That 4 to 3 victory took place on a Thursday, in the third week of June.

Some two hours later the hero of the conflict lay stretched at full length on a window-seat in the front room of a house within sound of the college bell. His hands were under his head, one foot nestled inelegantly amidst the cushions at the far end of the seat and the other was sprawled upon the floor. The window beside him was wide open and through it came the soft, warm air, redolent of things growing, of moist pavements, of freshly-sprinkled lawns. The sounds of passing footsteps and voices entered, too; and from across the shaded street came the tinkle of a banjo. The voices were joyous and care-free. To-morrow was Class-Day; the year’s work was over; books had been tossed aside, and already the exodus from college had begun. The twilight deepened and the long June day came unwillingly to its end. The shadows darkened under the elms and here and there a light glared out from an open window. But in the room the twilight held undisputed sway, hiding the half-packed trunks and the untidy disorder of the study.

Chub lay on the window-seat and a few feet away, where he could look through the wide open casement, Roy Porter was stretched out in a morris chair. We have already caught a brief glimpse of Roy in the cheering section during the game, but in the excitement we did not, I fancy, observe him very closely. He is a good-looking, even handsome, boy, with light, curly hair and very blue eyes. He is tall and well developed, with broad shoulders and wide hips. Roy and Chub have been firm friends for three years: for two years at Ferry Hill School and for one at college. In age there is but a month or two of difference between them. Both are freshmen, having come up together from Ferry Hill last September, since which time they have led a very interesting and, withal, happy existence in the quarters, in which we now find them. And they have each had their successes. Chub has made the captaincy of the freshman Nine, they have both played on the freshman foot-ball team, and each has been recently taken into one of the societies. In studies Roy has accomplished rather more than his friend, having finished the year well up in his class. But Chub has kept his end up and has passed the finals, if not in triumph, at least without disgrace.

“Another big day for you, Chub,” said Roy. Chub stretched himself luxuriously and yawned.

“Yes. There have been quite a few ‘big days,’ Roy, since we met at school, haven’t there? There was the day when you lammed out that home run and won us the game from Hammond, two years ago. That was one of your ‘big days,’ old chap, but it was mine, too. Then, last year, when we won on the track. That was Dick’s ‘big day,’ but we all shared in it, especially since it brought that check from Kearney and brought the affairs of the Ferry Hill School Improvement Society to a glorious close. And then there was the baseball game last year—”

“That was your day, Chub, and none other’s.”

“Well, if I recollect rightly, there was a little old two-bagger by one Roy Porter which had something to do with the result,” returned Chub, dryly.

“Oh, we’d have won without that. Say, do you remember Harry after the game?”

“Do I! Shall I ever forget her? She was just about half crazy, wasn’t she? And wouldn’t she have loved to have been here to-day?”

They both chuckled at the idea.

“By the way,” said Chub presently, “did we get any mail this evening?”

“I don’t think so,” said Roy; “but I didn’t look. Expecting a check?”

“Go to thunder! We ought to hear from Dick to-day or to-morrow. And Mr. Cole, too, about the boat.”

“That’s so. Maybe we’ll hear in the morning.”

“Light the gas and have a look around,” begged Chub. “Sometimes Mrs. Moore picks the letters up and puts them on the table, and we don’t find them for weeks and weeks.”

“If you’d keep the table picked up,” said Roy, severely, as he arose with a grunt and fumbled for matches, “such things wouldn’t occur.”

“Listen to him!” murmured Chub, apparently addressing the ceiling. “I’d like to know which of us is the neat little housekeeper! I’d like to know—”

The study was suddenly illuminated with a ghastly glow as Roy applied the match to the drop-light. Chub groaned and turned his face away.

“I give you notice, Roy, that next year we’re going to have a different shade on that thing. Green may be all very nice for the optic nerves, but it’s extremely offensive to my—my sensibilities. Besides, it doesn’t suit my complexion. I’ve mentioned that before. Now a red shade—”

“Here’s a whole bunch of mail,” exclaimed Roy, mildly indignant. “I wish she’d let it alone. Here’s two for you and one for me. This looks like—yes, it’s from Dick. And I guess this one—” he studied it under the light—“I guess this is from the artist man. Anyway, the postmark’s New York, and—”

“Well, hand ’em over, you idiot,” said Chub.

“Come and get them. You can’t see to read over there,” replied Roy tranquilly. Chub hesitated, groaned, and finally followed the suggestion.

“Yes, this is from Dickums,” he muttered as he tore off the end of the envelop. “I hope he can come. Who’s yours from?”

“Dad,” answered Roy, settling into his chair and beginning to read. But he wasn’t destined to finish his letter just then, for in a moment Chub had rudely disturbed him.

“It’s all right!” he cried. “Listen, Roy; let me read this to you.”

“He’s coming?” asked Roy eagerly, abandoning his own letter.

“Yes. Listen.” Chub pulled up a chair, sat down, and began to read: “‘Dear Chub: Yours of no date—’”

“Stung!” murmured Roy. Chub grinned and went on.

