But Jud didn’t see Myron in the morning, for the reason that we know of. Only Joe was in Number 17 when the football captain knocked, and Joe was not telling all he knew. According to him, Foster was “out just now” and the time of his return was most uncertain. Joe “had an idea” that his friend was dining away from school. Jud said that it didn’t matter much and that he’d see Foster later. Then:

“Maybe you know how bad he’s fixed with the Office, Whoa?” he suggested.

“I don’t,” replied Joe, “for he hasn’t said much to me about it. I know that it’s Latin that’s troubling him, though. He’s been in wrong with Addicks for a couple of weeks. Fact is, Cap, Myron hasn’t been putting in enough time on study. He falls to sleep at the table there about every other night. Guess he’s been getting a bit too much exercise.”

“Yes, we’ve worked him pretty steadily. Too bad, for, between you and me, he was doing mighty well and looked awfully good. I wonder if you can’t find out what the prospects are, Whoa, and let me know. If he could get a clean slate by a week from Monday, say, he might still be of some use to the team. He probably wouldn’t start the Kenwood game, but it’s a fair bet he’d get in for part of it. Driscoll and I were talking about him last night, and I said I thought that maybe you could sort of jack him up; make him see that it is up to him to get square with the Office and get back to the team.”

“Oh, I’ll get him back if it can be done,” Joe assured him. “I was going to, anyway. We need him, Cap.”

“We certainly do, Whoa. See what you can do with him. Wouldn’t some tutoring help? There’s a chap named Merriman in town who’s a regular whale at it.”

“I know him. I’ll have a talk with Myron when he comes back—in, I mean—and let you know, Cap. You leave him to me!”

Jud Mellen had no more than got out of the building when a fearsome knock came at the door and Chas Cummins appeared, scowling ferociously. “Hello,” he said. “Where’s Foster?”

“Out just now,” replied Joe affably. “Want to leave a message?”

“No—yes—Yes, tell him I say he’s to beat it over to my room the minute he shows up here!”

“All right,” said Joe.

Chas clung to the doorknob and continued to scowl, and studied Joe speculatively. Finally: “Isn’t it a mess?” he demanded. “Everything going like clock-work, and then, bingo—Officer, call the ambulance! Honest, Whoa, I could kick Foster from here to New York and back cheerfully, drat his hide!”

“I wish you could kick him back,” said Joe.

“What do you mean?”

“Close the door, will you? Thanks. Can you keep a secret, Chas?”

“Sometimes. Go on. What’s up?”

“Myron’s gone. Went last evening.”

“Fired?”

“No, he just went.”

“Left school, you mean? Well, what—do you know—about that?”

“We’re trying to get him back before faculty gets on to it, but it doesn’t look good. Merriman’s on his trail. Took the nine o’clock train last night. I think he’ll manage to head him off all right, but Myron’s a cranky, stubborn dog and may refuse to come back.”

“Any one suspect so far?” asked Chas with knitted brows.

“Don’t think so. Good thing there’s no chapel on Sunday, isn’t it?”

“Merry Andrew went, you say? Good stuff! If any one can do the persuasion stunt, Andy can. Hang the beggar, what’s he think, anyhow? Doesn’t he know he will get fired if faculty hears about it? And what about me?”

“You?” asked Joe.

“Well, I mean the team,” corrected Chas hurriedly. “He ought to be licked! I’d do it, too, if it would do any good. Honest, Whoa, isn’t this the very limit?”

“Way past it,” agreed Joe. “He’s a crazy guy for sure.”

“When do you expect Andy back?” asked Chas after a moment.

“He might make it by the five o’clock. Ought to be here by eight, anyway.”

“Well, if he doesn’t fetch him it’ll be good-bye to Foster for keeps! What’s wrong with him, anyway? Some one said he was on pro.”

“Don’t know whether it’s out and out probation or not,” said Joe. “Didn’t have much time to talk to him. But he said Doc Lane told him to let football alone and get hunky with Addicks again.”

“Latin, eh? I always said that language ought to be prohibited! It’s always getting folks into trouble. Well, I suppose there isn’t anything I can do. I wish you’d let me know the news when there is any, Whoa.”

“I will. Keep this quiet, though, Chas. You and Andy and I are the only ones who know, and it mustn’t get any further. I only told you because you and Myron have some game on and I knew you’d keep quiet.”

“Some game on? What makes you think that?” asked Chas.

“Well, I’ve got eyes and ears,” answered the other drily. “I’m not asking questions, though. So long. I’ll let you know how it comes out.”

“Don’t forget. If I’m out leave word with Brown. Just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ I’ll understand. Gosh, I hope Andy fetches him, though!”

