“Do they?” March cast a glance over his own worn apparel.  “Then I guess I must try their eyes a good deal.”

“Well, I wouldn’t care—­much,” answered West halfheartedly.  “Though of course that hat—­”

“Yes, I suppose it is a little late for straws.”  West nodded heartily.  “I was going to get a felt in Boston, but—­well, I saw something else I wanted worse; and it was my own money.”

“What was it?” asked West curiously.

“A book.”  West whistled.

“Well, you can get a pretty fair one in the village at Grove’s.  And—­and a pair of trousers if you want them.”

March nodded, noncommittingly.  They had reached the gymnasium.

“I’m going in for a shower,” said West.  “You’d better come along.”  March shook his head.

“I guess not to-night.  It’s most supper time, and I want to read a little first.  Good-night.”

“Good-night,” answered West.  “I’m awfully much obliged for what you did, you know.  Come and see me to-morrow if you can; Number 2 Hampton.  Good-night.”

Joel March turned and retraced his steps to his dormitory.  He found his roommate reading at the table when he entered Number 34.  Sproule looked up and observed: 

“I saw you with Outfield West a moment ago.  It looks rather funny for a ‘grind,’ as you profess to be, hobnobbing with a Hampton House swell.”

“I haven’t professed to be a ‘grind,’” answered Joel quietly, as he opened his Greek.

“Well, your actions profess it.  And West will drop you quicker than a hot cake when he finds it out.  Why, he never studies a lick!  None of those Hampton House fellows do.”

March made no answer, but presently asked, in an effort to be sociable: 

“What are you reading?”

“The Three Cutters; ever read it?”

“No; what’s it about?”

“Oh, pirates and smuggling and such.”

“I should think it would be first rate.”

“It is.  I’d let you take it after I’m through, only it isn’t mine; I borrowed it from Billy Cozzens.”

“Thanks,” answered Joel, “but I don’t believe I’d have time for it.”

“Humph!” grunted Sproule.  “There you are again, putting on airs.  Just wait until you’ve been here two or three months; I guess I won’t hear so much about study then.”

Joel received this taunt in silence, and, burying his head in his hands, tackled the story of Cyrus the Younger.  Joel had already come to a decision regarding Richard Sproule, a decision far from flattering to that youth.  But in view of the fact that the two were destined to spend much of their time together, Joel recognized the necessity of making the best of his roommate, and of what appeared to be an unsatisfactory condition.  During the two days that Joel had been in school Sproule had nagged him incessantly upon one subject or another, and so far Joel had borne the persecution in silence.  “But some day,” mused Joel, “I’ll just have to punch his head!”