When Ira awoke the next morning an expression of Mart Johnston’s came to him. “You’ve got a good day for it!” It certainly was a good day, for the early morning sky was cloudless and swept by a crisp breeze that held enough tingle as it came through the window to make him hurry a bit with his dressing. He managed to get through his ablutions and put his clothes on without disturbing Nead, and at twenty minutes past six he closed the door quietly behind him and went cautiously down the dim stairways. Main Street was for the most part still asleep, although a few yawning persons were opening stores for the day’s trade. He found himself whistling a tune as he turned into Linden Street and realised that it was rather an incongruous thing to do under the circumstances. He ought, he told himself, to plan his battle and keep his mind on feints and leads. But the morning was too fine for that and he didn’t feel in the least sanguinary. He would much have preferred a long walk into the country.

There was no sign of Goodloe when he reached the West Gate, and he had begun to hope that that youth had overslept when he caught sight of him running down the steps of Williams Hall. Goodloe waved a greeting as he hurried up, still buttoning his waistcoat.

“Sorry if I’m late,” he said as he joined Ira. “I came mighty near missing it. Fred wouldn’t let me set the alarm clock and I’m not much good at waking up myself. Say, it’s a peach of a morning, isn’t it? If we cut through here it’s nearer, Rowland.”

He led the way down a sort of lane beside an old white house on Apple Street and they squeezed themselves between the bars of a gate.

“I suppose you went to Jud’s reception last night?” asked Goodloe. “I went last year. He asked a lot of us over to give the glad hand to the new boys, but Halden—he was baseball captain last year—and a lot more of us made such inroads on the refreshments that we didn’t get asked this time. I suppose Mrs. Jud asked you to tea?”

“Yes, she did. On Friday, I think it was. I’m not sure whether I said I’d come or not.”

“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t expect you. No one ever goes. Not more than once, anyhow. She makes you do things: sing or recite or do card tricks. She means well; in fact she’s a nice little person, Mrs. Jud; but it’s a nuisance. Ned Mailman went the first time he was asked and recited Casey at the Bat with the aid of an umbrella out of the stand in the hall, and knocked about sixty-eleven dollars worth of bric-a-brac off the mantel! Here we are!”

They had crossed a field during Goodloe’s chatter and now were making their way past the old workings of a brick-yard, skirting a clay pit that was half full of water and a tumble-down shed littered with broken bricks. Further on was a small building in a fair state of repair, save for the windows which had been practically denuded of glass, and to the back of this Goodloe cheerfully led the way.

“Out of sight of the world,” he announced. “There have been more scraps pulled off here than you can shake a stick at. It used to be a brick-yard, but now it’s a scrap yard.” Goodloe removed his coat and waistcoat and hung them carefully from a nail against the side of the shed. “There’s a nail for you,” he said, pointing. “We don’t get checks, but they’ll be safe.” He put his hat over his garments and drew his belt in another hole.

Certainly, reflected Ira, the place was private enough. The shed cut off all sight of the school, the street and the nearer houses, while in other directions a young growth of birch and oak which had sprung up since the yard’s activities had ceased effectually screened them. The morning sunshine fell warmly on the little space of hard-trodden clay and the side of the shed, turning the weathered, grey boards of the latter to pale gold. Ira removed his coat and vest and hat and hung them beside Goodloe’s. He didn’t cinch in his belt because he didn’t wear one, but he did shorten his suspenders a little.

“I needn’t tell you, I guess,” observed Goodloe, “that it won’t do to be seen around school with our faces messed up. After honour is satisfied we’d better look each other over and do the first-aid act. If faculty sees us with our eyes bruised it’ll get to asking questions. All ready? Shake hands, do we? Fine! I suppose hitting in the clinches is barred, eh?”

“Just as you like,” answered Ira.

“Well, it’s more shipshape to break away, I guess. We might as well act like gentlemen even if it hurts us! Let her go, Rowland!”

Goodloe had been smiling genially thus far, and the smile on his face still continued now, but his eyes narrowed a little as he stepped warily back and raised his guard. Ira, for his part, experienced a strong desire to laugh, for the humour of the affair struck him harder than before. But he tried to look grave as he faced his antagonist and waited for the latter to begin. It soon became evident, though, that Goodloe was also waiting. In the course of the first thirty seconds of that remarkable meeting they each completed one circuit of the “ring” without offering a blow.

“Come on!” said Goodloe encouragingly.

“Come on yourself,” replied Ira grinning.

