ou. Come again, any day this time. Every day."

The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his position
irritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waiting
for the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip,
unaffected by this departure.

Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed George
out. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The broken
light from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision in
his eyes.

"Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; I
mean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?"

George shook his head. He was quite frank.

"I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about that
myself."

Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand.

"Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow."

"Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you call
Wandel 'Spike'?"

Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he coloured
it.

"Maybe it's because he's so sharp."

XIII

George saw a day or two later a professor's criticism in the _Daily
Princetonian_ of the current number of the _Nassau Literary Magazine_.
Driggs Wandel, because of a poem, was excitedly greeted as a man with a
touch of genius. George borrowed a copy of the _Lit_ from a neighbour,
and read a haunting, unreal bit of verse that seemed a part of the room
in which it had probably been written. Obsessed by the practicality of
the little man, George asked himself just what Wandel had to gain by
this performance. He carried the whole puzzle to Bailly that night, and
was surprised to learn that Wandel had impressed himself already on the
faculty.

"This verse isn't genius," Bailly said, "but it proves that the man has
an abnormal control of effect, and he does what he does with no apparent
effort. He'll probably be managing editor of the _Lit_ and the
_Princetonian_, for I understand he's out for that, too. He's going to
make himself felt in his class and in the entire undergraduate body.
Don't undervalue him. Have you stopped to think, Morton, that he still
wears a moustache? Revolutionary! Has he overawed the Sophomores, or has
he too many friends in the upper classes?"

Bailly limped up and down, ill at ease, seeking words.

"I don't know how to advise you. I believe he'll help you delve after
some treasure, though the stains on his own hands won't be