For the Honor of the School: A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport. Barbour Ralph Henry

player, or something like that.”

      “Don’t remember him. Are you coming up here after four?”

      “Yep; wait for me.”

      Wayne clattered off downstairs and crossed the green back of the gymnasium and the principal’s residence. As he went he drew a little roll of money from his vest, supplemented it with a few coins from his trousers’ pocket, and counted the whole over twice. He shook his head as he put the money away again.

      “Nine dollars and forty-two cents,” he muttered, “and I can’t make any more of it if I count it all day.”

      He ran up the steps to Hampton House, pushed open the broad, white door and entered the big colonial hallway. At the far end a cheerful fire was cracking in a generous chimney place, lighting up the dim gilt frames and dull canvases of the portraits of bygone Hilltonians that looked severely down from the walls. Hampton House is a dormitory whose half dozen rooms are inhabited by a few wealthy youths who find in the comfort of the great, old-fashioned apartments and the prestige that residence therein brings compensation for the high rents. Wayne turned sharply to the right and beat a tattoo with his knuckles over the black figure 2 on the door. From within came the sound of a loud voice in monotonous declamation. Wayne substituted his shoe for his knuckles and Paddy’s voice bade him enter.

      “Where’s Dave?” asked Wayne. Paddy, who had been tramping up and down the apartment with a book in his hand, and declaiming pages of Cæsar’s Civil War to the chandelier, tossed the volume aside and tried to smooth down his hair, which was standing up in tumbled heaps, making him look not unlike “the fretful porcupine.”

      “Dave’s at a recitation; German, I think. Want to see him?”

      “Yes, I want to borrow some money from him.”

      “Don’t think he has any. You see, I borrow most of his money as soon as it comes; he never has any use for it himself, and it grieves me to see it laying round idle. How much do you want?”

      “Two dollars. Have you got it, Paddy?”

      “’Fraid not; let’s see.” He pulled open a table drawer and rummaged about until several pieces of silver rewarded his search. Then he emptied his pockets, and the two counted the result.

      “Eighty-five cents,” said Paddy regretfully. “Hold on; perhaps Dave has some change left. Sometimes I leave him a few cents for pocket money.” He went to his chum’s bureau and in a moment returned with a purse which, when turned up over the study table, rained from its depths four quarters and a nickel.

      “Oh, the desavin critter!” cried Paddy. “Now, where did he get all that wealth? Let’s see; that’s one dollar and ninety cents. If we could only find another dime – ”

      “That’ll do,” answered Wayne, as he pocketed the coins. “I’ll write home to-night and pay you back as soon as I get it. I’m awfully much obliged.”

      “Don’t mention it. Is there anything else I can do for you to-day?”

      “Have you got anything to eat? I lost my dinner; forgot it until a minute ago.”

      “I’ve got some crackers,” replied Paddy dubiously, “and a tin of some kind of meat. It’s been opened a good while, but I guess it’ll be all right after I scrape the mold off.”

      “Bring them out, will you? I’m in a hurry, Paddy; I’ve got a recitation at 3.15.” Paddy whistled.

      “In a hurry! Whisper, Wayne, are yez ill?”