“Say, I can’t tell how much obliged to you I am,” impulsively exclaimed the young fellow with his arm in a sling. “That—that——”

“He’s a brute, that’s what he is!” broke out Andy. “Don’t be afraid to call him one.”

“He sure is,” came from Tom. “I just wish he’d rough it up a bit. I wouldn’t have asked anything better than to take and roll him around his own barnyard. Talk about tackling a fellow on the gridiron—Oh me! Oh my!”

“It was mighty nice of you boys to take my part,” went on the young fellow. “I’m not feeling very well. He’s worked me like a horse since I’ve been here, and that, on top of spraining my arm, sort of took the tucker out of me. Then, when he came at me with the whip, just because I said I couldn’t work any more——”

“There, never mind. Don’t think about it,” advised Chet, seeing that the youth was greatly affected.

“Do you live around here?” asked Andy.

“Well, I don’t live much of anywhere,” was the reply. “I’m a sort of Jack-of-all-trades. My name is Lincoln Bardon—Link, I’m generally called. I work mostly at farming, but I’ll never work for Amos Snad again. He’s too hard.”

“Where are you going after you leave here?” asked Frank Newton.

“Oh, I’ve got a friend who works on a farm over in Cherry Hollow. I can go there and get a place. The farming season is on now, and there’s lots of help wanted. But I sure am much obliged to you for helping me get my money. I’ve earned it and I need it. That mowing machine was broken when he had me take it out of the shed.”

“How’d he come to use the whip?” asked Andy.

“It was when I came back with the team, and said I couldn’t work any more on account of my arm. He has a lot of work to do,” explained Link, “and he ought to keep two men. Instead, he tries to get along with one, and works him like a slave. I’m glad I’m going to quit.”

“When I said my arm was hurt he didn’t believe me. I insisted. One word led to another and he came at me with the lash. Then you boys jumped in. I can’t thank you enough.”

“That’s all right,” said Tom. “We were glad to do it. I like a good scrap!”

And to do him justice, he did—a good, clean, manly “scrap.”

“I wonder if he will bring that money?” remarked Ben Snow. “He’s gone a long time.”

“Oh, he keeps it hidden away in an old boot,” replied Link. “He’ll have to dig it out. But don’t let me detain you.”

“We like the fun,” spoke Andy. “We’ll stick around for a while yet.”

And, while the boys are thus “sticking around,” may I be permitted to introduce them more formally to you, and speak just a word about them?

With their names I think you are already familiar. Andy Blair was a tall, good-looking lad, with light hair and snapping blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. Yet, withal, they were merry eyes, and dancing with life.

Chet Anderson was rather short and stocky, not to say fat; but if any of his friends mentioned such a thing Chet was up in arms at once. Chet, I might explain, was a contraction for Chetfield; the lad being named for his grandfather.

Ben Snow was always jolly. In spite of his name he was of a warm and impulsive nature, always ready to forgive an injury and continually seeking a chance to help someone. Clever, full of life and usually looking on the bright side, Ben was a humorous relief to his sometimes more sober comrades.

Quiet and studious was Frank Newton, a good scholar, always standing well in his class, and yet with his full share of fun and sport. He was a mainstay on the baseball team, where he had pitched many a game to victory.

With the exception of Tom Hatfield you have now met the lads with whom the first part of this story is chiefly concerned. Tom was one of the nicest fellows you could know. His parents were wealthy, but wealth had not spoiled Tom. He was happy-go-lucky, of a generous, whole-souled nature, always jolly and happy, and yet with a temper that at times blazed out and amazed his friends. Seldom was it directed against any of them; but when Tom spoke quietly, with a sort of ring like the clang of steel in his voice, then was the time to look out.

The five lads came from the same town, as has been said, and had been friends, more or less, all their lives. With their advent at Milton their friendship was cemented with that seal which is never broken—school-comradeship. You boys know this. You men who may chance to read this book know it. How many of you, speaking of someone, has not at one time said:

“Why, he and I used to go to school together!”

And is there anything in life better than this—an old school chum? It means so much.

But there. I started to tell a story, and I find myself getting off on the side lines. To get back into the game:

Link Bardon had hardly finished telling his good Samaritan boy friends of his trouble with Mr. Snad, when the burly farmer reappeared. Striding up to his hired man—his former employee—he thrust some crumpled bills into his hand, and growled:

“Now you get out of here as fast as you can. I’ve seen enough of you!”

“And I may say the same thing!” retorted Link. He was getting back his nerve. Perhaps Andy and his chums had contributed to this end.