Goodloe grunted. “I suppose someone’s got to start it,” he muttered. He feinted with his right and landed a light tap on Ira’s shoulder and danced away before Ira could reach him. He came back and they each sparred for an opening until Ira landed a weak left to the neck.

“Short,” said Goodloe. “You’re quick on your feet for a big chap. I’ll have to watch you.”

He rushed in and managed to reach Ira’s chin, but the blow was half blocked and scarcely jarred the recipient, and Ira landed twice on the body before Goodloe retreated. More circling then, each watching the other warily, and then a half-hearted rush by Goodloe that failed to beat down Ira’s guard. Half a dozen quick blows were given by each, but the blocking was good and neither got home.

“This is a perfect farce,” declared Goodloe mournfully. “You’re not half fighting, confound you!”

“Neither are you,” replied Ira, laughing.

They drew off by common consent, panting a little, but more from their circling than their sparring, and viewed each other. Goodloe shook his head discouragedly. “You’ll have to do better than you’ve been doing, Rowland,” he complained. “Can’t you hand me one on the face? I can’t do it all, you know.”

“I don’t see that you’ve done any of it yet,” said Ira indignantly. “If you want to fight go ahead and fight. I’m not stopping you.”

“Well, but—hang it, Rowland, I can’t smash a fellow unless he does something to get me worked up! Why don’t you start something?”

“Why don’t you?”

“Why, it isn’t my row!”

Ira burst out laughing. “Whose is it, then?”

“Yours, of course. You said you wanted to fight——”

“I said so! When?”

“Well, that note said so, then.”

“I said I’d meet you whenever you liked,” protested Ira. “You don’t call that a—a challenge, do you?”

“N-no, maybe not, but it sort of sounded as if you wanted to finish up the scrap we started, and I couldn’t very well refuse, could I? If you didn’t want to fight what the dickens did you get me out of bed for at this unearthly hour?” Goodloe sounded pained and pathetic.

“That was your suggestion,” answered Ira. “I wasn’t crazy about scrapping before breakfast, or any other time.”

“Then—then you don’t want to fight?” demanded Goodloe.

“I’m not a bit keen about it,” laughed Ira. “I was only obliging you, Goodloe.”

“Well, I’ll be blowed! What do you know about that? Thunderation, I don’t want to fight you! Why should I? I made an ass of myself the other day and got knocked down, but I deserved it, and I’ve said so. You—you’re quite sure you don’t want to go ahead?”

“Quite, thanks. I’d rather have some breakfast.”

Goodloe grinned. “So would I,” he said heartily. “Tell you what, Rowland. We’ll go down to The Eggery and have some coffee and cakes and a few trimmings. What do you say? I don’t believe I want to go to dining hall this morning.”

“All right. That suits me. Let’s get there. I’m as hungry as a bear!”

“Me, too! Say, it looks to me as if we were a couple of silly chumps!” Goodloe chuckled as he handed Ira his hat. “For the love of Pete, don’t let this out or we’ll be a regular laughing-stock! If Fred Lyons ever got onto this he’d never let up on me!”

“Is he the football captain?” asked Ira as he pulled his vest on.

“Yes. We room together. You ought to know him, Rowland. He’s a dandy old scout. Tell you what! You run around tonight and meet him, eh? I wish you would. You’d like him. Come over about eight, will you?”

“Thanks, I’d like to. Now which is the shortest way to The Eggery?”

Ten minutes later they were seated at opposite sides of a small table in the restaurant and no one of the patrons would have suspected them of having lately met on the field of honour. For they were talking as amicably as though they were old friends while they consumed their buckwheat cakes with maple sirup and drank their piping hot coffee. And afterwards, when they had supplemented the main part of the repast with three doughnuts apiece and had ordered more coffee, they still sat there chatting and laughing.

“I wish,” said Ira, at last approaching a question he had had on his mind to ask for some time, “I wish you’d tell me something.”

“Will if I can,” answered Gene. “Shoot.”

“Well, it’s about my—about that suit I had on the other day. I suppose it doesn’t look just right, Goodloe, but what’s the trouble with it?”

“Why—er—if you want the truth, Rowland, it’s too small for you. It looks as if you’d grown about six inches since you got it.”

“Oh! Yes, I guess I have. I’ve had it two years, about. I realise that my things don’t look like what you fellows wear. I dare say even these aren’t—aren’t quite right, eh?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to say that,” responded Gene cautiously.

“Well, are they? I thought they were yesterday morning, but they don’t seem to look just—just proper.”

