“No use of talking, the minute I get to school I seem to get into trouble,” he soliloquized.  “Wonder if they’ll put me in a cell, like old Crabtree did at Putnam Hall?  If they do I’ll raise a kick, sure as eggs are unhatched chickens!”

Tom sat down to study, but he could not fix his mind on his lessons.  Then he heard somebody come along the hallway and turn into the next room.

“Must be Songbird, or else one of the servants,” he thought.  “Guess I’ll take a look.”  If it was Songbird, he could chat with his friend for a while.

He went to the next room.  As he opened the door he saw Songbird, with his back toward him.  The so-styled poet was waving his arms in the air and declaiming: 

  “The weeping winds were whispering through the wood,
    The rolling rill ran ’round the ragged rock;
  The shepherd, with his sunny, smiling face,
    Was far away to feed his flitting flock. 
  Deep in the dingle, dank and dark—­”

“I thought I heard an old crow bark!” finished Tom.  “Say, Songbird, how much is that poetry by the yard—­or do you sell it by the ton?” he went on.

At the sound of Tom’s voice the would-be poet gave a start.  But he quickly recovered.  He scowled for a moment and then took on a look of resignation.

“You’ve spoiled one of the best thoughts I ever had,” he said.

“Don’t you believe it, Songbird,” answered Tom.  “I’ve heard you make up poetry worth ten times that.  Don’t you remember that little sonnet you once composed, entitled ‘Who Put Ink in Willie’s Shoes?’ It was great, grand, sublime!”

“I never wrote such a sonnet!” cried Songbird.  “Ink in shoes, indeed!  Tom, you don’t know real poetry when you see it!”

“That’s a fact, I don’t.  But, say, what’s on the carpet, as the iceman said to the thrush?”

“Nothing.  I thought I’d write a few verses, that’s all.  Thought you were going to town with Sam and Dick?”

“Can’t.”  And once again Tom had to tell his story.  He had not yet finished when Songbird gave an exclamation.

“It fits in!” he cried.

“Fits in?  What?” asked Tom.

“What I heard a while ago.”

“What did you hear?”

“Heard Flockley, Koswell and Larkspur talking together.  Koswell said he had fixed you, and that you were having a bad half hour with the president.”

“Where was this?”

“In the library.  I was in an alcove, and they didn’t see me.  I was busy reading some poetry by Longfellow—­fine thing—­went like this—­”

“Never mind.  Chop out the poetry now, Songbird.  What more did they say?”

“Nothing.  They walked away, and I—­er—­I got so interested in making up verses I forgot all about it until now.”

“I wish you had heard more.  Do you know where they went to?”

“No, but I can look around if you want me to.”

“I wish very much that you would.  I can’t leave, or I’d go myself.”