“Ah, Tucker,” greeted Doctor Collins the next morning. “Sit down, please.” Toby lowered himself carefully to the edge of a leather-seated chair at the end of the big flat-topped desk and clutched his cap desperately. The Principal laid aside the letter he had been reading and swung around in his chair until he faced the visitor. “How are you getting on, my boy?” he asked, gravely pleasant.

Toby took courage. Perhaps things weren’t going to be as bad as he had feared. “All right, sir, thanks,” he answered.

“Having no trouble with your studies?”

“No, sir, not much.”

“Any at all?”

“Why, I don’t get on so well with Latin,” said Toby hesitantly. “But everything else is all right, I think.”

Doctor Collins picked up a card at his elbow and looked it over. “Your report for last month is very fair, Tucker,” he said. “There’s nothing here to indicate any difficulty with Latin.” He looked inquiringly over the top of the card.

“I—I only meant that sometimes it was very hard to get, sir,” replied the boy, “but I generally get it.”

“Oh, I see!” The Doctor smiled. “That’s another story. I’m glad you are getting along as well as you are, Tucker,” he continued more soberly. “You see, when we award a scholarship to a student we look to him to prove our judgment correct. We expect him to maintain an excellent class standing and be very particular as to deportment and always obedient to the school regulations. We try to have as few regulations as possible, but of necessity there are some. In short, Tucker, we expect a scholarship student to set an example to others, an example of studiousness, earnestness and good behavior. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Toby.

“Do you go in for athletics any, Tucker?”

“Hockey, sir.”

“Does that take much of your time? More, I mean, than the two hours which the school expects you to devote to outdoor exercise?”

“N-no, sir, I guess not. Yes, sir, it does, too, because since last Tuesday I’ve been practicing with Grover Beech for an hour in the morning.”

“At what time?”

“From eleven to twelve, sir. We neither of us have a recitation then.”

“What time do you get up usually, Tucker?”

“About seven, sir. Sometimes before.”

“And breakfast at about half-past seven?”

“Yes, sir, usually. Sometimes it’s a quarter to eight, if I wait for—for Deering.”

“Then you’re through by eight-thirty generally? In plenty of time for chapel?”

“Yes, sir, always.”

“Now tell me what the trouble was on Monday. You missed chapel that morning, I believe?”

“Yes, sir,” Toby hesitated. “I didn’t know how late—” He paused again and then added desperately: “I forgot about it, sir.”

“That’s what this report says, Tucker, but I can’t quite understand how you could forget a thing that happens every morning, as regularly as breakfast. I see that you missed chapel only once before, early in October, on which occasion you were excused from attendance. That is right?”

“Yes, sir, the doctor excused me. I had a sore throat.”

“But nothing of the sort Monday last? It was just forgetfulness, Tucker?”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Toby.

“I wish you had a better excuse,” said the Doctor, after a moment, tapping the card against a thumb-nail and studying Toby frowningly. “Your record is so clean otherwise—” He broke off and tossed the card on the desk. “Are you forgetful by nature, my boy?”

“No, sir, I—I have a pretty good memory, I guess.”

“Then how do you account for your mental lapse in this case?”

Toby studied his hands for an instant in silence. Then he glanced up and saw something in the Principal’s face that prompted him to attempt an explanation. “I guess I’d better try to explain, sir,” he said, smiling appealingly. The Doctor nodded.

“I think so, too, Tucker. Take your time. What happened, just?”

“After breakfast, sir, I went up to Arnold Deering’s room with him to tell him something. It was something that had happened to me that was—pretty nice, and I thought Arn—Deering would be pleased about it.”

“Wasn’t he?” prompted the Doctor when Toby paused.

“Not so much as I thought he would be. You see, sir, we’re—we’re chums.” The Doctor nodded sympathetically. “Then he said he guessed I was wrong about—about what I’d told him, and then—then we quarreled!”

“I see. Was that your fault, Tucker?”

“No, sir.”

“Quite sure?”

Toby thought. “Well, I guess it was partly my fault, sir, but he was awfully unreasonable!”

The Doctor smiled broadly. “And you weren’t, eh?” he inquired.

“Maybe I was, too,” granted Toby, reflecting the smile dimly.

“Well, you quarreled. Then what happened? Did you make up?”

“No, sir, he said I was to go out and not come back until I had apologized. And so I did. And then I went upstairs to my room and—and—” Toby faltered.

“Kicked the furniture around?”

“No, sir.” Toby shook his head. “I just—just sat down, I guess, and then, after awhile, I looked at the clock and it was nearly nine. And so I came over here and asked to see you and Mr. Thompson said I couldn’t and I told him. I—I’m very sorry, sir.”

“I see, Tucker.” The Doctor swung away around in his swivel chair and faced one of the broad windows. When he spoke next his face was away from Toby and the boy had to listen hard to hear what he said. “I wonder what your idea of friendship is, my boy. You tell me that you and this other boy were chums. That means that you were fond of each other, would make almost any sacrifice for each other. I know something about friendships between boys. I’ve seen so many of them, Tucker, and some very beautiful ones. And the beautiful ones have always, I think, been based on unselfishness. In fact, I doubt if a true friendship can exist without the constant sacrifice of self. I wish you’d think that over, Tucker.” The Doctor paused and then swung slowly around again in his chair. “The momentary satisfaction that one gets from yielding to one’s temper, Tucker, doesn’t begin to make up for the consequences. See what has happened in your own case. You have made yourself unhappy and this other boy, too. Your self-respect has suffered. Later you will take up your friendship, I hope, and go on with it, but you can’t take it up just as you left it off, Tucker. There will always be a mended place in it, my boy, and you know that a mended place is always weak. A friendship is too fine a thing to take any chances with. One ought to be as careful with a friendship as one would be with a beautiful piece of delicate glass.”

