o receive a letter from the Governor of the state
giving him the desired year to gain the necessary evidence in favor of
the fisherman.

He was still meditating in this strain when the Governor's letter was
handed to him. For almost an hour he sat with his head in his hands,
building an imaginary home, which he had never thought would be his, and
in still sweeter imaginings he held close to his heart a fair, sweet
girl, growing into her heritage of womanhood.

* * * * *

For two whole days Frederick Graves had been held a captive in his
unfurnished prison. He knew that forty-eight hours marked the time
before the banquet, also that if he could not escape before then he
would have to be absent from the class dinner. Only once had Armstrong
spoken to him that day and an expression of fine scorn upon the
handsome president's face had been the answer. The sophomore was
stretched out upon the bed, the revolver still in his hand, and drumming
with the fingers of his left hand upon the much soiled wall:

"Graves," he began, "if you think this is any snap for me or that I like
my job you're mistaken. I hate to be cooped up here as much as you do."

Frederick might not have been within hearing of the words for all the
attention he paid to the speaker. Armstrong sat up straight with a deep
far-fetched yawn.

"Come on, Graves," implored he, "let's play cards. It's hanged dismal
with nothing to do."

Still Frederick kept his dignified silence. He looked down upon his
coatless arms and pondered, then raised his eyes to the long window, but
settled them again upon his boots. From the corner of his eye he saw his
jailer place the revolver upon the table--it roused him suddenly for he
was getting desperate to escape. With lightning-like rapidity he made up
his mind to action. Lunging forward he brought his right fist in heavy
contact with his companion's nose while the strong left hand swept the
revolver under the opposite bed.

Simultaneously with the sound of the falling weapon came the crash of
broken glass--Frederick Graves had swept like a young hurricane through
the long window. The falling of the heavy body, and running footsteps
brought Armstrong hastily to his feet. He dazedly brushed back a lock of
hair from his brow, scrambled back under the bed after the gun then
rushed to the broken window.

"By gosh, that was brave," ejaculated he.

Three times he fired the pistol into the night-