Mortimer Gaffington stayed on at Yale. How he did it Andy and Dunk, who alone seemed to know of his father’s failure, could not tell. Andy’s mother confirmed her first news about Mr. Gaffington’s losses. Yet Mortimer stayed at college.

Afterward it developed that he was in dire straits, and only by much ingenuity did he manage to raise enough to keep up appearances. He borrowed right and left, taking from one to satisfy the demands of another—an endless chain sort of arrangement that was bound to break sooner or later.

But Mortimer had managed to make a number of new friends in the “fast” set and these were not careful to remind him of the loans he solicited. Then, also, these youths had plenty of money. On them Mortimer preyed.

He gave a number of suppers which were the talk of the college, but he was wise enough to keep them within certain bounds so that he was not called to account. But he was walking over thin ice, and none knew it better than himself. But there was a fatal fascination in it.

Several times he came to Dunk to invite him to attend some of the midnight affairs, but Dunk declined, and Andy was very glad. Dunk said Mortimer had several times asked for loans, but had met with refusals.

“I’m not going to give him any more,” said Dunk. “He’s had enough of my cash now.”

“Hasn’t he paid any back?” asked Andy.

“Some, yes, and the next time he wants more than at first. I’m done.”

“I should think so,” remarked Andy. “He’s played you long enough.”

“Oh, Mortimer isn’t such a bad sort when you get to know him,” went on Dunk, easily. “I rather like him, but I can see that it isn’t doing anyone any good to be in his crowd. That’s why I cut it out. I came here to make something of myself—I owe it to dad, who’s putting up the cash, and I’m not going to disappoint him. Then, too, you old scout, I suppose you wouldn’t let me go sporting around the way I used to.”

“Not much!” laughed Andy, but there was an undernote of seriousness in his words.

There was nothing new in Link’s case. It was still hanging fire in the courts. And there were no more robberies. It was somewhat of a puzzle to Andy that they should cease with the arrest of Link, whom he could not believe guilty.

Dunk’s watch had not been recovered, nor had any more of the valuable books, one of which was found by the detective in Link’s room, been discovered. How it got in the closet of the young farmer, unless he put it there, the lawyer whom Andy and Dunk had hired said he could not understand.

“I’ve had my man interview the boarding mistress at the house in Crown street,” the lawyer told the boys, “and she says no one went to Link’s room, but himself, the day the book was found. But I haven’t given up yet.”

It was the night before the Yale-Princeton freshman baseball game, which was to take place at Yale Field. Andy and Dunk were in their room, talking over the possibilities, and perfecting their code of signals.

“It looks as though it would be good weather,” observed Andy, getting up and going to the window. “Nice and clear outside.”

“If it only keeps so,” returned Dunk. “Hope we have a good crowd.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come!” called Andy and Dunk together. The two chums looked at each other curiously.

Ikey Stein entered, his face all smiles.

“Such bargains!” he began.

“Socks or neckties?” asked Andy, looking for a book to throw at the intruder.

“Socks—silk ones, and such colors! Look!” and from various pockets he pulled pairs of half hose. They fell about the room, giving it a decidedly rainbow effect.

“Oh, for the love of tomatoes!” cried Dunk. “Have you been raiding a paint store?”

“These are all the latest shades—the fashion just over from Paris!” exclaimed Ikey, indignantly. “I bought a fellow’s stock out and I can let you have these for a quarter a pair. They’re worth fifty in any store.”

“Take ’em away!” begged Andy. “They hurt my eyes. I won’t be able to play ball to-morrow.”

“You ought to buy some—look, I have some dark blue ones,” urged Ikey, holding them up. “These are very—chaste!”

“Those aren’t so bad,” conceded Dunk, tolerantly.

“Take ’em for twenty cents,” said the student salesman, suddenly. “I need the money!”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” spoke Andy. “If we win the game to-morrow I’ll buy a dollar’s worth, provided you let us alone now.”

“It’s a bargain!” cried Ikey, gathering up the scattered socks.

“And I’ll do the same,” promised Dunk, whereupon the salesman departed for other rooms.

“Queer chap, isn’t he?” remarked Dunk, after a pause that followed Ikey’s departure.

“Yes, but do you know, I rather like him,” said Andy, with a quick look at his chum. “There’s one thing that a fellow gets into the habit of when he comes to Yale—or, for that matter, to any good college, I suppose.”

