Seldom had anything like that occurred before, and, for the moment every student in the room remained motionless, breathing hard and wondering what would come next. Andy, who had been pale, now was flushed. It was an insult; but how could he resent it?

There seemed no way. If Dunk wanted to break off their friendship that was his affair, but he might have done it more quietly. Probably all in the room, save perhaps Mortimer Gaffington, realized this. As for that youth, he smiled insultingly at Andy and murmured to Dunk, who was now passing to another table:

“That’s the way to act. Be a sport!”

It was clear that if Andy dropped Dunk, Mortimer stood ready to take him up.

“Don’t mind him, old chap. Dunk isn’t just himself to-night,” murmured Thad in Andy’s ear. “He’ll see differently in the morning.”

“He’ll have to see a good bit differently to see me,” spoke Andy stiffly. “I can’t pass that up.”

“Try,” urged Thad. “You don’t know what it may mean to Dunk.”

Andy did not reply. Some one started a song and under cover of it Andy slipped out, Chet following.

“Too bad, old man,” consoled Andy’s Harvard friend. “Is he often as bad as that?”

“Not of late. It’s getting in with that Gaffington crowd that starts him off. I guess he and I are done now.”

“I suppose so. But it’s too bad.”

“Yes.”

Andy walked on in silence for a time, and then said:

“Come on up to the room and have a chat. I won’t see you for some time now. Not till Christmas vacation.”

“That’s right. But I’ve got to get back to Cambridge. I’ll go down and get a train, I guess. Come on to the station with me. The walk will do you good.”

The two chums strolled through the lighted streets, which were much more lively than usual on account of the celebration of the football victory. But Andy and Chet paid little heed to the bustle and confusion about them.

When Andy got back to his room, after bidding Chet good-bye, Dunk had not come in. Andy lay awake some time waiting for him, wondering what he would say when he did come in. But finally he dozed off, and awaking in the morning, from fitful slumbers, he saw the other bed empty. Dunk had not come home.

“Well, if he’s going to quit me I guess it can’t be helped,” remarked Andy. “And I guess I’d better give up this room, and let him get some one else in. It wouldn’t be pleasant for me to stay here if he pulled out. I’d remember too much. Yes, I’ll look for another room.”

He went to chapel, feeling very little in the mood for it, but somehow the peaceful calm of the Sunday service eased his troubled mind. He looked about for Dunk, but did not see him. Perhaps it was just as well.

After chapel Andy went back to his room, and debated with himself what was best to be done. He was in the midst of this self-communion when there was a knock on the door, and to Andy’s call of “Shove in!” there followed the shock of curly hair that belonged to nobody but Ikey Stein.

“Oh, dear!” groaned Andy in spirit. “That bargainer, at this, of all times.”

“Hello, Andy,” greeted Ikey. “Are you busy?”

“Too busy to buy neckties.”

“Forget it! Do you think I’d come to you now on such a business!”

There was a new side to the character of Ikey—a side Andy had never before seen. There was a quiet air of authority about him, a gentle air that contrasted strangely with his usual carefree and easy manners that he assumed when he wanted to sell his goods.

“Sit down,” invited Andy, shoving a pile of books and papers off a chair.

“Thanks. Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Andy slowly, wondering what was the object of the call.

“Nice day for a walk.”

“Yes.”

“Ever go for a walk?”

“Sure. Lots of times.”

“Going to-day?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean with me. I’ve got a date, anyhow. Say, look here, Blair, if you don’t mind me getting personal. If you were to take a walk out toward East Rock Park you might meet a friend of yours.”

“A friend?”

“Yes.”

“You mean——”

“Now look here!” exclaimed Ikey, and his manner was serious. “You may order me out of your room, and all that, but I’m going to speak what’s in my mind. I want you to make up with Dunk!”

“Make up with him—after what he did to me!”

“That’s all right—I know. But I’m sure he’ll meet you more than half-way.”

“Well, he’ll have to.”

“Now, don’t take that view of it,” urged the kindly Jew. “Say, let me tell you something, will you?”

“Fire away,” and Andy walked over and stood looking out of the window across the campus.

“It’s only a little story,” went on Ikey, “and not much of a one at that. When I was in prep school I had a friend—a very dear friend.

“He was what you call a sport, too, in a way, and how he ever took up with me I never could understand. I hadn’t any money—I had to work like the dickens to get along. All my people are dead, and I was then, as I am now, practically alone in the world. But this fellow, who came of a good family, took me up, and we formed a real friendship.

“I think I did him good in a way, and I know he did me, for I used to have bitter feelings against the rich and he did a lot to show me that I was wrong. This friend went in a fast set and one day I spoke to him about it. I said he was throwing away his talents.

“Well, he was touchy—he’d been out late the night before—and he resented what I said. We had a quarrel—our first one—and he went out saying he never wanted to see me again. I had a chance to make up with him later, but I was too proud. So was he, I guess. Anyhow, when I put my pride in my pocket and went after him, a little later, it was too late.”

“Too late—how?” asked Andy, for Ikey had come to a stop and there was a break in his voice.

“He went out in an auto with his fast crowd; there was an upset, and my friend was killed.”

Andy turned sharply. There were tears in the other’s eyes, and his face was twitching.

“I—I always felt,” said Ikey, softly, “that perhaps if I hadn’t been so proud and hard that—maybe—maybe he’d be alive to-day.”

There was silence in the room, broken only by the monotonous ticking of the clock.

“Thanks,” said Andy, softly, after a pause. “I—I guess I understand what you mean, Stein.” He held out his hand, which was warmly clasped.

“Then you will go for a walk—maybe?” asked Ikey, eagerly.

“I—I think I will,” spoke Andy, softly. “I don’t understand it; but I’ll go.”

“You—you’ll find him there,” went on Ikey. “I sent him out to—meet you!”

And before Andy could say anything more the peacemaker had left the apartment.

For several minutes Andy stood still. He looked about the room—a room suggestive in many ways of the presence and character of Dunk. There was even on the mantel a fragment of the Japanese vase he had broken that time.

“I’ll go to him,” spoke Andy, softly.

He went out on the campus, not heeding many calls from friends to join them. When they noted his manner they, wisely, did not press the matter. Perhaps they guessed. Andy walked out Whitney Avenue to East Rock Road and turned into the park.

“I wonder where I’ll find him?” he mused, as he gazed around.

“Queer that Ikey should put up a game like this.”

Walking on a little way, Andy saw a solitary figure under a tree. He knew who it was. The other saw him coming, but did not stir.

Presently they were within speaking distance. Andy paused a moment and then, holding out his hand, said softly:

“Dunk!”

The figure looked up, and a little smile crept over the moody face.

“Andy!” cried Dunk, stepping forward.

The next moment their hands had met in a clasp such as they never had felt before. They looked into each other’s eyes, and there was much meaning in the glance.

“Andy—Andy—can you—forgive me?”

“Of course, Dunk; I understand.”

“All right, old man. That is the last time. Never again! Never again!”

And Dunk meant it.