he Walnut
ripples at low tide, and for a long time he knew no more.

It was raining still when Victor Burleigh reached the Saxon House.
At the door he met Professor Burgess, who was just leaving. Strangely
enough, the memory of their first meeting at the campus gate on a
September day flashed into the mind of each as they came face to face
now. They never spoke to each other except when it was necessary. And
yet tonight, something made them greet each other courteously.

"Professor, will you be kind enough to come up to my room a few
minutes?" Burleigh asked, lifting his cap to his instructor with the
words.

"Certainly," Vincent Burgess said with equal grace.

Bug Buler had kicked off the bed covering and lay fast asleep on his
little cot with his stubby arms bare, and his little fat hands, dimpled
in each knuckle, thrown wide apart.

"I saw a picture like this once for the sign of the cross," Vic said as
he drew the covering over the little form. "Bug has been a cross to me
sometimes, but he's oftener my salvation."

Professor Burgess wondered again, why a boy like Burleigh should have
been given a voice of such rare charm.

"I will not keep you long," Vic said, turning from Bug. "I cannot play
in tomorrow's game, and be a man."

Then, briefly, he explained the reason.

"It is raining still. Take my umbrella," he said at the close of his
simply told story. "But tomorrow's sunshine will dry the field for the
game, all right. Good night."

"Good night," Vincent Burgess said hoarsely, and plunged into the
darkness and the rain.

Ten steps from the Saxon House, he came plump into Bond Saxon, who
staggered a little to avoid him.

"My luck on rainy nights," Vincent thought. "The old fellow's sprees
seem to run with the storms. He hasn't been 'off' for a long time."

But Bond Saxon was never more sober in his life, and he clutched the
young man's arm eagerly.

"Professor Burgess, won't you help me!" he cried.

"What do you want to do on a night like this?" Burgess asked,
remembering the vow he had been forced to make, by this same man.

"Come help me save a man's life!" Bond urged.

"Look here, Saxon. You've got some wild notion out of a boot-legger's
bottle. Straighten up now. It's an infamous thing in a college town like
Lagonda Ledge, where neither a saloon nor a joint would be allowed, that
some imp of Satan should forever be bringing you whisky. Who does it,
anyhow?"

"I'm not drunk and haven't b