“What’s that?” asked Dunk, his mind quickly snapping to some of the not very good habits he had fallen into.

“It’s learning how to take the measure of a fellow,” went on Andy, “I mean his measure in the right way—not according to the standards we are used to.”

“Quite philosophical; aren’t you?” laughed Dunk, as he picked up a book, and leafed it.

“Well, that’s another habit you get into here,” said Andy, with a smile. “But you know what I mean, don’t you Dunk?”

“Well, I suppose you mean that you get tolerant of persons—fellows and so on—that you have a natural dislike for otherwise; is that it?”

“Partly. You learn to appreciate a fellow for what he is really worth—not because his dad can write a check in any number of figures, and not turn a hair. It’s worth that counts at Yale, and not cash.”

“You’re right there, Andy. I think I’ve learned that, too. Take some of the fellows here—we needn’t mention any names—their popularity, such as it is, depends on how much they can spend, or how many spreads they can give in the course of the year. And the worst of it is, that their popularity would go out like a candle in a tornado, once they lost their money.”

“Exactly,” agreed Dunk. “They get so to depending on the power of their cash they think its all that counts.”

“And another bad thing about that,” continued Andy, “is that those fellows, if they wanted to, could make a reputation on something else besides their cash. Now there’s one chap here—no names, of course—but he’s a fine musician, and he could make the glee club, and the dramatic association too, if he liked. But he’s just to confounded lazy. He’d rather draw a check, give an order for a spread, and let it go at that.

“Of course the fellows like to go to the blow-outs, and—come home with a headache. This fellow thinks he gets a lot of fun out of it, but it’s dollars to some of these socks Ikey sells, that he’d have a heap more fun, and make a lot more permanent friends, if he’d get out and take part in something that was worth while.

“Now you take our friend Ikey. I don’t imagine it’s any great fun for him to be going around selling things the way he does—he has to, I understand it. And yet at that, he has a better time of it than maybe you or I do—and we don’t exactly have to worry where our next allowance check is coming from.”

“Right, Andy old man. Jove! You’d better have taken up the divinity school. I’m thinking. You’re a regular preacher.”

“I don’t feel a bit like preaching though, Dunk old boy. In fact I’d a heap sight rather turn in and snooze. But, do you know I’m so nervous over this game that I’m afraid I’ll lie awake and toss until morning, and then I won’t be much more use than a wet dishrag, as far as my nerve is concerned.”

“I feel pretty nearly the same as you do, Andy. Let’s sit up a while and talk. I s’pose, though, if we ever make the varsity we’ll laugh at the way we’re acting now.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” spoke Andy musingly. “Some of these varsity fellows have as bad a case of nerves before a big game as we have now, before our little Freshman one.”

“It isn’t such a little one!” and Dunk bridled up. “The winning of this game from Princeton means as much to our class, and to Yale, in a way, as though the varsity took a contest. It all counts—for the honor of the old college. How are you feeling, anyhow?”

“Pretty fit. I’m only afraid, though, that I’ll make some horrible break in front of the crowd—muff a foul, or let one of your fast ones get by me with the bases full,” concluded Andy.

“If you do,” exclaimed Dunk, with a falsetto tone calculated to impress the hearer that a petulant girl was speaking—“if you do I’ll never speak to you again—so there!” and he pretended to toss back a refractory lock of hair.

Andy laughed, and pitched a book at his chum, which volume Dunk successfully dodged.

“Well, I wouldn’t want that to happen,” said the catcher. “And that reminds me. There’s a rip in my glove, and I’ve got to sew it.”

“Can you sew?”

“Oh, a bit,” answered Andy. “I’m strictly an amateur though, mind you. I don’t do it for pay, so if you’ve got any buttons that need welding to your trousers don’t ask me to do it.”

“Never!” exclaimed Dunk. “I’ve found a better way than that.”

“What is it—the bachelor’s friend—or every man his own tailor? Fasten a button on with a pair of gas-pliers so that you have to take the trousers apart when you want to get it off?”

“Something like that, yes,” laughed Dunk, “only simpler. Look here!”

He pulled up the back of his vest and showed Andy where a suspender button was missing. In its place Dunk had taken a horseshoe nail, pushed it through a fold of the trousers, and had caught the loop of the braces over the nail.

