Myron didn’t know who “that Hoyt guy” might be, but he was sure that he or some one else had made a horrible mistake. Why, this big, good-natured, badly-dressed boy was the roughest sort of a “roughneck,” the identical type, doubtless, that his mother had spoken of so distastefully! Myron viewed him during a moment of silence, at a loss for words. The newcomer had removed his tattered hat and was now struggling with a jacket that, far too tight in the sleeves, parted reluctantly from the moist garments beneath. But it came off finally and the boy tossed it carelessly to a chair and stretched a pair of long arms luxuriously ere he sank onto it. “That train was like a furnace all the way, and the ice-water gave out at Hartford,” he said. “Well, here we are, though. What’s your name? Mine’s Dobbins; Joe Dobbins, only they generally call me ‘Whoa.’”

“My name is Foster,” replied Myron rather weakly.

“Foster, eh? That’s all right. I know a fellow at home name of Foster. Drives for Gandell and Frye. They’re the big dry-goods folks. He’s an all-right guy, too, Sam is. He and I used to be pretty thick before I came away. Were you here last year, Foster?”

“No, I—this is my first year.”

“What class?”

“Third, I expect.”

“Same here. I’m new, too. I was at St. Michael’s last year, until April. I beat it then. Got in wrong with faculty, you know.” He smiled and winked. “Great little school, St. Michael’s, but sort of narrow. My old man said he guessed I needed more elbow-room. So I thought I’d try this place. Looks all right so far; sort of pretty: plenty of trees. I like trees. Grew up with ’em. Maybe that’s why. Dad made his money out of trees.”

“Indeed?” responded Myron, coldly polite. “Lumber, I suppose.”

“Wrong, kiddo. Spruce gum.”

“Oh!”

“Maybe you’ve heard of him: Tom Dobbins: the Spruce Gum King, some call him.”

Myron shook his head. For some absurd reason he felt slightly apologetic, and was angry with himself for it.

“No? Well, I guess you don’t come from my part of the country. Portland, Maine’s my home. We’ve been living there six or seven years. I missed the woods at first a heap, let me tell you. Why, we used to live right in ’em: big trees all around: no town nearer than six miles. I was born there, in a log house. So were my three sisters. Them was the happy days, as the guy says.”

“Very—very interesting, I’m sure,” said Myron, “but about this room, Dobbins: You’re quite certain that they told you Number 17?”

“Sure! Why not? What’s wrong with it?” Dobbins gazed questioningly about the study and then leaned forward to peer through the open door of the bedroom. “Looks all right. Plumbing out o’ order, or something? Any one had smallpox here? What’s the idea?”

“The idea,” replied Myron a bit haughtily, “is that I am supposed to have this suite to myself. I particularly asked for a single suite. In fact, I am paying for one. So I presume that either you or I have made a mistake.”

Dobbins whistled. Then he laughed enjoyably. Myron thought it was a particularly unpleasant laugh. “Say, that’s rich, ain’t it?” asked Dobbins finally. “No wonder you were sort of stand-offish, kiddo! Gee, it’s a wonder you didn’t biff me a couple and throw me out on my bean! I’ll say it is! Butting in on your—er—privacy, like, eh? Say, I’m sure that Hoyt guy said seventeen, but he may have got his wires crossed. I’ll mosey over and——”

“Don’t bother. I haven’t registered yet. I’ll straighten it out. Maybe he meant one of the other halls.”

“Might be,” said Dobbins doubtfully, “but he sure said Sohmer. This is Sohmer, ain’t it?”

“Yes. Well, I’ll find out about it. Meanwhile you might just—er—wait.”

“Got you, kiddo. I’ll come along, though, if you say so. I don’t mind. I’m fine and cool now. Maybe I’d better, eh?”

“No, no,” replied Myron quickly. “You stay here.” He repressed a shudder at the thought of being seen walking into the Administration Building with Dobbins! For fear that the latter would insist on accompanying him, he seized his hat and fairly bolted, leaving the intruder in possession of the disputed premises.

The Administration Building was but a few rods away, and Myron, nursing his indignation, was soon there. But it was evident that he would have to wait a considerable time, for the space outside the railing that divided the secretary’s office in half was well filled with returning students. There was nothing for Myron to do save take his place in the line that wound from the secretary’s desk across the room and back again. But the official, in spite of a nervous manner, handled the registrations efficiently, and after fifteen minutes or so, during which he was annoyedly aware of the amused stares and whisperings of a couple of fourth class youngsters, Myron’s turn came. He gave his name and answered the questions and then, when the secretary waved him on, “There’s been a mistake made about my room, sir,” he said. “I engaged a single suite nearly two months ago and you wrote that I was to have Number 17 Sohmer. Now I find that you’ve put another fellow in with me, a fellow named Dobbin or Dobbins.”

The secretary rescued the card that he had a moment before consigned to the index at his elbow and glanced quickly over it. “Oh, yes,” he answered. “I recall it now. But I wrote to your father several days ago explaining that owing to the unexpectedly large number of students this year we’d be unable to give you a study to yourself. Possibly you left before the letter reached your home in—ah, yes,—Port Foster, Delaware. The school catalogue states distinctly that rooms are rented singly only when circumstances permit. The suite assigned you is a double one and we have had to fill it. Very sorry, Mr. Foster, but perhaps you will find it an advantage to have a companion with you.”

