Humphrey was “breaking into Society,” to use his own half-contemptuous phrase. That is to say, he had made two visits with Ira, had renewed acquaintances with Fred Lyons and Gene Goodloe and Mart Johnston and Dwight Bradford, and had shaken hands with perhaps a half-dozen others. He pretended to make fun of the proceedings, but was secretly very pleased. He was received politely by new acquaintances, more on Ira’s account than his own, for Ira had become a person of prominence now, and with a fair degree of cordiality by those he had met before. He had sense enough to show his best side, and behaved quietly and even modestly and let the others do most of the talking. Perhaps his best side was his real side. At any rate, Ira began to hope so then, and later in the year he became convinced of it. Humphrey didn’t give up his friends at the Central Billiard Palace all at once, but he did confine his visits to that place to two or three evenings a week. And Ira heard a great deal less of “Billy” and “Jimmy” and the rest of the billiard-hall crowd.

Meanwhile, Ira had taken possession of Humphrey’s November allowance and Humphrey was having it doled out to him three dollars at a time. The first week he ran through his three dollars by Wednesday and Ira had to advance two more. But the next week Humphrey got along with the three, and after that he seldom had to ask for more. Boarding at Mrs. Trainor’s was the real solution of his financial problem; that and wasting less money on pool. Later in the year he became thoroughly interested in economising and eventually opened a banking account of his own. But that doesn’t belong in the present narrative.

With the end of the football season only about a fortnight away, Parkinson School became rampantly patriotic, and no one could have sanely found fault with its attitude toward the team. It was now as enthusiastically supporting the eleven as even Fred Lyons could wish. There were cheer meetings about every other night and the one principal subject of conversation whenever two or more fellows met was: “Will We Beat ’Em?” “’Em,” of course, were the Kenwood team, for no one particularly cared what happened to Day and Robins’ or St. Luke’s. Fortunately for discussion, there were plenty who believed or pretended to believe that Kenwood would repeat her last year’s performance and tie another defeat to Parkinson. Those who held that view had excellent grounds for their conviction, for Kenwood had passed, or, more correctly, was passing through a very successful season. So far the Blue had met with but one defeat, had seven victories to her credit and had played a 0 to 0 game with the State College Second Team. In fact, Kenwood had one of her Big Teams this season, if Kenwood was to be believed, and was pretty confident of a victory over the Brown. The Kenwood school paper caused a spasm of indignation throughout Parkinson by editorially calling on the Football Association to move the Parkinson game up the next Fall so that the blue team might meet in her final contest a foeman more worthy of her steel. The Leader replied scathingly to that impertinent reflection on the Parkinson team and printed a page of letters to the editor from “Patriot,” “Veritas,” “Indignant” and other well-known scribes.

Theoretically at least, Ira had no time for interests or adventures outside football, for he was an extremely busy, hard-worked youth from the Monday succeeding the Chancellor game to the Thursday before the contest with Kenwood Academy. Nor, for that matter, did any other interests win his attention or other adventures befall him, if we except, in the first case, study—he had to do more or less of that—and, in the second case, a call from “Old Earnest.”

Ernest Hicks would probably have been much surprised if anyone had connected him in any way with an adventure, for adventures didn’t lay within his scheme of life. But at a period when Ira’s days were made up of hearing, thinking and playing football, anything not connected with that all-absorbing subject possessed for him the attributes of an adventure. It was on a Friday afternoon, the Friday preceding the Day and Robins’s game, between his last recitation and the practice hour, that someone knocked on his half-closed door. He had heard footsteps on the stairs, but usually such footsteps went on to one of the other doors and he hadn’t looked up from the book he was studying. He said “Come in!” and rather expected to be confronted by the freckle-faced youth who called for and, in the course of time, brought back the laundry. But when the door opened it was “Old Earnest” who stood there, and Ira wonderingly slipped a pencil between the pages and arose.

“Have you got an encyclopedia?” inquired the visitor, his gaze, from behind the big, round lenses of his spectacles, roaming inquiringly about the room.

“No, I haven’t,” answered Ira. “At least, only a small, one-volume one. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of much use to you. I usually go over to the library.”

