Martin Johnston and Dwight Bradford occupied what at Parkinson was known as an alcove study. To be correct, it was not the study that formed an alcove, but the bedroom. There were only a few of such apartments in Goss Hall and those who had them were considered fortunate. Number 16 proved to be rather a luxurious place. There was a good deal of furniture, most of it black-oak, the chairs having red-leather cushions and the study table being adorned with a square of the same brilliant material. One side of the room was lined with bookcases to a height of about five feet and the shelves were filled and a row of books overflowed to the top. Many pictures were on the walls, a deep window seat, covered in red denim, was piled with pillows and there was a dark-brown wool rug with a red border on the floor. The alcove, just big enough for two single beds and a night stand between, was partly hidden by red portiÈres. At first sight, as Ira paused in the doorway after being bidden to enter, the room was disconcertingly, almost alarmingly, colourful.

“Evening and everything!” said a voice from beyond the light on the table, and a chair was pushed back. Then Mart’s form emerged from the white glare. “Hello!” he said. “How are you, Rowland? Glad to see you. Meet Mr. Bradford, Rowland. Brad, you remember my speaking of Rowland?”

A second youth, who had been lying on the window seat, arose and came forward to shake hands. He was a nice-looking fellow of eighteen, broad of shoulder and deep of chest. Ira recognised him as one of the substitute ends he had seen in practice. He had a pleasant, deep voice, a jolly smile and a firm, quick way of shaking hands. Ira fell victim to Bradford’s charms then and there.

“Awfully glad to meet you, Rowland. Yes, I remember you said a lot about this chap, Mart. It was Rowland you landed in Maggy’s, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Sit down, Rowland. How’s everything going?”

“Very well, thanks.”

“That’s good. Toss your cap anywhere. Brad won’t like it, but never mind.” Mart’s words were amiable enough, but it was evident to the caller that he was not forgiven for his indifference, and so, as he thrust his cap into a pocket, he decided to make an explanation.

“I guess you thought it was funny I didn’t look you up,” he began. But Mart waved carelessly.

“Not a bit! Not a bit, Rowland! I never thought of it.”

Ira, glancing at Bradford to include him in the conversation, saw a flicker of amusement cross that youth’s face.

“I’d like to tell you why,” he went on. “It—it makes me out rather a chump, I guess, but—well, anyway, it was like this.” And Ira told about finding Mart’s note and the odour of cigarettes at the same time and of connecting both with Mart. “Of course,” he concluded, “any fellow has a right to smoke, but I don’t believe in it, and I sort of thought that if—you were that kind—I mean——”

“Got you!” exclaimed Mart. “Say no more, Rowland! All is understood and all is forgiven! Brad, we’re going to like this frank and unspotted child of nature, aren’t we?”

Brad laughed softly. “I certainly admire Rowland’s decision,” he replied. “And his courage in explaining. It’s always so much easier not to explain, Rowland.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t done it very well,” said Ira doubtfully.

“You have, old man!” declared Mart. “Beautifully! And you have covered me with confusion and filled me with remorse. Brad,” he added gravely, “from this time forth tempt me not. I’m through with the filthy weed. I shall empty my cigarette case into the fire. And if you take my advice you’ll do the same.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Ira. “I didn’t know—I’m awfully sorry——”

But Mart waved again grandly. “Not a word, Rowland! We quite understand. You have convinced me of the error of my way. And I sincerely hope and pray that Brad, too, will see the light.”

But Brad was smiling broadly and Ira concluded relievedly that Mart was only joking. “I might have put my foot into it horribly,” he said, with a sigh of relief.

“Well, you didn’t, so don’t worry,” replied Mart. “We don’t smoke much here. Of course, Brad’s a senior and enjoys his pipe after dinner—you doubtless noticed the odour—and I sometimes puff a cigar in the evening. I find it soothes me and aids digestion. I smoke two on Fridays, on account of having fish for dinner. I never could digest fish very well.”