“But my father is paying for a single room——”

“That has been arranged. One-half of the first term rental has been refunded. That is all, Mr. Foster?”

“Why—why, I suppose so, but I don’t like it, sir. You agreed to give me a room to myself. If I had known how it was to be, I—I think I’d have gone somewhere else!”

“Well, we’d be sorry to lose you, of course,” replied the secretary politely, “but unfortunately there is no way of giving you the accommodations you want. If you care to communicate with your father by wire we will hold your registration open until the morning. Now I shall have to ask you to let the next young gentleman——”

“I guess you’d better do that,” replied Myron haughtily. “I’ll telegraph my father right away.”

The secretary nodded, already busy with the next youth, and Myron made his way out. As he went down the worn stone steps he saw the two fourth class boys adorning the top rail of the fence that bordered Maple Street, and as he passed them he heard a snicker and a voice asking “Isn’t he a dur-ream?” His first angry impulse was to turn back and scold, but second thoughts sent him on with an expression of contemptuous indifference. But the incident did not sweeten his disposition any, and when he strode into Number 17 again it needed only the sight that met him to set him off. Joe Dobbins, minus coat and vest, his suspenders hanging, was sitting in the room’s one easy chair with his stockinged feet on the table. Myron, closing the door behind him, glared for an instant. Then:

“What do you think this is, Dobbin?” he demanded angrily. “A—a stable?”

Dobbins’ jaw dropped and he viewed Myron with ludicrous surprise. “How do you mean, a stable?” he asked.

“I mean that if you’re going to stay here with me tonight you’ve got to act like a—a gentleman! Sitting around with your suspenders down and your shoes off and your feet on the table——”

“Oh!” said Joe, in vast relief. “That’s it! I thought maybe you were going to crack some joke about me being a horse, on account of my name. Don’t gentlemen put their feet on the table and let their galluses down?”

“No, they don’t!” snapped Myron. “And as long as you’re rooming with me—which I hope won’t be long—I’ll ask you to cut out that ‘roughneck’ stuff.”

“Sure,” grinned Joe. “Anything to oblige, Foster.” He had already dropped his feet, and now he drew his suspenders over his shoulders again and slipped his feet back into his shoes. “Don’t guess I’ll ever get on to the ways of the best circles, Foster. I’m what you call an Unspoiled Child of Nature. Well, what did the guy in the Office say? I’m betting I was right, kiddo.”

“And don’t call me ‘kiddo’! You know my name. Use it.”

“Gosh-all-hemlock!” murmured the other. “Say, you must have one of those fiery Southern temperaments I’ve read about. Now I know how the Civil War happened. I’ll bet you’re a direct descendant of General Lee!”

“I’m not a Southerner,” answered Myron. “Just where do you think Delaware is?”

“Well, I didn’t know you hailed from there,” replied Joe untroubledly, “but I’d say Delaware was sort of Southern. Ain’t it?”

“No more than Maine. Look here, Dobbin——”

“Dobbins, please; with an S.”

“Dobbins, then,” continued Myron impatiently. “That fellow over there says the school’s so full I can’t have a room to myself. They promised me I could two months ago, and we’ve paid for one. Well, I’m going to get out and go somewhere where—where they know how to treat you. But—but I can’t leave until tomorrow, so we’ll have to share this place tonight.”

“That’ll be all right,” replied Joe affably. “I don’t mind.”

Myron stared. “I didn’t suppose you did,” he said.

“Meaning you do, eh?” Joe laughed good-naturedly. “That it?”

“I’m not used to sharing my room with others,” answered Myron stiffly. “And I’m afraid you and I haven’t very much in common. So I guess we’ll get on better if—if we keep to ourselves.”

“All right, kiddo—I mean Foster. Anything for a quiet life! Suppose we draw a line down the middle of the room, eh? Got a piece of chalk or something?”

“I’ve taken the chiffonier nearest the window,” said Myron, disregarding the levity. “But I’ll have my things out in the morning, in case you prefer it to the other.”

“Chiff—Oh, you mean the skinny bureau? Doesn’t make any difference to me which I have, ki—Foster. Say, you don’t really mean that you’re going to leave Parkinson just because you can’t have a room to yourself, do you?”

“I do. I’m going out now to send a wire to my father.”

“Gee, I wouldn’t do that, honest! Why, say, maybe I can find a room somewhere else. I don’t mind. This place is too elegant for me, anyway. Better let me have a talk with that guy over there before you do anything rash, Foster. I’m sorry I upset your arrangements like this, but it isn’t really my fault; now is it?”

“I suppose not,” replied Myron grudgingly. “But I don’t believe you can do anything with him. Still, if you don’t mind trying, I’ll put off sending that telegram until you get back.”

“Atta boy! Where’s my coat? Just you sit tight till I tell that guy where he gets off. Be right back, kiddo!”

Joe Dobbins banged the door behind him and stamped away down the corridor. Pending his return, Myron found a piece of paper, drew his silver pencil from his pocket and frowningly set about the composition of that telegram. Possibly, he thought, it would be better to address it to his mother. Of the two, she was more likely to recognise the enormity of the offence committed by the school. Still, she would see it in any case if he addressed it to the house and not to the office. When it was done, after several erasures, it read:

Putting Dobbins’ name into the message was, he considered, quite a masterly stroke. He imagined his mother’s expression when she read it!