A few more words followed, and then Songbird went off to hunt up the Flockley crowd.  On the campus he met Max Spangler.

“Yes, I saw them,” said the German-American student in answer to a question.  “They are down along the river, just above the boathouse.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll show you if you want me to,” went on Max.

“You might come along, if you have nothing else to do,” answered Songbird.

The two walked toward the river, and after a few minutes espied Flockley and the others sitting on some rocks, in the sun, talking earnestly.

“I want to hear what they are saying,” said Songbird.  “I have a special reason.”  And at Max’s look of surprise he told something of what had happened.

“If Koswell is that mean he ought to be exposed,” said Max.  “I don’t blame him for playing a trick on old Sharp, but to lay the blame on Tom—­why, that’s different.”

“Will you come along?”

“If you want me to.”

“I don’t want to drag you into trouble, Max.”

“I dink I can take care of myself,” answered the German-American student.

The pair passed around to the rear of the spot where Flockley and his cronies were located.  Here was a heavy clump of brushwood, so they were able to draw quite close without being seen.

The talk was of a general character for a while, embracing football and other college sports, and Songbird was disappointed.  But presently Jerry Koswell began to chuckle.

“I can’t help but think of the way I put it over Tom Rover,” he exclaimed.  “I’ll wager old Sharp will make him suffer good and proper.”

“Maybe they’ll suspend Rover,” said Bart Larkspur.  “But that would be carrying it pretty far, wouldn’t it?”

“They won’t suspend him, but he’ll surely be punished,” came from Dudd Flockley.  “By the way, are you sure it was a photo of Sharp’s best girl?”

“Yes; but she isn’t a girl, she’s a woman, and not particularly good-looking at that,” answered Jerry Koswell.

“Well, Sharp isn’t so very handsome,” answered Larkspur.  “His nose is as sharp as his name.”

“I suppose Rover will wonder how somebody got hold of that case of pencils and crayons,” remarked Flockley.  “If he—­”

“Hello, Max!” cried a voice from behind the bushes, and the next moment a stout youth landed on Max Spangler’s back, carrying him down with a crash in the brushwood.  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

At the interruption the whole Flockley crowd started to their feet, and turning, beheld not only Max and the boy who had come up so suddenly, but also Songbird.  The latter was nearest to them, and Koswell eyed him with sudden suspicion.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, while Max and his friend were wrestling in a good-natured way in the bushes.

“Oh, I’ve been listening to some interesting information,” answered Songbird.