“Isn’t that some classy little contrivance?” he asked, proudly. “Not that I take any credit to myself, though. Far be it! I got the idea out of the comic supplement. But it works all right, and the beauty of it is that you can use the nail over and over again. It is practically indestructible.

“So you see if you are wearing the nail all day, to lectures and so on, and if you have to put on your glad rags at night to go see a girl, or anything like that, and find a button missing, you simply remove the nail from your day-pants and attach it to your night ones. Same suspenders—same nail. It beats the bachelor’s friend all to pieces.”

“I should imagine so,” laughed Andy. “I’ll have to lay in a stock of those nails myself. The way tailors sew buttons on trousers nowadays is a scandal. They don’t last a week.”

“There’s one trouble, though,” went on Dunk, and he carefully examined his simple suspender attachment as if in fear of losing it. “With the increasing number of autos, and the decrease in horses, there is bound to be a corresponding decrease in horseshoe nails. That’s a principle of economics which I am going to bring to the attention of Professor Shandy. He likes to lecture on such cute little topics as that. He might call it qlBachelor’s future depends on the ratio of increase of automobiles.’”

“I see!” exclaimed Andy with a chuckle. “Just as Darwin, or one of those evolutionists proved that the clover crop depended on old maids.”

“How do you make that out?” asked Dunk.

“I guess you’ve forgotten your evolution. Don’t you remember? Darwin found that certain kinds of clover depended for growth and fertilization on humble bees, which alone can spread the pollen. Humble bees can’t exist in a region where there are many field mice, for the mice eat the honey, nests and even the humble bees themselves.

“Now, of course you know that the more cats there are in a neighborhood the less field mice there are, so if you find a place where cats are plentiful you’ll find plenty of humble bees which aren’t killed off by the mice, since the mice are killed off by the cats. So Darwin proved that the clover crop, in a certain section, was in direct proportion to the number of cats.”

“But what about old maids?”

“Oh, I believe it was Huxley who went Darwin one better, come to think of it. Huxley said it was well known that the more old maids there were the more cats there were. So in a district well supplied with old maids there’d be plenty of cats, and in consequence plenty of clover.”

“Say, are you crazy, or am I?” asked Dunk, with a wondering look at his friend. “This thing is getting me woozy! What did we start to talk about, anyhow?”

“Horseshoe nails.”

“And now we’re at old maids. Good-night! Come on out and walk about a bit. The fresh air will do us good, and maybe we’ll sleep.”

“I’ll go you!” exclaimed Andy. “Let’s go get some chocolate. I’m hungry and there isn’t a bit of grub left,” and he looked in the box where he usually kept some biscuits.

They went out together, passing across the quadrangle, in which scores of students were flitting to and fro, under the elms, and in and out of the shadows of the electric lights.

Dunk was saying something over to himself in a low voice.

“What is that—a baseball litany?” asked Andy, with a laugh.

“No, I was trying to get that straight what you said about the supply of old maids in a community depending on the number of clover blossoms.”

“It’s the other way around—but cut it out. You’ll be droning away at that all night—like a tune that gets in your head and can’t get out. Where’ll we go?”

“Oh, cut down Chapel street. Let’s take in the gay white way for a change. We may meet some of the fellows.”

“But no staying out late!” Andy warned his chum.

“I guess not! I want to be as fit as a fiddle in the morning.”

“For we’re going to chew up Princeton in the morning!” chanted Andy to the tune of a well-known ballad.

“I hope so,” murmured Dunk. “Look, there goes Ikey,” and as he spoke he pointed to a scurrying figure that shot across the street and into a shop devoted to the auctioning of furnishing goods.

“What’s he up to, I wonder?” spoke Andy.

“Oh, this is how he lays in his stock of goods that he sticks us with. He watches his chance, and buys up a lot, and then works them off on us.”

“Well, I give him credit for it,” spoke Andy, musingly. “He works hard, and he’s making good. I understand he’s in line for one of the best scholarships.”