—“‘received the day before yesterday. I’d have answered before, but things have been pretty busy here. If we can get the house-boat, I’ll go along in a minute. It will be a fine lark. I’m leaving here to-morrow for New York. My dad’s there now, and we’re going to stay somewhere around there for the summer, he says. You let me know just as soon as you can. Send your letter to the Waldorf. I can start any time. I haven’t written to Dad about it, but I know he will let me go. I hope we can get the boat. I told Harry about it yesterday, and read your letter to her, and she’s wild to go along. Says we might wait until she gets back from her Aunt Harriet’s. I told her there wouldn’t be room but she says she’d sleep up on top! So I had to tell her I’d see what you fellows thought about it. Maybe we might have her along for a little while. What do you think? I suppose her father or mother could come, too, as—’”

“Chaperon,” said Roy. “Harry’s getting ‘growed up,’ you know.”

“Well, we’ll see. Here, where’s that other letter? Let’s find out what Mr. Cole says.” He opened the second epistle and glanced through it quickly, his face lighting as he read. “It’s all right!” he cried. “We can have her! Only—” he looked through the brief note again—“only he doesn’t say anything about the price. ‘When you get here we’ll talk over the matter of terms.’ That doesn’t sound encouraging, does it?” Chub looked across at Roy dubiously, and Roy shook his head.

“Not very,” he answered; “but you can’t tell. I guess he will let us down easy. He’s a good sort, is the Floating Artist.”

“Well—” Chub tossed the note aside and went back to Dick Somes’s letter. “‘I suppose her father or mother or some one would have to go along, but that needn’t make much difference. She’s wild to know, so you’d better drop her a line pretty soon and tell her what you think about it. If you don’t she’s likely to explode!’”

“And that’s so, too, I guess!” chuckled Roy. “Say, it would be awfully jolly if we four could get together again this summer, wouldn’t it?”

“Dandy!” answered Chub. “And we’ll do it, too,” he added stoutly.

“I don’t believe so. Something will happen at the last moment,” said Roy dejectedly. “You’ll see.”

“My gentle croaker, let me finish this.... ‘I got through exams O. K. and got my diploma to-day. So I’ll see you fellows in the fall if we don’t make it before. That is, if I can pass at college. I wish you’d speak a good word for me to the president. I suppose you know we won the boat-race by almost three lengths. That makes up for losing the ball-game. We missed you on the team this year. They’ve elected Sid Welch captain for next year. Sid’s so pleased he can’t see straight. To-day was Class-Day and we had a fine time. You ought to have heard me orate. How’s old Roy? He owes me a letter, the scoundrel. Write as soon as you can to the Waldorf. I’ll be there to-morrow evening. Tell Roy to come and see me as soon as he gets home. You, too, if you stop over there. I’ve got lots of news for you that I can tell better than I can write. Hope you fellows win your game to-morrow. They’d ought to have taken you on, Chub. But next year, when I get there, I’ll fix that for you. So long. Don’t forget to let me know whether we can have the house-boat. Yours, Dick.’”

“Good old Dickums,” murmured Chub as he folded the letter. “Well, it’s all settled,” he went on animatedly. “We’ll take the midnight train to-morrow, Roy; see Mr. Cole; look up Dick, and get ready for the cruise! Won’t we have fun, though?”

“Did Mr. Cole say whether he’d let the boat to us furnished?”

“Yes.” Chub referred to the note. “‘The Jolly Roger is quite at your disposal as soon as you want her. I’m going abroad in August, and won’t want her at all this summer. She needs paint, but you’ll have to attend to that if you’re fussy. You’ll find her all ready for you. I won’t say anything about the engine, for you know that engine yourself. Treat it kindly and perhaps it will stand by you. When you get here we’ll talk over the matter of terms. Regards to your friend and to you. Very truly yours, Forbes Cole.’ That’s all he says. I don’t believe he will want us to pay him much if he’s going abroad and can’t use the boat himself anyway, do you?”

“I hope not,” answered Roy, “for it’s going to be rather an expensive trip, Chub.”

“Nonsense! We can run her on ten dollars a week, I’ll bet.”

“You forget that we have to eat. You forget your appetite, Chub.”

“Well, if we have Harry along she can make doughnuts for us!”

“Well, if she does,” laughed Roy, “I’ll see that there’s no almond flavoring aboard. Do you remember last summer when she put almond into the doughnuts and—”

“Do I remember! I thought I’d never get that taste out of my mouth!” Chub grinned reminiscently. Roy arose determinedly and threw back the lid of his steamer trunk.

“What are you going to do?” asked Chub.

“Finish my packing. There won’t be any time to-morrow, and—”

But alas for good resolutions! There was a charge of feet outside on the brick walk, a hammering at the door, and a covey of happy, irresponsible freshmen burst into the room. There was no packing that night. But what did it matter? There was to-morrow and many, many other to-morrows stretching away in a seemingly limitless vista of happy holidays, and the fact that when the visitors finally took their departure the few things that the roommates had already packed had been seized upon by rude hands and strewn about the study worried no one. Nothing matters when “finals” are over and summer beckons.