Andy’s chums looked curiously at him. Chet’s chance remark had brought back to them the memory of the old enmity between Andy Blair and Mortimer Gaffington, the rich young “sport” of Dunmore. It was an enmity that had happily been forgotten in the joy of life at Milton. Now it loomed up again.

“That’s right, that cad Mort does hang out at New Haven,” remarked Tom. “That is, he did. But maybe they’ve fired him,” he added, hopefully.

“No such luck,” spoke Andy, ruefully. “I had a letter from my sister only the other day, and she mentioned some row that Mort had gotten into at Yale. Came within an ace of being taken out, but it was smoothed over. No, I’ll have to rub up against him if I go there.”

“Well, you don’t need to have much to do with him,” suggested Frank.

“And you can just make up your mind that I won’t,” spoke Andy. “I’ll steer clear of him from the minute I strike New Haven. But don’t let’s talk about it. Where’s that waiter, anyhow? Has he gone out to kill a fatted calf?”

“Here he comes,” announced Ben. “Get a move on there, Adolph!”

“Yah!”

“And don’t wait for my French fried potatoes to sprout, either,” added Chet.

“Yah, shure not!”

“Oh, look who’s here!” exclaimed Tom, nodding toward a newcomer. “Shoot in over here, Swipes!” he called to a tall lad, whose progress through the room was marked by friendly calls on many sides. He was a general favorite, Harry Morton by name, but seldom called anything but “Swipes,” from a habit he had of taking or “swiping” signs, and other mementoes of tradesmen about town; the said signs and insignia of business later adorning his room.

“Got space?” asked Harry, as he paused at the little compartment which held our friends.

“Surest thing you know, Swipes. Shove over there, Frank. Are you trying to hog the whole bench?”

“Not when Swipes is around,” was the retort. “I’ll leave that to him.”

“Half-ton benches are a little out of my line,” laughed the newcomer, as he found room at the table. “Bring me a rarebit, Adolph, and don’t leave out the cheese.”

“No, sir, Mr. Morton! Ho! ho! Dot’s a goot vun! A rarebit mitout der cheese! Ach! Dot is goot!” and the fat German waiter went off chuckling at the old joke.

“What’s the matter, Andy, you look as if you’d had bad news from your best girl?” asked Harry, clapping Andy on the shoulder. “Cheer up, the worst is yet to come.”

“You’re right there!” exclaimed Andy, heartily. “The worst is yet to come. I’m going to Yale——”

“Hurray! Rah! rah! That’s the stuff! But talk about the worst, I can’t see it. I wish I were in your rubbers.”

“And that dub Mortimer Gaffington is there, too,” went on Andy. “That’s the worst.”

“I don’t quite get you,” said Harry, in puzzled tones. “Is this Gaffington one of the bulldog profs. who eats freshmen alive?”

“No, he’s a fellow from our town,” explained Andy, “and he and I are on the outs. We’ve been so for a long time. It was at a ball game some time ago. Our town team was playing and I was catching. Mort was pitching. He accused me of deliberately throwing away the game, and naturally I went back at him. We had a fight, and since then we haven’t spoken. He’s rich, and all that, but I don’t like him; not because I beat him in a fair fight, either. Well, he went to Yale last year, and I was glad when he left town. Now I’m sorry he’s at Yale, since I’m going there. I know he’ll try to make it unpleasant for me.”

“Oh, well, make the best of it,” advised Harry, philosophically. “He can’t last for ever. Here comes my eats! Let’s get busy.”

“So Mort will be a sophomore when you get to New Haven, will he?” asked Frank of Andy.

“He will if he doesn’t flunk, and I don’t suppose he will. He’s smart enough in a certain way. Oh, well, what’s the use of worrying? As Harry says, here come the eats.”

Adolph staggered in with a well-heaped tray containing Harry’s order, and he and his chums finished their meal talking the while. The evening wore on, more students dropping in to make merry in Kelly’s. A large group formed about the nucleus made by Andy and his chums. These lads were seniors in the preparatory school, and, as such, were looked up to by those who had just started the course, or who were finishing their first year. In a way, Milton was like a small college in some matters, notably in class distinction, though it was not carried to the extent it is in the big universities.