“Then he’ll get it!” affirmed Dunk. “I never knew a fellow yet, like Ikey, who didn’t get what he set out after. I declare! it makes me ashamed, sometimes, to think of all the advantages we have, and that we don’t do any better. And you take a fellow like him, who has to work for every dollar he gets—doesn’t belong to any of the clubs—doesn’t have any of the sports—has to study at all hours to get time to sell his stuff—and he’ll pull down a prize, and we chaps——”

“Oh, can that stuff!” interrupted Andy. “We’re worse than a couple of old women to-night. Let’s be foolish for once, and we’ll feel better for it. This game is sure getting our goats.”

“I believe you. Well, if you want a chance to be foolish, here comes the crowd to stand in with.”

Down the street marched a body of Yale students, arm in arm, singing and chanting some of the latest songs, and now and then breaking into whistling.

“Gaffington’s bunch,” murmured Andy.

“Yes, but he isn’t with ’em,” added Dunk. “Slip in here until they get past,” and Dunk pulled his chum by the arm as they came opposite a dark hallway.

But it was too late. Some of the sporty students had seen the two, and made a rush for them.

“Come on, Andy!”

“Oh, you, Dunk! Grab him, fellows!”

Immediately the two were surrounded by a gay and laughing throng.

“Bring ’em along!”

“Down to the rathskeller!”

“We’ll make a night of it!”

“And we won’t go home until morning!”

Thus the gay and festive lads chanted, meanwhile circling about Andy and Dunk, who sought in vain to break through. Passersby went on their way, smiling indulgently at the antics of the students.

“Fetch ’em along!” commanded the leader of the “sports.”

“Come on!” came the orders, and Andy and Dunk were dragged off toward a certain resort.

“No, we can’t go—really!” protested Dunk, holding back.

“We just came out for a glass of soda,” insisted Andy, “and we’ve got to get right back!”

“Oh, yes! That’s all right.”

“Soda!”

“Listen to him!”

“Regular little goody-goody boys!”

“They were trying to sneak off by themselves and have a good time by their lonesomes!”

And thus the various laughing and disbelieving comments came, one after another.

“Bring ’em along with us, and we’ll show ’em how to enjoy life!” someone called. “Gaffington will meet us at Paddy’s!”

Dunk flashed Andy a signal. It would not do, he knew, to spend this night—of all nights—the one before an important game—with this crowd of fun-loving lads. They must get away.

“Look here, fellows!” expostulated Andy, “we really can’t come, you know!”

“That’s right,” chimed in Dunk. “Let us off this time and maybe to-morrow night——”

“There may never be a to-morrow night!” chanted one of the tormentors. “Live while you can, and enjoy yourself. You’re a long time dead. To-morrow is no man’s time. The present alone is ours. Who said that, fellows? Did I make that up or not? It’s blamed good, anyhow. Let’s see, what was it? The present——”

“Oh, dry up! You talk too much!” protested one of his companions, with a laugh.

“What’s the matter with you fellows, anyhow?” demanded another of Andy and Dunk, who were making more strenuous efforts to get away. “Don’t you love us any more?”

“Sure, better than ever,” laughed Andy. “But you know Dunk and I have to pitch and catch in the Princeton freshman game to-morrow, and we——”

“Say no more! I forgot about that,” exclaimed the leader. “They can’t be burning the midnight incandescents. Let ’em go, fellows. And may we have the honor and pleasure of your company to-morrow night?” he asked, with an elaborate bow.

“If we win—yes,” said Dunk.

“It’s a bargain, then. Come on, boys, we’re late now,” and they started off.

Andy and Dunk, glad of their escape, flitted around a corner, to be out of sight. A moment later, however, they heard renewed cries and laughter from the throng they had just left.

“Now what’s up?” asked Dunk. “Are they after us again?”

“Listen!” murmured Andy, looking for a place in which to hide.

Then they heard shouts like these:

“That’s the idea!”

“Come on down to the Taft!”

“We’ll give the Princeton bunch a cheer that will put the kibosh on them for to-morrow.”

“No, don’t go down there,” cautioned cooler heads. “We’ll only get into a row. Come on to the rathskeller!”

“No, the Taft!”

“The rathskeller!”

Thus the dispute went on, until those who were opposed to disturbing the Princeton players had their way, and the crowd moved out of hearing.

“Thank our lucky stars!” murmured Dunk. “Let’s get our chocolate and get back to our room.”

“I’m with you,” said Andy.

“Oh, by the way, isn’t there one of your friends on the Princeton team?” asked Dunk, as he and Andy were sipping their chocolate in a drugstore, on a quiet street.

