, I must go to breakfast.”

Anthony fought for a moment against the restraint which gripped him. When he spoke his tones held the old warmth.

“Nonsense, Jack, stay here and have some with me. I haven’t any fatted calf to kill for you, but I can fry a couple of eggs and give you some good coffee, and – ”

“I can’t drink coffee,” Jack answered, “but if you really want me to stay, I’ll be glad to. I – I’d rather not go to training-table this morning.”

“Course I want you to,” answered Anthony. “Why can’t you drink coffee, though?”

“Training.”

“What? Why, coffee never hurt any one; best thing in the world, coffee; strengthening, elevating, enlarging; good for body and brain. But tell me all about your vacation.”

And while Anthony bustled about over his little stove, handling pots and pans with a deftness remarkable in a person usually so awkward, Jack recounted his experiences rather shamefacedly.

“Right about the professor, wasn’t I?” interrupted Anthony once.

“Yes, you were. He’s mighty good, Anthony. He treated me as though I was the President; and so did his mother and sister. I had a bully little room with an open fireplace in it and blue roses all over the walls and all sorts of easy chairs made out of rattan stuff; and the sun just flooded in the window this morning. My, but I wish I lived there all the time!”

“Sounds fine,” answered Anthony. “All aboard, now; draw up to the table and wade in. Guess you’ll have to use the rocker, unless you’d rather have this. Here’s the sugar. How about – Pshaw, you’re not going to drink coffee, are you? Have some water in the toothbrush mug? No? All right. Have an egg; that’s right, just slide it off. These rolls are good; I sprinkle the tops with water and heat ’em up on the stove. Sorry I haven’t more to offer you, though. Well, Jack, I’m glad you ran across White and came back. You’d been sorry – afterward – if you’d gone home; and so would I. And, by the way, what was it that set you going? What happened at the table yesterday morning? Your note was lacking in details.”

Jack told about Gilberth’s behavior and Anthony’s eyes darkened behind his spectacles.

“Ugly brute!” he muttered. “Ought to be spanked. But – Look here, don’t mind him, Jack; I don’t think he’s going to trouble you much after this. Just keep out of his way.”

“I’ll try to. If – if he was a freshman, or even a soph, I’d fight him; but I can’t fight a senior!”

“Huh! You won’t have to; he’s going to behave himself after this,” said Anthony grimly.

“Well, I don’t know; anyhow, I’m going to stick it out now, no matter what happens,” Jack said stoutly. “That’s my last try at running away. If it hadn’t been for forgetting my money, I guess I’d have gone. Funny how it happened, wasn’t it? The worst of it is, I thought I’d left the money in my trunk, but I’ve looked and it isn’t there; I can’t find it anywhere. It was about all I had. I guess dad will be madder than a hatter when I write home for more.”

“That’s too bad,” said Anthony. “If you want a little – a dollar or two, you know – to go on until you hear from home, I can let you have it as well as not.”

“You’re awfully good,” answered Jack gratefully. “But it would be a nice thing for me to borrow from you, wouldn’t it? Don’t you think I know how hard up you are?”

“Oh, well, you could pay it back, you know. If you’d rather, you could give me a mortgage on your clothes,” he added, smiling.

“Then, if my money didn’t come, you might for-clothes,” laughed Jack.

“Running away from school seems to sharpen your wits,” said Anthony. “Have another egg? Won’t take a minute. Good; I like my guests to have appetites.”

“You’d have one yourself if you’d been hauled out of a nice, soft bed at half-past six!”

“Guess I would; but I wouldn’t make bad puns.”

Presently, while the egg was sputtering in the pan, Jack asked, with a trace of embarrassment:

“Did you – get that watch-charm?”

“Yes; much obliged,” was the answer. “Guess I’d better give it back now. Won’t need it to remember you by if you’re in the same hut with me, eh?”

“I – I’d rather you did keep it, though, and wear it, if you don’t mind. Did you put it on your chain?”

The fork fell into the pan, and Anthony fished it out with much muttering before he answered. Then —

“Why, no, I didn’t, Jack. You see – ”

“I know; it isn’t very beautiful; just one I had.”

“That isn’t the reason,” said Anthony without turning around. “Fact is, I’m not wearing my watch just now.”

“Oh, aren’t you? Why – what – ”

“Well, a fellow can’t have money to lend and a gold watch at the same time. Just at present I’m a moneylender.”

“Oh, I see,” Jack replied. But, nevertheless, he didn’t look satisfied with the explanation, and when Anthony returned to the breakfast-table with the egg he had been frying the two finished the meal almost in silence.

Thanks to the secrecy of the three persons who alone knew of Jack’s absence from Centerport, his return to the training-table at lunch-time occasioned no surprise. Joe Perkins looked bewildered for a moment, but said nothing. King called across the board and asked Jack where he’d been since the day before, and Jack calmly replied that he’d been home with Professor White overnight. Several pairs of eyebrows went up incredulously, but no one voiced his doubts. Gilberth took absolutely no notice of Jack, and, at least in so far as the latter was concerned, the meal went off pleasantly. He had expected to be called to account by the trainer, but Simson had eyes of his own and said nothing as long as luncheon was in progress. When it was over he questioned the captain. After a moment of hesitation, Joe told the trainer the facts of Jack’s absence as he knew them.

“I think,” he said, “that the best thing to do is to take no notice this time. Weatherby may turn out a good man for us if he can get his mind on his work. But if this badgering continues he won’t be worth a continental; he’s all up in the air. Maybe you can give him a good word now and then, ‘Baldy’; the poor dub needs it all right.”

