tter of the truth.

"Why you're wonderful, Jack! But then how could you--"

"It's mental, everything is mental," said Skippy conceitedly. "I just
watched till I got it in my mind and the rest was easy. Thanks for the
long green. Hello, what's become of our little gallery of nuts?"

Whether or not Dolly was entirely convinced by this casual explanation,
the immediate return to Skippy was enormous. Not only were the claimants
to her affections completely distanced, but Miss Dolly, for a time,
adopted an attitude of respect and deference towards him, which had
formerly been totally lacking.

Skippy was tremendously in love. There was no doubt about that. You
could see it in the dishpan glow of his scrubbed forehead, in the
spotless flannels and the lily white hands. There was something secure
and permanent in the attachment. Dolly was not sentimental and only
distantly affectionate, but she was absorbing. There was no question of
an eight-hour day in his case. From nine A.M. until Mr. Travers
ostentatiously began to bar the library windows for the night, Mr.
Skippy Bedelle was at one end of a wire with Miss Dolly Travers at the
other, pushing the button.

That practical young lady, realizing that Skippy's earning capacity was
still woefully limited, permitted no allusions to the distant holy bonds
of matrimony, but she did allow him to mortgage his future to the extent
of the promenade and dances which would decorate his scholastic and
collegiate journey, as well as attendance at all athletic contests of
any nature whatsoever. On his birthday (when the sinking fund toward the
first dress suit rose to the colossal sum of fifty dollars) they
solemnly exchanged pins, Dolly openly sporting the red and black of
Lawrenceville, while Skippy concealed in the secret recesses of his tie
a little gold wishbone which would lead him to the higher prizes in
life, add three inches to his stature and the additional twenty pounds
necessary to qualify for the varsity.

His fall from grace was of course the subject of great merriment among
his companions, particularly Happy Mather and Joe Crocker in whom memory
still rankled. A direct insult was of course dangerous, but there were
other subtler ways. At least half a dozen times a day some one was sure
to ask him,

"I say, Skippy, what's doing to-night?"

"Got anything on this afternoon?"

But Skippy brushed aside their crude attempts at persiflage with
indifference. He had won out