“Huh! Don’t you go to gettin’ fresh!” snapped Mr. Snad.

“Don’t let him get your goat!” exclaimed Tom, with a cheerful grin.

“I’ve had enough of you young upstarts!” cried the farmer, turning fiercely on Andy and his chums. “Be off!”

“Wait until we see if Link has his money all right,” suggested Andy. “He might ring in a counterfeit bill on you if you don’t watch out.”

“Bah!” sneered the farmer.

Link counted over his wages. They were all right.

“Now I’ll get my things and go,” he said, calmly.

“And don’t you ever come around askin’ me for a job,” warned his former employer.

“I guess there isn’t much danger,” spoke Tom, quietly. “Come on, fellows. I’m hungry enough to eat two of Kelly’s steaks.”

They followed Andy, who again lightly leaped the fence into the road. Link went on toward the house to pack up his few belongings. He waved his hand toward the boys, and they waved back. They hardly expected to see him again, and certainly Andy Blair never dreamed of the strange part the young farmer would play in his coming life at Yale. Such odd tricks does fate play upon us.

The Milton lads swung on down the road in the direction of Churchtown. It was early evening by now.

“Some doings!” commented Chet as he slipped his arm into that of Andy.

“I should say!” exclaimed Ben. “Andy, you took the right action that time.”

“Well, I just couldn’t bear to see that chap, with his arm in a sling, being beaten up by that brute of a farmer,” was the reply. “It got my dander up.”

“Same here,” spoke Tom.

“You’d never know it, from the way you acted,” put in Frank.

“Tom is always worst when he’s quietest,” remarked Andy. “Well, now for a good feed. Let’s cut through here, hop a car, and get to Kelly’s quicker.”

“Go ahead, we’re with you,” announced Chet, and soon the lads were in the “eating joint,” as they called it.

“Broiled steak with French fried potatoes, Adolph!”

“Yah!”

“I want an omelet with green peppers!”

“Liver and bacon for mine!”

“Ham and eggs! Plenty of gravy!”

“Yah!”

“Coffee with my order, Adolph!”

“Yah!”

“And say, I want some of those rolls with moon-seeds on top, Adolph! Don’t forget!”

“Nein!”

“And my coffee comes with my steak, not afterward. Hoch der Kaiser!”

“Shure!”

“How’s the soup, Adolph?”

“Fine und hot!”

“That’s good! One on you, Tom!”

“Bring me a plate!”

“Oh, say, Adolph, make my order a chop instead of those ham and eggs.”

“Yah!”

“And, Adolph.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a glass of milk, with a squirt of vichy in it. Don’t forget.”

“Nein, I vunt!”

“And speed up, Adolph, we’re all in a hurry.”

“Shure. You vos allvays in a hurry!”

The German waiter scurried away. How he ever remembered it all is one of the mysteries that one day may be solved. But he never forgot, and never made a mistake.

The boys were seated at a table in one of the small rooms of Kelly’s. They stretched out their legs and took their ease, for they felt they had earned a little relaxation.

About them in other rooms, in small recesses made by the high-backed seats, were other students. There was a calling back and forth.

“Hello, Spike!”

“Stick out your head, Bender!”

“Over here, Buster—here’s room!”

“There’s Bunk now!”

You could not tell who was saying what or which, nor to whom, any more than I can. Hence the rather disjointed style of the preceding. But you know what I mean, for you must have been there yourself. If not, I beg of you to get into some such place where “good fellows,” in the truest sense of the word, meet together. For where they congregate it is always “good weather,” no matter if it snows or hails, or even if the stormy winds do blow—do blow—do blow!

But at last a measure of quietness settled down in Kelly’s, and the chatter of voices was succeeded by the clatter of knives and forks.

Then came a reaction—a time when one settled back on one’s bench, the first tearing edge of the appetite dulled. It was at this time that Tom Hatfield, leaning over to Andy, said:

“And so you are going to Yale?”

“Yes, I’ve made up my mind.”

“Well, I congratulate you. It’s a grand old place. Wish I was with you.”

“Say, Andy!” piped up Chet Anderson, “if you go to Yale you’ll meet an old friend of yours there.”

“Who, for the love of bacon?”

“Mortimer Gaffington!”

Andy’s knife fell to his plate with a clash that caused the other diners to look up hurriedly.

“Mortimer Gaffington!” gasped our hero. “For cats’ sake! That’s so. I forgot he went to Yale! Oh, wow! Well, it can’t be helped. I’ve made my choice!”