“Some range, what?” asked The Duke, slapping Harry Merrow on the shoulder as they clattered up the last flight in Clarke. “Honestly, I don’t see how grand opera’s got along all these years without me! ‘The game, the game, the game, the game; And took away the ga-a-me!’ Get that chord? Kind of bad, what? Sometimes I have to pity Caruso and Scotti, old man.”

“Why, they don’t have to hear you, do they?” asked Harry innocently, as The Duke flung open the portal of Number 47.

“Good thing for them they can’t! They’d swallow a couple of solos and commit suicide. Sit down and be miserable. For once that Fido of mine isn’t here.”

“That what?” asked Harry, mystified.

“Pardon me; I should have said fidus, fidus Achates. Get me? Honestly, old man, I don’t know how I’m going to go on living with him. Here it is only the middle of November, and I’m worn to a string. My health is giving way under the strain. If I was only certain about one thing——”

“What’s that?” asked the other, as The Duke paused thoughtfully.

“Whether he’s a skink or a bombyx. If I knew that I’d be able to get on better.”

“What the dickens is a—a skink?”

“A skink? Well, it’s something like a grus, only not nearly so intelligent.”

“You’re a silly chump,” laughed Harry.

“Worse than that, O Discerning One! I’m crazy, absolutely crazy! So would you be if you had to live with Cotton. Look at that table! See the mess! It’s always like that. I, personally, am naturally neat and tidy, Merrow, but Cotton—well, see for yourself! He—he annoys me!”

“Things do look a bit messy,” acknowledged Harry.

“Messy! My word! Messy, say you? That’s no name for it. It takes half my time keeping this place picked up. Well, let’s forget my troubles and talk about yours.”

“I haven’t any, I guess. Except that Kilts is down on me just at present and I’m having a bad time with math.”

“Well, you heard about me, didn’t you? Had a terrible falling-out with Old Tige; he got quite—quite insulting Saturday. You see, I—er—neglected to hand in a theme, and he said I’d have to do it by Saturday noon. And I really meant to because, of course, he was quite within his rights, you know. So Friday evening I went over to the library and worked and worked and delved and delved in the—the musty archives getting notes for one of the nicest little themes you ever saw! Oh, I must have worked for ten or fifteen minutes! Armed with my notes I returned here fully intending to sport my oak, as we say in dear old England, and do that theme. But here was Cotton scratching away with his old pen and shuffling his silly feet and making noises in his throat. It was quite impossible to write a theme under such circumstances. So I—well, I didn’t. Says I to myself, I will arise betimes in the morning and do it. Which I did; that is, fairly betimes. But where were my notes? I ask you, Merrow, as man to man, where were my notes? Flown! Decamped! Utterly vanished! So, as there was no time to get more notes, I started in to write a theme on the simple little subject of Walter Scott. It was a—well, a hurried effort, and as it turned out I got Sir Walter mixed up in my mind with Thackeray. Result, disapproval on the part of Mr. Edmund Gaddis; disapproval and hard words. I was patient with him, Merrow, but it was difficult, for he said things no gentleman should say to another. We parted—well, scarcely friends. And I’ve got two themes now hanging over my head instead of one. And only until to-morrow evening to do them.” The Duke sighed and shook his head. “But such is life!”

“Too bad,” murmured Harry sympathetically. “And the dickens of it is that this is no time to push a fellow’s nose to the grindstone. No fellow can do decent work just before the Broadwood game; it isn’t fair to expect it.”

“I wish that silly game was over with,” said The Duke fervently. “Honest, I get so excited and nervous and stirred up about it you’d think I was going to play quarter-back. By the way, Duffey—he rooms with Bert Simms, you know—Duffey says Bert is all up in the air over the game; doesn’t sleep for calling signals all night, and can’t eat.”

Harry looked incredulous. “Why, I saw Simms this morning and talked to him, and he seemed as untroubled as you please.”

“That so? Well, it’s only what I heard. How is Burtis’s arm getting on? I haven’t seen him since Sunday.”

“All right. They’re having a leather cuff made that’s to fit right over the wrist. I didn’t know a simple dislocation could be so bad.”

