e?"

"Oh, Lord, no!" said Stover, cold at the thought of running the
inspection of hundreds of eyes. "Besides, I've got to see the Doctor."

"All right. Stand right up to him now. Don't get scared," said Butsey,
choosing the one method to arouse all latent fears.

"What's he like?" said Stover, biting his nails.

"There's nothing like him," said Butsey reminiscently. "He's got an
eye that gives you the creeps. He knows everything that goes
on--everything."

Stover began to whistle, keeping an eye on the windows as they
approached.

"Well, ta-ta! I'll hang out at Laloo's for you," said Butsey, loping
off. "Say, by the way, look out--he's a crackerjack boxer."

Stover, like AEneas at the gates of Avernus, stood under the awful
portals, ruminating uneasily on Butsey's last remark. There certainly
was something dark and terrifying about the place, that cast cold
shadows over the cheery April day. Then the door opened, he gave his
name in blundering accents to the butler, and found himself in the
parlor sitting bolt-upright on the edge of a gilded chair. The butler
returned, picking up his steps and, after whispering that the Doctor
would see him presently, departed, stealing noiselessly away.
Abandoned to the classic stillness, nothing in the room reassured him.
The carpets were soft, drowning out the sounds of human feet; the
walls and corridors seemed horribly stilled, as if through them no
human cry might reach the outer air. All about were photographs of
broken columns--cold, rigid, ruined columns, faintly discerned in the
curtained light of the room. The Doctor's study was beyond, through
the door by which the butler had passed. Stover's glance was riveted
on it, trying to remember whether the American Constitution prohibited
head masters from the brutal English practice of caning and birching;
and,--listening to the lagging tick of the mantel clock, he solemnly
vowed to lead that upright, impeccable life that would keep him from
such another soul-racking visit.

The door opened and the Doctor appeared, holding out his hand.

Stover hastily sprang up, found himself actually shaking hands and
mumbling something futile and idiotic. Then he was drawn to the horror
of horrors, and the door shut out all retreat.

"Well, John, how do you like the school?"

Stover, more terrified by this mild beginning than if the Doctor had
produced a bludgeon from behind his back, stammered out that he
thought the buildings we