“Sure, I can,” answered the trainer. “Give the lad a chance; why not? I doubt he’s varsity material, cap, but he’s a decent spoken lad enough.”

Tracy Gilberth walked back to his room after luncheon feeling very dissatisfied with life. He had not yet forgiven Joe for the lecture which the latter had delivered to him the day before. Tracy felt deeply wronged. He really believed that when he had publicly affronted Jack Weatherby that he had been performing a service to the college; that it was his duty to protest against the presence at the university of a fellow who had shown himself to be a coward. Tracy had a rather good opinion of himself and of his importance, and had never doubted that, since others had failed to act in the matter, it was his place to step to the front. The wigging he had received from Joe had surprised as well as disgruntled him, and his vanity still smarted.

And what increased his annoyance was the fact that he had been “called down” by the one fellow of all whom Tracy really held in affection, and who, or so Tracy argued, should have been the very last to oppose him. Never before had the two, whose friendship dated back from their sophomore year, come so near to quarreling as they had yesterday. Differences of opinion they frequently had, but Tracy always retired from whatever position he held at the first sign of displeasure on the part of the other. But yesterday Tracy’s backdown had been incomplete; to-day he was not decided whether to do as Joe wanted him to and leave the obnoxious Weatherby strictly alone or to show his resentment by continuing his righteous persecution of that youth with some more than usually severe affront. In fact, Tracy hovered on the verge of open mutiny when, after climbing the first flight of stairs in Grace Hall, he turned to the left down the broad corridor and kicked open the unlatched door of his study.

“Hello!” he exclaimed.

“Hello!” was the response from the depths of a big leather armchair, and Anthony, who had been reclining with widely stretched legs and reading a magazine, placed the latter back on the mahogany writing-table and calmly faced his host. The two knew each other well enough to nod in passing, but never before had Anthony paid Tracy a visit, and the latter’s evident surprise was natural enough.

“Found your door open,” explained Anthony, “so I came in and waited. Wanted to see you a minute or two, Gilberth.”

“That’s all right; glad you made yourself comfortable,” answered the other.

“Nice rooms you’ve got,” continued the visitor.

“Oh, they do well enough,” Tracy replied carelessly.

As a matter of fact they were the handsomest in college, and he knew it and was proud of it. The study was furnished throughout in mahogany upholstered in light-green leather, a combination of colors at first glance a trifle disconcerting, but which, when viewed in connection with the walls and draperies, was quite harmonious. The walls were covered to the height of five feet with denim of dark green. Above this a mahogany plate-rail ran about the apartment and held a few old pewter platters and tankards, some good pieces of luster-ware and a half-dozen bowls and pitchers of Japanese glaze. Above the shelf, buckram of a dull shade of mahogany red continued to the ceiling, where it gave way to cartridge-paper of a still lighter shade. The draperies at doors and windows were of the prevailing tones. The effect of the whole was one of cheerful dignity. The room was not overcrowded with furniture and the walls held a few pictures, and those of the best. There was a refreshing absence of small photographs and knickknacks. Tracy was proud of his taste in the matter of decoration and furnishing and proud of the result as here shown. Anthony liked the room without understanding it. Perhaps the little whimsical smile that curved his lips was summoned by a mental comparison of the present apartment and his own chamber with its cracked and stained whitewashed walls and povern fittings.

“You wanted to see me, you said?” prompted Tracy.

“Yes,” answered the visitor. “Maybe it will simplify matters if I start out by telling you that Jack Weatherby’s a particular friend of mine.”

“Oh,” said Tracy. “Well?”

“Well, don’t you think you’ve bothered him enough, Gilberth?”

“Look here, Tidball, I don’t like your tone,” said Tracy with asperity.

“Can’t help it,” answered Anthony. “I don’t like the way you’ve been hazing Weatherby. Now we know each other’s grievance.”

“What I’ve done to Weatherby doesn’t concern you,” said Tracy hotly. “And I’m not to be dictated to. The fellow’s a coward and a bounder.”

“Don’t know what bounder is,” answered the other dryly. “Doesn’t sound nice, though. Suppose we stop calling names? I might lose my temper and call you something, and you mightn’t like it, either. But I didn’t come up here to quarrel with you; don’t like to quarrel with a man in his room; doesn’t seem polite, does it? What I came to say is this, Gilberth: leave Weatherby alone or you’ll have me to deal with.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, I guess not; just a statement of fact.”

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” demanded Tracy angrily.

“Guess not; keep on tormenting Weatherby and I’ll know you’re not.”

“Now, look here, Tidball, if you want a row, you can have it right off. You don’t need to wait and see what happens to your precious friend. I’ll fight you any time you like. Do you want a fight?”

“No, not particularly,” answered Anthony, with his most exasperating drawl. “Never fought any one in my life. Wouldn’t know how to go about it, I guess. Even – ”

“Well, you’ll know all about it mighty soon if you don’t get out of here!”

“Don’t think I shall. Haven’t any intention of fighting.”

“Haven’t you, indeed? Well, what, I’d like to know, are you hinting at?”

“Not hinting at all. You leave Weatherby alone or I’ll catch you in the yard and wallop you with a trunk-strap; but,” he added grimly, “there won’t be any fighting.”

He drew his long length out of the chair and took up his hat. Tracy, pale with anger, eyed him silently a moment. Then he leaped forward and sent him spinning back against the chair with a blow on the shoulder. The next moment he felt himself lifted bodily from his feet, turned head over heels, and deposited in that inglorious position on the broad leather couch. When things stopped revolving he saw Tidball’s calm face bending over him and felt his wrists held tightly together by fingers that grasped them like steel bands. He struggled violently until his opponent placed a bony knee on his chest. Then he subsided.