“What’s the difference between a dislocation and a sprain?” demanded The Duke.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose that when you sprain your ankle you just pull the tendons, don’t you, or the ligaments? And when you dislocate it you throw the bone out of joint.”

“I’m glad we don’t have to take an exam in physiology right now,” said The Duke.

“Yes, lucky for us,” laughed Harry. “They say the trouble with Kendall’s wrist is that he’s likely to dislocate it again very easily if he isn’t careful. Payson has let him off practice for the rest of the week, Gerald says.”

“Good stuff! After the way he played Saturday they’d ought to let him do as he pleases. I certainly thought they had us beaten there for a while!”

“Me, too. What do you think about Broadwood? Think we have any show, Duke?”

“If Payson plays the right sort of game, yes. If he keeps those heavy beef-eaters eternally on the jump by hitting their ends we may tire them out enough to get within kicking distance. When we do we want to let Burtis do the rest, for we’ll never get a touchdown by straight line-plunging. Did you see the score they rolled up on Forest Hill?”

Harry nodded. “Twenty-seven to six. Forest Hill scored, though.”

“On a forward pass that ought never to have worked. They can say what they like about Broadwood being fast, and maybe they are fast for their weight, but they can’t be fast enough to stand a running game very long. Payson ought to send our backs around their ends, try forward passes and all his bundle of tricks, Merrow. Just plain, old-fashioned football won’t make a dent in that team!”

“That’s what I think. And they say he’s got a lot of good plays outside tackles. But the trouble is that our own team isn’t so all-fired fast, Duke.”

“It’s the slowest Yardley team I ever saw,” replied The Duke. “If Payson doesn’t get some jump and ginger into it between now and Saturday we’re goners.”

“And as this is Tuesday and there wasn’t much jump yesterday, I guess we are!”

“Oh, you can’t tell by yesterday. Monday’s always a bad day. There ought to be a difference by to-morrow, though. He’s got nothing to do except put pep into them and teach the new signals, as I understand it. I suppose they’re learning signals to-day, and that’s why practice is secret, eh?”

“I suppose so. To-morrow’s is to be secret, too, I hear. The only time we’ll see them in action again before the game will be Thursday. Oh, well, we’ll hope for the best.”

“And fear the worst! By the way, I understand there’s talk of making Burtis captain next year.”

“What?” exclaimed Harry. “Who says so?”

“Well, it seems to interest you! Why, I don’t know just where I heard it; someone said something about it yesterday; said the players had been talking about it since Saturday’s game. I suppose Burtis made rather a hit with them Saturday.”

“He made a hit with all of us, I guess! It was mighty plucky to make that touchdown with his wrist all banged up. I wish they would give him the captaincy.”

“Well, I don’t know. Yes, I’d like him to have it if he wants it, because I think he’s a mighty nice, straight sort. But whether he’s got the stuff in him that leaders are made of——”

“I know. I’ve wondered about that myself. And here’s what I’ve concluded, Duke. I’ve concluded that Kendall Burtis is the sort of chap who doesn’t show goods until they’re called for. I mean that while he seems very quiet and easy-going and not especially brilliant, just put responsibility on him and he sort of blazes up. See what I mean?”

“I get you, O Solomon! I guess you’re right, too. Look at Saturday. He was the man of the hour then, wasn’t he? And, anyhow, he’s as promising as any of the other fellows who are eligible. Goodness knows, Pete Girard or Fales wouldn’t make a captain. Howard Crandall might do. It’s too bad Holmes isn’t going to be with us another year.”

“Yes, he’d make a good one. Hello, I didn’t know you were interested in postage stamps, Duke.” Harry had taken a yellow covered pamphlet from the table and was reading the inscription on it: “Parkinson’s Bulletin for November—Rare Stamps for Collectors.” “Stamps used to be a hobby of mine. I’ve got a couple of thousand of them at home.”

“That isn’t mine, that’s Cotton’s. He gets more truck like that than you can shake a stick at. He collects the foolish things, he says. Got me cornered one night and babbled about ‘cancellations’ and ‘watermarks’ and ‘perforations’ until I had the earache. He says—— Say what’s the matter with you? Feel ill, do you?”