“Perhaps they’re a wee bit—er—skimpy,” allowed Gene, evidently anxious not to hurt the other’s feelings. “Did you have them made for you or—or just buy them?”

“I bought them ready-made. I never had a suit made to order. You see, Cheney Falls is just a village and the only tailor there would probably die of fright if you asked him to make a suit of clothes for you! I got these in Bangor. The man I got them of said they were fine; said they fitted perfectly. But I guess they don’t, eh?”

“Well, n-no, they don’t, Rowland; not perfectly. If I were you I’d take them to a tailor here and let him take a fall out of them. If you want a suit built, try Dodge, on Adams Street, next door to the Music Hall. He does a lot of work for the fellows and is pretty good, and he doesn’t charge terribly much, either.”

“I guess I will,” answered Ira. “I mean, have these doctored. Maybe I’ll get me a new suit, too, later. How much does he charge?”

“Oh, he’ll build you a mighty good one for thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five!” exclaimed Ira. “Gee! These only cost eighteen!”

“Yes, but what Dodge will turn out will outwear that suit two to one and, besides, it’ll fit you, Rowland. You won’t have to pay the whole bill right away if you don’t want to, only you mustn’t tell faculty. It doesn’t approve of the fellows running accounts.”

“Oh, if I got it I’d pay cash, I guess.”

“It’s best to,” agreed Gene. “I used to charge things all over the shop when I first came, but I was always scared that faculty would get on to it. Besides, I had a fierce time getting my bills paid off at the end of the year. Well, I must be starting back. Put your money up, please. This is my treat.”

“Oh, no! I’d rather not!”

“Can’t help it, old man. As the challenged party I have the choice of weapons, and I choose to defeat you with cash.” He had already seized Ira’s check and so the latter gave in, although a bit uncomfortably. Still, the breakfasts had been only thirty cents apiece, so perhaps it didn’t much matter. They parted outside, Gene reminding Ira of his agreement to call that evening, and went their separate ways. When Ira got back to the room he found Humphrey just starting out for breakfast.

“Well, what happened to you?” he demanded. “Been catching worms?”

“I got up early,” replied Ira. “I’ve had breakfast.”

“You have? What’s the idea? Didn’t you have enough dinner last night to hold you for a while?”

“Yes, but—it was a fine morning and—Say, we ought to get a cushion for that window seat today.”

“You get it,” said Humphrey. “I’m going to be busy this afternoon. I’ve got a date with a fellow.”

“All right. I’ll try to get out of it cheap.”

“You’d better. I don’t intend to spend much money on this dive. It isn’t worth it.”

“Why, I thought it was beginning to look pretty nice,” replied Ira. “When you get your pictures up——”

“Oh, it’ll do, I suppose. Well, I’m off to feed. Don’t want to come along, do you?”

“No, thanks. I’m going to do a little studying before first hour.”

“I wish you’d do some for me. I haven’t looked into a book yet. So long!”

Ira had plenty to keep him busy until three that day. He had a consultation at half-past eleven with Mr. McCreedy, his adviser, and in consequence made one or two alterations in his elective courses. The Mathematics instructor was a youngish man with a sort of cut-and-dried manner that Ira found unsympathetic. But the advice was good and Mr. McCreedy begged Ira to look him up frequently and not to hesitate to consult him on any matter at any time. In the afternoon—studies went easily enough as yet—Ira found himself at a loose end, although one could, of course, always “grind.” But “grinding” didn’t appeal to him on such a day, and he wandered around to the playfield again and looked on at football practice for awhile. Several fellows nodded to him, and some spoke, for he had made acquaintances in classroom and at the Principal’s reception. But he met no one he knew well enough to talk to, and about four he returned to his lodging to get the measurements for the window-seat cushion. When he opened the door he was surprised to find that the odour of stale cigarette smoke still lingered, in spite of wide-open windows. There was a brief note from Humphrey asking him to meet him there at six for supper. He arranged at a furniture store for the cushion and then went back and finished that letter to his father. As he had a good deal to write, it was six o’clock before he had reached the last of the twelve pages. He waited until half-past for Humphrey and then, as that youth was still absent, sallied forth alone. He was quite as well satisfied, for Humphrey was inclined to eat bigger suppers than he needed, and Ira, after buying an evening paper, sought The Eggery and did very well at an expense of twenty cents. At half-past seven, having brushed his blue suit and his shoes and his hair, and changed his tie for one more after the fashion of those affected at Parkinson, he started out for Gene Goodloe’s room.