“What are you fellows going to do?” asked Harry, as he pushed back his chair. “I’m feeling pretty fit now. I haven’t an enemy in the world at this moment,” and he sighed in satisfaction. “That rarebit was sure a bird! Are you fellows out for any fun?”

“Not to-night,” replied Andy. “I’m going to cut back and write some letters.”

“Forget it,” advised Harry. “It’s early, and too nice a night to go to bed. Let’s take in a show.”

“I’ve got some boning to do,” returned Frank, with a sigh.

“And I ought to plug away at my Latin,” added Chet, with another sigh.

“Say, but you fellows are the greasy grinds!” objected Harry. “Why don’t you take a day off once in a while?”

“It’s easy enough for you, Swipes; Latin comes natural to you!” exclaimed Tom. “But I have to plug away at it, and when I get through I know less than when I started.”

“And as for me,” broke in Chet, “I can read a page all right in the original, but when I come to translate I can make two pages of it in English, and have enough Latin words left over to do half another one. No, Swipes, it won’t do; I’ve got to do some boning.”

“Aw, forget it. Come on to a show. There’s a good movie in town this week. I’ll blow you fellows. Some vaudeville, too, take it from me. There’s a pair who roll hoops until the stage looks like a barrel factory having a tango dance. Come on. It’s great!”

“Well, a movie wouldn’t be so bad,” admitted Tom. “It doesn’t last until midnight. What do you say, fellows?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” came from Andy, uncertainly.

“I’ll go if you fellows will,” remarked Frank.

“Oh, well, then let’s do it!” cried Tom. “I guess we won’t flunk to-morrow. We can burn a little midnight electricity. Let ’er go!”

And so they went to the moving picture show. It was like others of its kind, neither better nor worse, with vaudeville acts and songs interspersed between the reels. There was a good attendance, scores of the Milton lads being there, as well as many persons from the town and surrounding hamlets.

Our friends found seats about the middle of the house. It was a sort of continuous performance, and as they entered a girl was singing a song on a well-lighted stage. Andy glanced about as he took his seat, and met the gaze of Link Bardon. He nodded at him, and the young farmer nodded back.

“Who’s that—a new fellow?” asked Harry, who was next to Andy.

“Not at school—no. He’s a hired man we found being beaten up by an old codger of a farmer when we walked out this afternoon. We took his part and made the farmer trot Spanish. I guess Link is taking a day off with the wages we got for him,” and he detailed the incident.

The show went on. Some of the students became boisterous, and there were hisses from the audience, and demands that the boys remain quiet. One lad, who did not train in the set of Andy and his friends, insisted on joining in the chorus with one of the singers, and matters got to such a pass that the manager rang down the curtain and threatened to stop the performance unless the students behaved. Finally some of the companions of the noisy one induced him to quiet down.

Following a long picture reel a girl came out to sing. She was pretty and vivacious, though her songs were commonplace enough. In one of the stage boxes were a number of young fellows, not from Milton, and they began to ogle the singer, who did not seem averse to their attentions. She edged over to their box, and threw a rose to one of the occupants.

Gallantly enough he tossed back one he was wearing, but at that moment a companion in front of him had raised a lighted match to his cigarette.

The hand of the young man throwing the rose to the singer struck the flaring match and sent it over the rail of the box straight at the flimsy skirts of the performer.

In an instant the tulle had caught fire, and a fringe of flame shot upward.

The singer ceased her song with a scream that brought the orchestra to a stop with a crashing chord, and the girl’s cries of horror were echoed by the women in the audience. The girl started to run into the wings, but Andy, springing from his seat on the aisle, made a leap for the brass rail behind the musicians.

“Stand still! Stand still! Don’t go back there in the draft!” cried Andy, as he jumped upon the stage over the head of the orchestra leader and began stripping off his coat.