ings have gone."

"Percy isn't the only one who needs sympathy," said Spurling, soberly.
"What about his father?"

"I'm sorry for 'em both," was Lane's comment. "But the Whittington
family'll have to handle its own troubles. Now, fellow-members, to the
question before the house! Unless I raise at least two hundred dollars
in the next three months, it's no college for me in September."

A short silence followed. Spurling took out his knife and deliberately
slithered a long, splintery shaving off the fence-top.

"I've an idea," he said, slowly. "Give me till evening and I'll tell
you about it. What d'you say to a last game of tennis?"

The others agreed and slipped off the fence. Lane glanced up the road.

"Here comes Whittington, scorching like a blue streak! And there's Bill
Sanders's old auto crawling up May Street hill from the railroad
station! If Percy should hit him--good-night!"

The gray machine rapidly grew larger. The people on the sidewalks stood
still and watched.

May Street crossed Main at right angles, and a high cedar hedge before
the corner house made it impossible for the two drivers to see each
other until they were close together. On sped the gray car.

"Isn't he humming!"

Suddenly Whittington thrust out his left arm.

"He's going to turn down May Street!" shouted Lane. "Bound to the
station after his father. He'll hit Sanders, sure as fate! Hi! Hi there,
Percy!"

Heedless of the warning, Whittington whirled round into May Street and
plunged full tilt into the hotel bus, striking it a glancing blow back
of its front wheel. There was a tremendous crash.

"Come on, fellows!" cried Lane.

They ran at top speed toward the wreck. Through the clearing dust three
figures were visible, extricating themselves from the ruins. Sanders,
the hotel chauffeur, was groaning and rubbing his ankle. His only
passenger, a bald, thick-set man, with smooth face and bulldog jaw, had
a bleeding scratch down his right cheek and a badly torn coat.
Whittington, apparently unharmed, was chalky and stuttering from
fright.

Spurling, for all his slowness, was the first to reach the wreck. He
helped the stout stranger to his feet, and the man turned angrily toward
Whittington. An exclamation of surprise burst from both.

"Dad!"

"Percy!"

Understanding struggled with indignation on the older man's face.

"Well," he growled, "so you've done it again!"

For a moment the lad stood in shamefaced alarm, shakin