One of the mild amusements of this spring for Magnus was watching Rig. For Mr. McLean had fallen in love. Not deeply, for that implies certain other depths—or hopelessly, for there was every likelihood that he would get out again all safe; but unmanageably. Unutterably, Rig called it, and Magnus unendurably.

So the young man mooned over photographs, sported (in his room) an end of pink riband; tumbled his hair all he could, and went down in everything.

"I say, Rig!" Magnus admonished him one night, "keep out of the 'immortals,' whatever else you do."

"I cannot do much of anything," Rig answered mournfully.

"Well, I'd try, if I died in the effort," said Magnus. "Bone chevrons; your charmer has a quick eye for them."

"She has a quick eye for everything."

"Wearing bell buttons." But Rig did not heed him.

"Confess, Kin, you never saw such eyes."

"Only about five hundred and forty times, when I used to go cat-fishing. Ever notice catfish eyes, Rig?"

"They're so blue!" said Cadet McLean. "So deeply, darkly——"

"If you don't shut up," Magnus shouted at him, "I'll try if I can't shake some sense into you. Quit sighing like a furnace. You nearly blew the gas out."

"Of course I can't expect you to understand," said Rig. "You live only in books, far away from all this sort of thing."

"I hope so, this sort," said Magnus.

"You see, my heart is larger than my head," said Mr. McLean. "Always was."

But now Magnus threw down his book, and pitched into his friend very literally; pounding him, hustling him, getting him into a real fisticuff fight to protect himself.

"Feel better, don't you?" said Mr. Kindred, when the two faced each other, flushed and panting. "Balance of power restored?"

"I don't know how I feel!" said McLean. "I've lost all my ideas."

"Well, don't advertise them at any high figure," said Magnus.

"Sit down and study, like a reasonable being. If I were a woman, I wouldn't look at a man who couldn't hold his head up when my back was turned."

"It is quite impossible for me to look at a book," said Rig.

"Very good; sit still and sigh, and I'll write your explanation."

"To whom? What about?" Rig sat up now and gazed at him.

"To the Prof. To-morrow. As follows:

"'Sir: I have the honour to state that I have fallen into a six-inch mud puddle, and cannot get out in time for recitation. So wave motion must wait.'"

"Stuff!" McLean said rather angrily. "Stuff, and nothing but stuff. Rig, when you get fired in June, your dear devoted will not turn her head to see which way you go to take the train. Not much!" said Magnus, relieving his feelings with a bit of slang, and then diving into his own problems for the next day. And Rig could get neither word nor look more that night. But whatever traditions may say, unlimited chocolate creams do not help a man with his tactics; nor does plum cake after taps provide him a clear head for next day's wave motion.

"You could make better marks, Mr. McLean," said the Superintendent one day, meeting Rig. "Why don't you, sir?"

And if Rig had been openly honest, he would have answered:

"Love—and mince pie, sir."

Magnus scolded his friend, fought him, jeered him; then tried other measures.

The days were softening and lengthening, with grass and flowers on the jump. Visitors were arriving in numbers; and for Magnus had come, from away across the continent, a bunch of snowdrops in Cherry's last letter. Somehow his own great happiness made the young cadet anxious for his friend.

"Look here, Trent," he said one day to another classmate, "can't you pitch in and spoon that Curry girl? Rig will be ruined."

"Spoon her yourself."

"Haven't time. One more will make no difference to you."

"Thanks. Rig will put a bullet in my head, if he suspects."

"Well, your brain always did need fresh air," said Magnus, "so that will fit. Why, to-day, in the section room, Hammer asked him the colour of old red sandstone,—and Rig answered: "'Blue, Lieutenant.'"

"Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Trent. "But isn't this rather a queer business to be talked up by our high and mighty magnate of the tender conscience? The man who keels over at the mere sight of a 'pony.'"

"Pshaw! if it was some girls," said Magnus. "But it will make no difference to her either. You've both worn your hearts out—supposing you ever had any."

"Thanks—awfully! And you think Miss Curry might be induced to hand over 'those fossil remains that she terms her affections' to me?"

"To your temporary care. You wear chevrons," said Magnus. "And your affections are as fossilised as hers, allowing for the argument's sake that such things ever existed. Just stroll up on the other side, when Rig's around. She'll be delighted. And as neither of you could possibly fall in love with anybody, there'll be nobody hurt."

"Except Rig."

"Rig!" Magnus said impatiently. "Rig ought to be cut in little pieces and sewed up some other way."

"Kin," said Mr. Trent, striking an easy attitude across the back of a chair, "you amuse me."

"Well, clear out and amuse yourself," said Magnus. "I've got a previous with this old book. And if Catkins finds you here, you'll be skinned for all he is worth."

Which warning Mr. Trent saw fit to heed.