The visitor nodded. “Yes, you can do that.” He rubbed his chin reflectively with long, thin fingers and observed Ira dubiously. He was quite the tallest youth Ira had ever seen, and he was as thin and angular as he was tall. He had brown hair, which was worn rather too long and which looked sadly in need of brushing, grey eyes, a very sharp nose, a wide, thin mouth and a chin that came almost to a point. He looked to Ira as if he needed a square meal, or, rather, a whole series of square meals, for his face was as narrow as his body and his queer, nondescript clothes hung about him as though they had been fashioned at some far-distant time when he had weighed about three times his present weight. His coat was a plaid lounging jacket from which depended by a few threads one remaining frog. The corresponding button had followed its companions into oblivion. His trousers were of grey flannel and his feet were encased in a pair of brown canvas “sneakers.” Ira had glimpsed him frequently about the corridors of Parkinson Hall, but this present costume was not what he wore at recitations, which, as Ira reflected, was a fortunate thing for the sobriety of the classrooms!

Hicks finally removed his gaze slowly from Ira, sighed and said dejectedly: “I’ll have a look at it, I guess. It might give me what I’m after. Where is it?”

It lay in the centre of the desk, a cheap little limp-leather affair of infinitesimal print and a woeful lack of contents. Hicks shook his head as he opened it and ran his long fingers over the edges of the leaves. Ira saw, with a sort of fascination, that the tips of the fingers turned back almost at right angles under pressure. Hicks regretfully closed the book and pushed it from him. “What do you know about the Hamiltonian-System?”

“Not a thing,” answered Ira cheerfully. “What is it?”

“It’s a system of teaching languages. But who invented it? Was it James or William? And if he did invent it how does it happen that John Locke wrote about it a century before? Explain that if you can.”

“I shouldn’t want to try, thanks,” laughed Ira.

“Old Earnest” sniffed. “You couldn’t. But did Locke himself originate it? Take his Essay Concerning Human Understanding, now. All through that you’ll find evidence pointing to the contrary. Have you read it?”

Ira shook his head dumbly.

“You’ll want to some day. It’s a wonderful work. He applies the Baconian method to the study of the mind, you know.”

“Really?” murmured Ira.

“Of course, it’s not startling nowadays, but it must have been then. That knowledge results from experience and not from innate ideas is no longer novel. In fact, the whole Descartes theory can be knocked into a heap if you apply Locke’s philosophy. He doesn’t stand for dualism, you know. Nor do I. To say that the mind and body are heterogeneous substances is quite absurd. You agree with me, of course?”

“I might if I knew what the dickens you were talking about,” replied Ira helplessly.

“Oh!” Hicks looked both surprised and disappointed. “Well—” He plunged his hands into the pockets of his cavernous trousers and looked about the room. “I used to visit a fellow up here two or three years ago. I forget what his name was. He was in my class, though, and he and I had a go at Friesian. We didn’t keep it up, for some reason. I don’t know if you ever studied it?”

“No, I never did. Is it—did you like it?”

“I think so. I rather forget. Let me see, what was it I came for? Oh, yes that Hamiltonian-System! I’ll have to go over to the library. It’s a bother. I’m always having to go over to the library. It is was more central——”

“I’d be glad to look it up for you, if you liked,” offered Ira. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t get it right.”

“You wouldn’t,” answered Hicks calmly. “It doesn’t matter. I do miss my own library, though. It was very complete.”

“What happened to it?” asked Ira. “Er—won’t you sit down?”

“Old Earnest” evidently didn’t hear the invitation. At least, he paid no attention to it, but continued to stand there, hands in pockets, and ruminatively stared at the window. “I sold it,” he said quite matter-of-factly. “Over a hundred and twenty volumes.”

“But—but what for?”

“Why, I needed some money. You see, I had the misfortune to fail in the finals last Spring, and I hadn’t planned on another year. It costs a good deal here. Food especially. I got sixty-two dollars for them. They were worth two hundred at least. There was a twelve-volume set of the Universal Encyclopedia and a copy of the first edition of Fanning’s Morals. Some others, too. Valuable. He’s still got most of them, and I’m hoping to get them back some day. I’ve bought five or six already. I wanted the encyclopedia, but he put an outrageous price on it. I miss it a great deal. Well, I’m much obliged for your information.”

He turned abruptly toward the door and shuffled across the room. Ira was tempted to remind him that he had obtained no information, but didn’t. Instead: “Who buys books here?” he asked.

“Books? Oh, there are several. All robbers, though. I sold mine to Converse, on Oak Street. He will do as well for you as any of them. If you ever want to read that book of Locke’s, I’ve got it.”