“Oh, dry up, Mart,” laughed Brad. “Rowland will believe you. He’s looking shocked.”

“Not he! You can’t shock him. I tried it. I say, Rowland, how’s the funny window seat?”

“It isn’t so funny now. I put the desk against one end of it and it looks quite fine.”

“You spoiled the effect. I’m sorry. What’s this fellow like, your roommate? The one who contaminates the air with cigarette smoke?”

“Nead? Oh, he’s all right. He doesn’t do it any more.”

“Really? What did you say to him?”

“I just—just told him he mustn’t. He was very decent about it.”

“I’ll bet he was!” laughed Mart. “I can see you.” He jumped up, folded his arms across his chest and bent a stern look on Ira. “‘Smead, this must cease. I cannot have the pure atmosphere of this apartment polluted with your vile cigarettes. Do you realise that it is a dirty and unhealthful habit? Let me beg of you to have done with it. Think of your future, Smead, of your unsuspecting family at home, of your own welfare, and pause on the brink of destruction. And I may add, Smead, that if you don’t pause, I’ll knock your block off!’ Wasn’t that about it, Rowland?”

“Not quite,” laughed Ira. “I didn’t have to offer to fight him, because he was very nice about it.”

“Irrefutably! But if he hadn’t been I can guess what would have happened to Smead,” chuckled Mart.

“His name is Nead,” Ira corrected.

“Need? Well, a friend in Need is a friend indeed. Asterisk. See footnote. ‘Vide Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.’ What are you doing to pass the long Winter evenings, Rowland?”

“I went out for the football team the other day,” was the reply.

“Of course!” exclaimed Brad. “I knew I’d seen you around somewhere, Rowland. If you’d been in togs I’d have recognised you. How is it going?”

“I don’t know much about it. They’ve had me in the awkward squad for several days and I guess I’m no more awkward than when I began.”

“That’s something,” said Mart. “Now Brad here is much worse after three years than he was when he started. Aren’t you, Brad?”

“Sometimes I think I am! What are you trying for, Rowland?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know. Whatever they say, I guess. I wasn’t keen about doing it, but Fred Lyons said I ought to try, and so I did. Things don’t look very easy for Lyons and the others and I thought that if they really could find a use for me I might as well go out.”

“Wish there were more like you,” said Brad. “I’ve been trying to get Mart started, but he hasn’t your sense of duty.”

“Duty!” scoffed Mart. “That isn’t duty, that’s Rowland’s fine, old New England conscience. He comes from Vermont——”

“Maine, please,” said Ira.

“I mean Maine, and that’s where they make them. I come from New Jersey, you see, and we don’t have consciences.”

“Haven’t you ever tried it?” asked Ira.

“Football?” Mart shook his head. “No, I never felt reckless enough. I play a little baseball and some tennis and a bit of hockey and can swing a golf stick, but beyond that I don’t participate in athletics.”

“They don’t allow us to take part in more than three sports,” explained Brad, “and that’s Mart’s difficulty. If he went in for football he’d have to give up either baseball, hockey or tennis. And as he thinks he is needed on those teams he hesitates.”

“I do more than hesitate,” replied Mart. “I stand immovable. There are plenty of fellows who can play football. Let them go out and save the country. I’m busy.”

“I don’t see how you could play football, too,” said Ira. “But I guess there are plenty of fellows who could and won’t. I don’t know much about things here yet, but it seems a pity to me that the school doesn’t take more interest in the team.”

“No one can blame you,” said Mart flippantly. “Football at Parkinson, Rowland, is one of the lost arts. It’s like dragon’s blood vases and—and Tyrian purple and Rembrandt paintings. We live in the past, as it were. Football vanished from Parkinson about the time the battle of Bunker Hill took place on Breed’s Hill. That’s a funny thing, by the way. Why do you suppose they fought the Bunker Hill battle where they did? My idea is that Mr. Breed offered them more money and fifty per cent of the moving picture rights. Mr. Bunker must have been frightfully peeved, though, what?”