“Wait!” replied Harry sharply. He was staring intently, scowlingly at the window. Suddenly his face cleared and he gave a laugh of triumph. “I’ve got him!” he cried. “I’ve got him!”

“Hooray! Who have you got?”

“Cotton!”

“You may keep him,” declared The Duke with enthusiasm. “And I don’t care what you do with him!”

“Look here,” exclaimed Harry eagerly. “Do you remember some time ago my saying I was certain sure I’d seen Cotton before somewhere?”

The Duke shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t remember. Maybe. Well?”

“I was positive I’d seen him, even talked to him. It bothered me a lot. I used to stare at him in class and cudgel my brains about it, but I couldn’t place him. But I was right all the time, and this gave me the clue.” He tapped the stamp catalogue on his knee. “And when you said he was a stamp collector it all came back to me like a flash.”

“Well, go on; where did you meet him?”

“Do you remember two years ago when some of the fellows went to Broadwood one night and put a sign on the campus?”

“Sure!”

“Well, I don’t know whether you ever knew who the fellows were, but I did. And one day I got a letter from a fellow named Charles Cotton, at Broadwood——”

The Duke whistled.

“——asking me to exchange stamps with him; duplicates, you know. We arranged a meeting in Greenburg, at Wallace’s, and we got together there and chinned awhile. I think we made one or two swaps, but I don’t remember for certain. Anyway, it turned out that what Cotton really wanted was to find out the names of the fellows who had played the trick on Broadwood. You remember how mad they were over there? Well, Cotton had a stamp—it was a blue Cape of Good Hope—that I wanted terribly. I offered him a lot of revenues for it—he was rather keen on revenues—but he wouldn’t let go; wanted four or five dollars cash, I think. Finally, though, he as much as said that if I’d tell him the names of the fellows who had been at Broadwood that night he’d make me a present of the stamp. But I got suspicious and finally went away. You know they did learn who one of the fellows was.” Harry paused, darting a doubtful glance at The Duke.

The latter nodded. “I remember. You had a grouch with Thompson and squealed on him. If I’d been Thompson I’d have broken your neck.”

“I deserved it,” replied Harry. “I must have been an awful little brute then. But I didn’t realize what I was doing, and I was good and sorry for it afterward, Duke.”

The Duke nodded again. “We always are when it’s too late. But never mind about that. You and Thompson made it up all right. So that was Cotton, was it? By Jove, I can well believe it! It’s just the sort of thing I could imagine him doing. If I wanted a piece of dirty work done, Merrow, I’d ask Cotton to do it. That’s the way he’s impressed me all along. And to think that I’ve got to have him on my hands the rest of the year!”

“But why do you suppose he doesn’t own up to having been at Broadwood two years ago?”

“Probably ashamed of it. Maybe he left under a cloud. It’s a fair wager he did, too. I’m blessed if I’m going to have him in here with me, Merrow. He will have to change his room. If he won’t, I’ll make it so hot for him he won’t want to stay here! You don’t mind if I make use of what you’ve told me?”

“N-no, I suppose not. I don’t want to make trouble for the fellow, of course. As long as he behaves himself here——”

“You don’t have to put up with him all day,” growled The Duke. “I can be as charitable as the next chap, but charity begins at home, and I don’t see why I’m required to room with a fellow like Cotton. I hate a sneak, anyway!”

“Maybe I oughtn’t to have said anything,” doubted Harry, “but when it came to me who he was I couldn’t help blurting it out. Funny I didn’t remember him before. His face was so familiar all the time that it worried me to death. I seemed to be always on the point of remembering, but never did.”

“I’m going to find out why he left Broadwood,” said The Duke resolutely. “I know a chap over there—Billy Deemer—I’ll write and tell him to let me know.”

“Well, I wouldn’t tell it around,” said Harry. “After all, Cotton never did anything to me.”

“He’s never done anything to me, either,” replied The Duke grimly, “and I’m going to see that he never has a chance to! All I want is to get him out of here. After that he can do as he pleases. I’ll write to Billy this evening. Let’s get out of doors, Merrow. By Jove, do you know it’s almost four? Let’s walk over to the gym and see the team come in.”