The clock was ticking. To Andy it sounded as loud as a timepiece in a tower. The rhythmic cadence seemed to fill the room. Somewhere off in the distance a bell boomed out—a church bell.

Andy sat in a brown study, looking into the fireplace. A little blaze was going on the hearth, and the young student, gazing at the embers saw many pictures there.

For some time Andy sat without stirring. He had listened to the retreating footsteps of Dunk and Mortimer as the boys passed down the corridor, laughing.

Through Wright Hall there echoed other footsteps—coming and going—there was the sound of voices in talk and in gay repartee. Students called one to the other, or in groups hurried here and there, intent on pleasure. Andy sat there alone—thinking—thinking.

A log in the fireplace broke with a suddenness that startled him. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney, and a little puff of smoke shot out into the room. Andy roused himself.

“Oh, hang it all!” he exclaimed aloud. “Why should I care? Let him go with that crowd—with Mort and his bunch if he likes. What difference does it make to me?”

He stood up, his arm on the mantel where had rested the Japanese vase purchased so mysteriously. Now only the fragments of it were there.

A comparison between that shattered vase and what might be the shattered friendship between himself and his roommate came to Andy, but he resolutely thrust it aside.

“What difference does it make to me?” he asked himself. “Let him go his own way, and I’ll go mine.”

He crossed to the book rack on the window sill, intending to do some studying. On the broad stone ledge outside the casement he kept his bottle of spring water. It was a cooler place than the room. Andy poured himself out a drink, and as he sipped it he said again:

“Why should I care what he does?”

Then, from off in the distance he heard the chimes of a church, playing “Adestes Fideles.”

He stood listening—entranced as the tones came to him, softened by the night air.

And there seemed to whisper to him a still, small voice that asked:

“Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Andy shut the window softly, and, going back to his chair sat staring into the fire. It was dying down, the embers settling into the dead ashes. It was very still and quiet in the little room. All Wright Hall was very still and quiet now.

“I—I guess I’ll have to care—after all,” whispered Andy.

Footsteps were heard coming along the corridor, and, for a moment Andy had a wild hope that it might be Dunk returning. But as he listened he knew it was not his chum.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come!” called Andy sharply. It could be none of his friends, he knew.

A messenger entered with a note, and, observing an unfamiliar handwriting, Andy wondered from whom it could be. He ripped it open and uttered an exclamation. He read:

“Jove!” murmured Andy. “I forgot all about her.”

“Any answer?” asked the messenger.

“No.”

The boy started out.

“Oh, yes. Wait a minute.” Andy scribbled an acceptance.

“Here,” he said, and handed the boy a quarter.

“T’anks!” exclaimed the urchin. Then with a roguish glance he added: “Gee, but you college guys is great!”

“Hop along!” commanded Andy briefly.

Should he go, after all? He had said he would and yet——

“Oh, hang it! I guess I’d better go!” he said aloud, just as though he had not intended to all along. He turned up the light and began throwing about a pile of neckties. He tried first one and then another. None seemed to satisfy him, and when he did get the hue that suited him it would not allow itself to be properly tied.

“Oh, rats!” Andy exclaimed. “Why should I care?”

Why indeed? It is one of the mysteries. “Vanity of vanities” and the rest of it.

As he entered Poli’s Andy was aware that something unusual was going on. The ushers were grinning with good-natured tolerance, but there was rather an anxious look on the faces of some of the women in the audience. Some of their male escorts appeared resentful.

Andy had been obliged to purchase a box seat, as there were no vacant ones in the body of the house. As he sank into his chair, rather back, for the box was well filled, he saw a college classmate.

“What’s up?” he asked, the curtain then being down to allow of a change of scene.

“Oh, Gaffington and his crowd are joshing some of the acts.”

“Any row?”

“No, everybody takes it good-naturedly. Bunch of our fellows here to-night.”

“Show any good?”

“Pretty fair. Some of the things are punk. There’s a good number coming—Mazie Fuller—she’s got a new act. And Bodkins—you know the tramp juggler—the one who does things with cigar boxes—he’s coming on next. He’s a scream.”

“Yes, I know him. He’s all right.”

The curtain went up and from the wings came Miss Fuller. She had prospered in vaudeville, it seemed, for she had on a richer costume than the one she wore when she had been so nearly burned to death.

She was well received, and while singing her first number she looked about the house. Presently she caught the eyes of Andy—he had leaned forward in the box, perhaps purposely. Miss Fuller smiled at him, and at once a chorus of cries arose from the students in the different parts of the theater. Up to then, since Andy’s entrance, there had been no commotion. Now it broke out again.

“Oh, get on to that!”

“The lad with the dreamy eyes!”

“Oh, you Andy Blair!”

Andy sank back blushing, but Miss Fuller took it in good part.

Her act went on, and was well received. She did not again look at Andy, possibly fearing to embarrass him. And then, as she retired after her last number—a veritable whirlwind song—there came a thunder of applause, mingled with shrill whistles, to compel an encore.

Andy was aware of a disturbance in the front of the house. It was where a number of the students were seated, and Andy had a glimpse of Dunk Chamber. Beside him was Gaffington. Dunk had arisen and was swaying unsteadily on his feet.

“Sit down!”

“Keep him quiet!”

“Put him out!”

“Call the manager!”

“Make him sit down!”

Andy began to feel uneasy. He could see the unhappy condition of his roommate and those with him. The worst he feared had come to pass.

Swaying, but still managing not to step on anyone, Dunk made his way to the aisle, and then, getting close to the box where Andy sat, climbed over the rail. The manager motioned to an usher not to interfere. Probably he thought it was the best means of producing quiet.

“Here I am, Andy,” announced Dunk gravely.

“So I see,” spoke Andy, his face blazing at the notice he was receiving. “Sit down and keep quiet. There’s a good act coming.”

“Hush!” exclaimed a number of voices as the curtain slid up, to give place to “Bustling Bodkins,” the tramp juggler. The actor came out in his usual ragged make-up, and proceeded to do things with a pile of empty cigar boxes—really a clever trick. Dunk watched him with curious gravity for a while and then started to climb over the footlights on to the stage.

“No, you don’t, Dunk!” cried Andy, firmly, and despite his chum’s protests he hauled him back. Then he took Dunk firmly by the arm and marched him out of a side entrance of the show-house.