“Old Earnest” passed out, closing the door behind him with a resounding crash. When he had gone Ira smiled at the closed door. Then he chuckled. Then, quite suddenly, he became serious and, seating himself at the table again, picked holes in the blotter with the nib of a pen for quite five minutes. And finally he tossed the pen aside with the air of one who has reached a decision, seized his cap and clattered down the stairs.

Converse’s Second-hand Book Emporium—it seemed to Ira that Warne’s merchants exhibited a marked and peculiar partiality to “emporiums” as opposed to mere “stores”—was not difficult to find, for the sidewalk in front was stacked with broken-backed books and old magazines. It was a dim and dingy place inside, and smelled of dust and old leather. The proprietor arose from an armchair before a small desk under a window and approached smilingly. He was a thin, stoop-shouldered little man in rusty black clothes and wearing a black skullcap. The smile was wonderfully benignant, but the little deep-set eyes looked crafty.

“I just wanted to look around,” said Ira.

“Of course! Certainly! Help yourself, sir. Is there any special subject you’re interested in?”

“N-no, I guess not.” Ira picked up a book from a shelf and examined it carelessly. “I might use a good dictionary, though.”

“I have a fine lot, sir. This way, please.” The proprietor led the way down one of the two dim passages and snapped on an electric light at the end. “Here we are! Big and little, sir. You’ll find the prices plainly marked in the front. Here’s a Webster Unabridged——”

“N-no, I think a smaller one——”

“Then a Student’s, like this.” He slapped the book on his hand and sent a cloud of dust into the air. “Only a dollar and a quarter, sir.”

Ira viewed it without enthusiasm. Finally: “I might give you fifty cents for it,” he said indifferently.

“Oh, dear, no, sir! I couldn’t do it, I honestly couldn’t! That’s one of the best dictionaries there is. I sell a great many of them to the young gentlemen at the school. Perhaps you are one of them?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t pay a dollar and a quarter for that,” said Ira, laying it down.

“Ah, but if you’re one of the young gentlemen from the school, sir, I’ll make a discount. We’ll say a dollar. Shall I wrap it up?”

“There’s no hurry. Perhaps seventy-five cents—What’s this? An encyclopedia, eh? Too bad it isn’t in better condition.”

“But it’s in very good condition indeed, sir,” protested the little man. “I bought that not more than a month ago from a gentleman who is most particular with his books. In fact, I took his whole library, a matter of—hm—something under two hundred volumes. Now if you wanted a rare bargain in a set of the Universal——”

“No, I guess not. I couldn’t afford it.”

“You don’t know, sir, you don’t know,” chuckled the man. “Just wait till you hear the price I’m going to make. You can have that set for ex-act-ly twenty dollars! And it cost, when new——”

“Yes, but it isn’t new,” interrupted Ira. “Twenty dollars, eh? I’ll wager you didn’t pay more than ten for it.”

“Ten! Ten dollars for a perfect set of the Encyclopedia Universal! My dear sir!”

“I might give twelve,” said Ira tentatively.

The man held up his dusty hands in horror. “You’re not serious!” he protested.

“Not very, because I don’t specially want them,” replied Ira. “What else is there here?”

“But—I tell you what I will do, sir, I’ll let you have the set for—let me see, let me see—eighteen-fifty! There, I can’t offer better than that!”

“Oh, yes you can,” answered the boy cheerfully. “You can say fifteen. But I’d rather you didn’t, for I might take it, and I oughtn’t to do it.”

“Hm. You’d pay fifteen, you think?”

“Well, I might. Yes, I guess I’d fall for it at fifteen. But——”

“It’s an awful thing to do, but times are hard and—well, take it!”

“Thanks,” laughed Ira, “but they’re a little heavy to take with me. I guess you’ll have to send them to me.”

“Hm: I’d have to charge a little for delivering them.”

“Suit yourself, but don’t charge me,” replied Ira. “I’ll write you a cheque if you’ll show me where the ink is. Oh, thanks. There you are, Mr. Converse. And the books are to go to 200 Main Street, Mrs. Magoon’s house.”

“Eh? You said 200 Main Street? Why, that’s where—hm—yes, of course! Very well, sir. Thank you. I hope you’ll remember me whenever you want anything else, Mr.—er—Rowland. Good afternoon.”