“Yes, Ben Snow. He’s with the crowd at the Taft.”

“Did you see him?”

“For a little while this evening.”

“I reckon he thinks his nine is going to win.”

“Naturally,” laughed Andy. “The same as we do. But don’t let’s talk about it until to-morrow. I’ve gotten over some of my fit of nerves, and I want to lose it for good.”

“Same here. That little run-in did us good.”

The two chums were back again in their room, and Andy brought out his catching glove, which he proceeded to mend.

Quiet was settling down over the quadrangle and in the dormitories about the big, elm-shaded square. Light after light in the rooms of the students went out. In the distant city streets the hum of traffic grew less and less.

It was quiet in the room where Dunk and Andy sat. Now and then, from some room would come the tinkle of a piano, or the hum of some soft-voiced chorus.

“What was that you said about horseshoe nails and bees?” asked Dunk, drowsily, from his corner of the much be-cushioned sofa.

“Forget it,” advised Andy, sleepily. “I’m going to turn in. I’m in just the mood to drowse off now, and I don’t want to get roused up.”

“Same here, Andy. Say, but I wish it were to-morrow!”

“So do I, old man!”

The room grew more quiet. Only the night wind sighed through the opened window, fluttering the blue curtains.

Andy and Dunk were asleep.

The day of the ball game came, as all days do—if you wait long enough. There was a good crowd on the benches and in the grandstand when Andy and his mates came out for practice. Of course it was not like a varsity championship contest, but the Princeton nine had brought along some “rooters” and there were songs and cheers from the rival colleges.

“Play ball!” called the umpire, and Andy took his place behind the rubber, while Dunk went to the mound. The two chums felt not a little nervous, for this was their first real college contest, and the result meant much for them.

“Here’s where the Tiger eats the Bulldog!” cried a voice Andy recognized as that of Ben Snow. Ben had come on with the Princeton delegation the night before, and had renewed acquaintance with Andy. They had spent some time together, Ben and the players stopping at the Hotel Taft.

There was a laugh at Ben’s remark, and the Princeton cheer broke forth as Dunk delivered his first ball. Then the game was on.

“Wow! That was a hot one!”

“And he fanned the air!”

“Feed ’em another one like that, Dunk, and you’ll have ’em eating out of your hand and begging for more!”

Joyous shouts and cheers greeted Dunk’s first ball, for the Princeton batter had missed it cleanly, though he swung at it with all his force.

“Good work!” Andy signaled to his chum, as he sent the ball back. Then, stooping and pawing in the dirt, Andy gave the sign for a high out. He thought he had detected indications that the batter would be more easily deceived by such a delivery.

Dunk, glancing about to see that all his supporting players were in position, shook his head in opposition to Andy’s signal. Then he signed that he would shoot an in-curve.

Andy had his doubts as to the wisdom of this, but it was too late to change for Dunk was winding up for his delivery. A moment later he sent in the ball with vicious force. Andy had put out his hands to gather it into his big mitt, but it was not to be.

With a resounding thud the bat met the ball squarely and sent it over center field in a graceful ascending curve that bid fair to carry it far.

“Oh, what a pretty one!”

“Right on the nose!”

“Didn’t he swat it! Go on, you beggar! Run! Run!”

“Make it a home run!”

The crowd of Princeton adherents had leaped to their feet, and were cheering like mad.

“Go on, old man!”

“Take another base. He can’t get it!”

“Go to third!”

“Come on home!”

The centerfielder had been obliged to run back after the far-knocked ball. It was seen that he could not possibly get under it, but he might field it home in time to save a score.

The runner, going wildly, looked to get a signal from the coach. He received it, in a hasty gesture, telling him to stay at third. He stayed, panting from his speed, while the Princeton lads kept up their cheering.

“Now will you feed us some more of those hot cross buns?” cried a wag to Dunk.

“Make him eat out of the bean trough!”

“He’s got a glass arm!”

“Swat it, Kelly! A home run and we’ll score two!”

This was cried to the next man up. Dunk looked at Andy and shrugged his shoulders. His guessing had not been productive of much good to Yale, for the first man had gotten just the kind of a ball he wanted. Dunk made up his mind to be more wary.

“Play for the runner,” Andy signaled to his chum, meaning to make an effort to kill off the run, and not try to get the batsman out in case of a hit.

