Phineas Kittson, or Kitty, as he was called, was sixteen years of age, but looked a year older. He was large—perhaps bulky would be the better word—very broad shouldered, very deep chested. His legs were short and so were his arms, giving him the appearance of being all body. He had a large, round face, somewhat sallow, but not unhealthy, of which the principal features were his eyes and his mouth. The eyes were of the palest green and unusually prominent and caused him to look as though he had just made a most astounding, stupendous discovery and was on the point of breaking into excited announcement of it. He wore a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles with big round lenses, which magnified his eyes to an uncanny extent. His mouth was wide and very serious, turning down at the corners as though in gentle disapproval of the world. His nose was not remarkable, but appeared to belong on someone else, being small and narrow and seemingly quite lost on such a broad expanse. His hair was dark brown and stood in need of trimming. It also appeared to stand in need of brushing, but later Rodney found that brushing had little effect on Phineas Kittson’s hair. Its constantly touseled appearance was due to the fact that it had never decided in which direction to grow and so was trying them all. There was a tuft over his left eye that grew straight, a tuft over his other eye that grew down, a patch on the top of his head that curled to the right, and a patch over one ear that shot straight out. And there were other patches that were still experimenting.

Phineas wore a suit of some indescribable shade of grayish green which looked as though he had slept in it, and carried in one hand a much worn suitcase and in the other a brown straw helmet with a green-lined brim and a metal peak on top for ventilation. Afterward Rodney made the discovery that his hands were very small, as were his feet, and that of the latter the left one was encased in a dusty black Oxford and the right one in a low-cut Blucher that had at one time been tan.

“How are you,” said Phineas, advancing and shaking hands. “Glad to know you.” He had a deep, pleasant voice and spoke slowly, pronouncing each word very distinctly. When he had shaken hands he looked Rodney over attentively with his startled eyes and asked, “Ever try inhaling?”

“I don’t smoke,” replied Rodney disapprovingly. The green eyes blinked.

“Not smoke, air. Fresh air. Try it. Fine for the lungs. Take long walks and inhale. Expand. Nothing like it, Merriwell.”

“Merrill,” corrected Rodney, amused.

“Beg pardon. I don’t remember names.” He placed his hat on the table, sat down, got up, saw that Mrs. Westcott had gone, and sat down again with a sigh. “Twelve minutes, twenty-eight and two fifths,” he said.

“Indeed?” asked Rodney politely.

Kitty nodded gravely. “I’ve done better than that by nearly two minutes. In the winter. Air’s better then. Lungs work better. It follows, of course.” He seemed to demand an answer and Rodney nodded gravely, too.

“Naturally,” he agreed. “What the dickens are you talking about?”

Kitty viewed him thoughtfully. “My fault,” he said after a moment. “Thought you knew. Walking up the hill, you know. Station to house. Twelve minutes, twenty-eight and two-fifths.” He pulled a stop-watch from his pocket and studied it. Apparently satisfied, he clicked the hands back into place again. “Warm to-day. Heat enervates the air. There’s a difference. You’ve noticed it, I guess.”

“I can’t say I ever have,” replied Rodney, turning again to his shirts. “Must be quite a climb up that hill, though. Did you lug that bag with you?”

“Yes. Forgot I had it. That counted against me, of course.” He looked for a moment at the suitcase. Then, “Funny about my trunk,” he meditated aloud.

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Rodney indifferently.

“Left it in New York. Ferry station. Forgot to recheck it. Got any collars?”

“What size do you wear?”

“Oh, thirteen or fourteen, I think. I’ll borrow a couple. Thanks, Morrill.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Rodney dryly. “It’s Merrill, though.”

“Of course. Beg pardon. What time is it? I forgot to wind my watch yesterday.”

Before Rodney could oblige him with the desired information there was a sound of approaching footsteps and voices in the hall, and in a moment half a dozen boys whose ages varied from fourteen to seventeen years flocked in. In deference to the stranger their entrance was quite decorous. One boy, a youth of Rodney’s own age, was grinning broadly, but the rest were politely serious.

“Thought we’d come in and get acquainted,” announced the eldest of the six, a tall, nice-looking chap of seventeen, who was evidently the leader at Westcott’s.

“Hello,” responded Kitty. “Funny about my trunk——”

“Never mind about your trunk,” laughed another visitor. “We’ve heard all about it, Kitty. I wonder you didn’t forget to bring yourself!”

The others chuckled, and Rodney, a trifle embarrassed, smiled. The boys seated themselves here and there about the room and there was a painful silence. Kitty, viewing them absently, was apparently deep in thought. Finally, with a laugh:

“Come on, Kitty,” said the eldest youth. “Introduce your friend.”

“Eh?” Kitty looked vaguely around the room until his eyes encountered Rodney, still standing at the chiffonier. “Oh, yes. Beg pardon. This chap’s name is—er—” Kitty paused at a loss and turned inquiringly to Rodney. “What is it, now?”

“The same as it was a few minutes ago,” laughed Rodney. “It’s Merrill, Rodney Merrill.”

“Glad to know you,” replied the older boy. “My name’s Billings. This grinning ape is Mudge. Mr. Greenough is the thoughtful gentleman at your left. Over there are Hoyt, Trainor and Trowbridge. There’s no use waiting for Kitty to introduce. He’d fall into a trance in the middle of it.”

Kitty smiled untroubledly. The others, having nodded, or, if near enough, shaken hands, laughed. The irrepressible Mudge—Tad, for short; Theodore Middlewich for long—removed the last vestige of restraint.

“Welcome, Merrill, to our happy little home,” said Tad. “Hope you’ll like us and our quaint ways. Pete, get up and give Merrill a seat, you impolite loafer.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to sit down,” replied Rodney. “I was putting my things away.”

“Don’t let Kitty impose on you,” advised Tom Trainor, a slender, light-complexioned chap. “If you don’t watch him he will have his things all over the place. Sometimes he forgets which is his own bed and goes to sleep in the other one. You got here early, Merrill.”

“I came on the boat from New York. It was very nice.”

“It’s nice enough once—or even a couple of times—” said Hoyt, a short chap with a snub nose and a bored expression. “After that it’s monotonous.”

“I’d hate to be world weary as you are, Warren,” said Jack Billings, dryly. “Well, we’re having early supper to-night, fellows, so we’d better move along. Come in and see us, Merrill, when you get straightened out. By the way, it’s Faculty Reception to-night; about seven-thirty; better come along and meet the tyrants. We’re all going—all except Kitty.”

Kitty looked across in greater surprise than ever and blinked. “Thought I’d go,” he said.

“You think so, but you’ll forget it,” laughed Jack.

After the visitors had dispersed to their own rooms, Phineas turned to Rodney and said, “I haven’t a very good memory for some things. Sometimes I forget. They like to joke about it. I don’t mind, of course. It amuses them, Maynard.”

“I see.” Rodney didn’t correct him this time. What was the use?