Myron reached New York at a few minutes after ten on Saturday night. He had some supper on the way, crushed into a corner of a crowded dining-car, but he wasn’t hungry and ate little. On arrival, quick work in a taxi-cab got him across town in time for a train to Philadelphia that landed him there just before midnight. He had a married cousin living in that city, but he preferred to go to the quiet little hotel at which his mother stayed when on shopping visits. He left an order to be called at half-past six, luxuriated in a bath and crawled wearily to bed. But sleep was still a long way from him, and until after two he lay there wide-eyed and thought and thought, and twisted and turned.

There may be more dismal places in the world than Philadelphia at six-thirty on a rainy morning. If so, Myron had fortunately escaped them. He had left himself barely enough time to dress and reach the station for the seven-twelve express, and when, aroused by the blatant buz-z-zz of the telephone, he staggered to the window and looked out, he felt that he never could do it. That drab, empty stretch of wet street was the last blow to waning courage. Had he rested well and felt normally fresh he would have charged at his clothes, leaped into a cab and made it nicely, but he was in no condition of mind or body for such hustling methods. Besides, there were later trains, and he was in no hurry to face his folks, and the tumbled bed looked awfully good to him. Three minutes later he was asleep again.

Meanwhile Andrew Merriman was slowly pacing the platform beside the seven-twelve train. He had been there ever since the train had rolled sleepily into the long, gloomy shed. Keeping tabs on the passengers was no difficult task, for they were few in number and moved with dragging feet. Andrew had arrived in Philadelphia at half-past five, after an interminable ride during which he had huddled himself into a seat in a day-coach and slumbered fitfully between stops. It had been a glorious relief to leave that leisurely train and stretch his legs again. He had had breakfast at a nearby lunch-room, and now, all things considered, was feeling very fit. A glance at his watch showed the time to be two minutes to seven. In fourteen minutes from now he would know his fate. He had already arranged his plans in the event that Myron didn’t show up for that train, and he would have three hours in which to carry them out. A portly man with two suit-cases waddled down the long platform and puffed himself up the steps of a car. Even allowing for a disguise, thought Andrew whimsically, that was not Myron. Nor was the next passenger, a fussy little man with two small boys strung out behind him who came so fast that Andrew half expected to see him “snap the whip” any moment and send the tiniest boy hurtling through space. But he didn’t. He herded the children into a car and smiled triumphantly at Andrew. Evidently, he considered that arriving with only five minutes to spare was a reckless proceeding. There were the usual last-moment arrivals and then the train reluctantly pulled out, leaving Andrew alone on the platform.

Two blocks away was a hotel, and thither he made his way. Capturing a telephone directory, he found a chair by a window and turned to the list of hotels. There was an appalling lot of them and nothing to indicate which were of the sort likely to be patronised by Myron. But he had three hours before him and plenty of money, and was not discouraged. He took a piece of paper from a pocket, unscrewed his pen and set to work. Ten minutes later he was ready. The lobby was practically deserted and he had the telephone booths to himself. When he had exhausted all the nickels he had he crossed to the news-stand and had a dollar bill changed. Then he went on with his campaign. It was slow work, for many of the hotels were extremely deliberate in answering. The voices that came back to him sounded sleepy, and some sounded cross as well.

“Is Myron Foster stopping there?” Andrew would ask.

“Who? Fosdick? How do you spell it? Oh! What are the initials? Hold the line, please.” Then, after a wait: “No such party registered.”

At any rate, that is the way it went for nearly twenty minutes. Then luck turned.

Myron was still slumbering when the telephone rang a second time. For a moment he stared at the ceiling, a perfectly strange ceiling that seemed to return his regard coldly, and strove to think where he was. While he was still struggling the impatient instrument on the table beside the bed buzzed again. Myron reached for it and recollection came to him.

“Yes,” he said sleepily. “Hello!”

“Gentleman to see you, Mr. Foster. Shall we send him up?”

“Gentleman to see me!” echoed Myron. Was it possible that his father had learned already of his departure from school and had come up from Port Foster? He was thoroughly awake now. “What is the name?” he asked. After a moment of silence: “Merriman,” said the voice at the other end. “Merriman?” thought Myron. “I don’t know any Merriman! Except Andy. Who the dickens——”

“I didn’t hear, Mr. Foster,” said the clerk politely.

“Oh—er—all right! Ask him to come up, please.” Myron put the receiver down, unlocked the door and returned to bed to hug his knees and stare perplexedly at the footboard. Who the dickens was Merriman? Of course it couldn’t be Andy. This was Philadelphia, and Andy was several hundred miles away. Well, he would soon know! Then came a tap at the door and Myron said “Come in” in an unnecessarily loud tone and the portal opened. Then it closed again. And Myron, with eyes that looked as big and as round as butter-chips, whispered: “Where’d you come from?”