The Doctor picked up the card again, looked at it a moment and once more laid it aside. Then, in more matter-of-fact tones, he went on: “I’m glad you explained to me, Tucker, for it puts a different interpretation on your ‘forgetfulness.’ It wasn’t forgetfulness that caused you to miss chapel, but anger. In so far as I am able to judge, Tucker, it is that temper of yours that will cause you the most trouble in life. If I were you I would start out now to learn to control it, and I wouldn’t stop until I had succeeded. A man without the capacity for becoming angry is not much use in the world, but a man who is unable to control his anger is not only useless but positively dangerous, to himself and the community. Anger controlled is a powerful weapon in the grasp of a strong man, Tucker, but anger uncontrolled is like a child’s sword whittled from a lathe and breaks in our hands, and often wounds us in the breaking. Now I’m going to make a bargain with you, my boy, subject to your agreement. I’ll write the word ‘excused’ on this card if you will give me your promise to go out from here and sit down somewhere quite by yourself and think over very carefully what I have been saying. Will you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Toby subduedly.

“That’s all then, Tucker. I’m not going to make any suggestions as to the healing of the breach with your chum. Those things have to work themselves out in their own way. Only remember, my boy, that friendship and selfishness never mix. Good-morning, Tucker.”

Toby went back to his room and closed the door behind him and kept his agreement to the letter. That is, he recalled very carefully all that Doctor Collins had told him and weighed it. And agreed with it, too. As to that temper of his, thought Toby, the Doctor was absolutely right. It did need controlling. Normally good tempered, when he did let go he let go altogether. He could almost count on the fingers of his two hands the times when he had been thoroughly angry, but each time, as he recalled, the result had been disastrous. Always he had made himself unhappy and usually some one else. And always he had been horribly sorry afterwards, when it was too late. He wondered how one went about learning to control one’s temper. The Doctor hadn’t told him that. Well, he would find a way. The Doctor had said he could do it, and so he would. The Doctor had been mighty nice to him, too; not at all the stern and severe person that Toby had thought him. He was glad he had made a clean confession of the whole silly business. For it was silly, frightfully silly. The idea of quarreling with Arn like that! Why, he would do just about anything for Arn! And Arn—well, maybe Arn didn’t care as much as he did, but that had nothing to do with it, because the Doctor had said that friendship must be unselfish, and demanding a return for what you gave, even of affection, was selfish! And the Doctor was right, too, as right as anything! If you—cared for some one you just naturally wanted to do things for him, and you didn’t stop to think what you were getting in return. No, sir, you didn’t care!

Toby aroused from his communing and looked startledly at the clock. But it was all right. He still had fourteen minutes before his English recitation. And fourteen minutes was more than enough to do what he wanted to do in. He jumped up and found a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote hurriedly:

Toby didn’t knock on Arnold’s door, for he wasn’t sure whether Arnold was out, and, while he had the courage to write the note, to hand it to him would be a different matter. So he slipped it under the door and hurried across to Oxford, feeling much happier than he had felt for several days.

He caught only a brief glimpse of Arnold that forenoon and when dinner time came he awaited his chum’s arrival anxiously. He knew Arnold too well to expect him to fall on his neck, so to speak, but it wouldn’t be hard to discover whether he was willing to make up. Arnold would probably say “Hello, T. Tucker,” and grin a little, and that’s all there’d be to it, and Toby would know that it was all right! But it didn’t happen that way at all. Arnold came in late, seated himself without so much as a glance across the table at Toby and entered into conversation with Kendall. Toby’s heart fell. Arn wasn’t going to forgive him! Then the comforting thought came to him that perhaps Arnold hadn’t been to his room yet and so hadn’t read the note. That was undoubtedly the explanation, and Toby recovered his spirits and ate a very satisfactory dinner. It was almost as though they were friends again, for, although Arnold didn’t know it, there was that note awaiting him upstairs, and when he had read it everything would be fine once more! So Toby got up from the table quite contentedly and rattled up two flights of stairs to his room in order to put in a quarter of an hour at history before a two o’clock recitation. And he whistled merrily until he threw the door open and saw a square blue-gray envelope lying there. It was one of Arnold’s envelopes. He had written instead of—of—Toby picked up the note sadly and went to the window with it.

Toby sighed.

“And he spelled ‘apology’ with two P’s,” he muttered, as though that was the last straw. “And he’s still angry. Gee, I can’t go and tell him that I know Frank didn’t swipe that money, because I know he did. I suppose I might tell a lie about it, though. I wish—I wish Frank would choke!” He slipped the note back into the envelope, thrust it impatiently into the drawer and closed the drawer with a vindictive bang. “All right, then, he can stay mad. I’m not going to say what isn’t so for him or any one else. ‘Just being sorry doesn’t make up for it!’ I’d like to know what else you can be but sorry. If he thinks it’s so easy to—to be sorry—I mean say you’re sorry and apologize, then why doesn’t he do a little of it? He makes me tired! I don’t care a fig whether—”

Toby paused right there in his muttering, swallowed hard and looked sheepish.

“Gee,” he thought, “I nearly did it again! I’m glad Doctor Collins didn’t hear me! I guess the hard thing about controlling your temper is to know when you’re not!” With which cryptic reflection Toby made his way sadly downstairs just as the two o’clock bell began to ring.