in and tackle him around the knees," said Tough.

"I think I will," said Dink, who understood the metaphor.

They went up swinging briskly, watching in silence the never stale
spectacle of the panorama of the school.

"I say, Dink," said Tough suddenly, "Sis is going to put the clamps on
that T. Willyboy, Ver Plank."

"Really--when?" said Dink, surprised that the news brought him no
emotion.

"Next month."

Stover laughed a little laugh.

"You know," he said with a bit of confusion, "I fancied I was terribly
in love with Josephine myself--for a little while."

"Sure," said Tough without surprise. "Jo would flirt with anything
that had long pants on."

"Yes, she's a flirt," said Stover, and the judgment sounded like the
swish of shears cutting away angels' wings.

They separated at the campus and Stover went toward the Kennedy.
Half-way there an excited little urchin came rushing up, pulling off
his cap.

"Well, what is it, youngster?" said Stover, who didn't recognize him.

"Please, sir," said the young hero worshiper, producing a photograph
of the team from under his jacket, "would you mind putting your name
on this? I should be awfully obliged."

Stover took it and wrote his name.

"Who is this?"

"Williams, Jigs Williams, sir, over in the Cleve."

"Well, Jigs, there you are."

"Oh, thank you. Say----"

"Well?"

"Aren't you going to have an individual photograph?"

"No, of course not," said Stover with only outward gruffness.

"All the fellows are crazy for one, sir."

"Run along, now," said Stover with a pleased laugh. He stood on the
steps, watching the elated Jigs go scudding across the Circle, and
then went into the Kennedy. In his box was a letter of congratulation
from Miss Dow. He read it smiling, and then took up the photograph and
examined it more critically.

"She's a dear little girl," he said. "Devilish smart figure."

Miss Dow, of course, was very young. She was only twenty.

That night, after an hour's brown meditation, he suddenly rose and,
descending the stairs, knocked at the sanctum sanctorum.

"Come in," said the low, musical voice.

Stover entered solemnly.

"Ah, it's you, John," said The Roman with a smile.

"Yes, sir, it's me," said Stover, leaning up against the door.

The Roman glanced up quickly and, seeing what was coming, took up the
paper-cutter and began to twist it through his fingers. There was a
silence, long and painful.

"Well?" said The Roman