“All right,” Dunk signaled back.

“Ball one!” howled the umpire, after the first delivery.

“That’s the way! Make him give you a nice one.”

“Take your time! Wait for what you want!” This was the advice given the batter.

And evidently the man at the plate got the sort of ball he wanted, for he struck at and hit the next one—hit it cleanly and fairly, and it sailed out toward left field.

“Get it!” cried the Yale captain.

The fielder was right under it—certainly it looked as though he could not miss. The batsman was speeding for first, while the man on third was coming home, and the crowd was yelling wildly.

Andy had thrown off his mask, and was waiting at home for the ball, to kill off the player speeding in from third.

“Here’s where we make a double play!” he exulted, for the man going to first had stumbled slightly, and was out of his stride. It looked as though it could be done. But alas for the hopes of Yale! The fielder got the ball fairly in his hands, but whether he was nervous, or whether the ball had such speed that it tore through, was not apparent. At any rate, he muffed the fly.

“Good-night!”

“That settles it!”

“Go on, Ranter! Go on, Cooney!”

Coaches, the captain, Princeton players and the crowd of Tiger sympathizers were wildly calling to the two runners. And indeed they were coming on.

Andy groaned. He could not help it. Dunk threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. The fielder, with a gulp and a gone feeling at the pit of his stomach, picked up the muffed ball, and threw it to second. It was the only play left. And the batsman, who had started to make his two-bagger, went back to first. But the run had come in.

“That’s the way we do it!”

“Come on, fellows, the qlOrange and Black’ song!”

“No, the new one! qlWatch the Tiger Claw the Bulldog!q”

The cheer leaders were trying to decide on something with which to celebrate the drawing of “first blood.”

The grandstands were a riot of waving yellow and black, while, on the other side, the blue banners dropped most disconsolately. But it was not for long.

“Come on, boys!” cried the plucky Yale captain. “That’s only one run. We only need three out and we’ll show ’em what we can do! Every man on the job! Lively! Play ball!”

Dunk received the horsehide from the second baseman, and began to wind up for his next delivery. He narrowly watched the man on first, and once nearly caught him napping. Several times Dunk threw to the initial sack, in order to get the nerve of the runner. Then he suddenly stung in one to the man at the plate.

“Strike—one!” yelled the umpire. The batter gave a sign of protest, but he thought better of any verbal comment.

“That’s the way!” cried the Yale captain. “Two more like that, and he’s down!”

Dunk did it, though the man struck one foul which Andy muffed, much to his chagrin.

“Give ’em the Boola song!” called a Yale cheer leader, and it was rousingly sung. This seemed to make the Yale players have more confidence, and they were on their mettle. But, though they did their best, Princeton scored two more runs, and, with this lead against her, Yale came to the bat.

“Steady all!” counseled the captain. “We’re going to win, boys.”

But it did not seem so, when the first inning ended with no score for Yale. Princeton’s pitcher was proving his power, and he was well supported. Man after man—some of them Yale’s best hitters—went down before his arm.

The situation looked desperate. In spite of the frantic cheering of the Yale freshmen, it seemed as if her players could not take the necessary brace.

“Fellows, come here!” yelled the captain, when it came time for Andy and his chums to take the field after a vain attempt to score. “We’ve got to do something. Dunk, I want you to strike out a couple of men for a change!”

“I—I’ll do it!” cried the pitcher.

Then Dunk pulled himself together, and the Tiger’s lead was cut down. Once the game was a tie Yale’s chances seemed to brighten, and when she got a lead of one run in the eighth her cohorts went wild, the stand blossoming forth into a waving mass of blue.

This good feeling was further added to when Princeton was shut out without a run in the beginning of the ninth, and as Andy, Dunk and the other Yale players came in, having won the game, they received an ovation for their victory.

Ikey Stein, sitting in the grandstand near an elderly gentleman, yelled, shouted and stamped his feet at the Yale victory.

“You seem wonderfully exercised about it, my young friend,” remarked the elderly gentleman. “Did you have a large wager up on this game?”

“No, sir, but now I can sell two dollars worth of socks,” replied Ikey, hurrying off to get Dunk and Andy to redeem their promises.

“Hum, very strange college customs these days—very strange,” murmured the elderly gentleman, shaking his head.