“Football is in a bad way here, Rowland, and that’s a fact,” said Brad, “but it only needs one successful season to put it on its feet again. And I’m hoping hard that this season will do it. We’ve got a pretty fair start as far as material goes. I mean, we’ve got quite a bunch of last year’s fellows back. The trouble is we can’t seem to get out new material. They just won’t come. Fred has fits and talks about calling a mass meeting and all that, but Driscoll says he can build a team of what he’s got; that he’d rather have fifty fellows who want to play than a hundred who don’t. And I think Driscoll’s dead right.”

“Yes, you think anything Driscoll says or does is right,” jeered Mart. “If he told you to stand on your head for an hour in the middle of the field and wave your legs you’d do it.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, he’s a good coach. He showed that last year.”

“By letting Kenwood lick us?”

“By not letting her lick us worse than she did, son. When Driscoll took hold everything was at sixes and sevens. The other coach had gone off in a huff and half the team were for him and half for the captain and there was the dickens to pay generally. Well, Driscoll stepped in and paid no attention to anything that had happened. When the captain tried to tell him about the fuss he just said: ‘I don’t want to hear anything about it. I’m here to turn out a football team. What happened last week or yesterday doesn’t concern me in the least. I’m beginning today. Now then, let’s get at it.’”

“Well,” said Mart, “I hope he justifies your belief in him, old chap. Personally, I don’t like the way he brushes his hair. I never yet saw a fellow with a cowlick who amounted to a hill of beans. Did you, Rowland?”

“I don’t think I ever noticed.”

“Well, you study it and you’ll find I’m right. Who do you know? Met many of the fellows yet?”

“Not a great many. I guess I know twenty or thirty.”

“Twenty or thirty! Geewhillikins! I’d say that was going some. You’re a good mixer, Rowland. I’ll bet I didn’t know ten when I’d been here a month.”

“Who were the other nine?” asked Brad, drily. “I was one.”

“You! I didn’t count you at all! You said you knew Gene Goodloe, I remember, Rowland. He’s a good sort. And of course you know Fred Lyons.”

“Yes, a little. I’ve been pretty busy so far and haven’t been around much.”

“Busy? What do you find to do?”

“Study, for one thing,” said Ira smiling.

“My fault! I forgot you had a conscience. Well, a certain amount of study does help one. That’s what I tell Brad, but he won’t listen. Advice with Brad is like water on a duck’s back, in one ear and out the other.”

“I guess I’d better go back and do some more of it,” said Ira, pulling his cap from his pocket.

“Walk around! It’s early yet. Well, if you must go——”

“I hope you’ll come and see us again,” said Brad. “Come some time when Mart’s out so we can have a chat.”

“I like that!” cried his chum. “Gee, I never get a word in edgeways when you’re around. I’ll leave it to you, Rowland. Who’s done most of the talking here this evening?”

“I’m afraid I have,” laughed Ira. “Good night. I—if you’d care to come and see me some time I’d be glad to have you. My place isn’t very much, though. Still, if you’d care to—And I’d like you to meet Nead.”

“Very glad to,” replied Brad. “We’ll drop around some evening. Good night, Rowland. Don’t forget your way here.”

“Good night,” said Mart. “I’m sorry you must go, Rowland, but at least I can smoke my cigarette now. Come again and bring your dog!”

When Ira reached the first landing at Maggy’s a sudden glare of light shot across the dim hall and he saw the tall form of “Old Earnest” silhouetted in his doorway.

“Do you know—” began a voice.

“Oh, yes: B.C. 431 to 404,” said Ira.

“Eh? What are you talking about?” exclaimed the voice startledly.

“Why, the Peloponnesian War!”

“Pelop—Huh! Who cares about——!”

The door was slammed irately and Ira stumbled his way up in the gloom, chuckling.