“But how do you get through?” questioned Joel.

“I will tell you.”  The stout youth leaned over and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.  “I belong to the same society as ‘Wheels,’ and he doesn’t dare expel me.”

“I wish,” said Joel in the laugh that followed, “that I could join that society.”

“Easy enough,” answered Cooke earnestly.  “I will put your name up at our next meeting.  All you have to do is to forget all the Greek and Latin and higher mathematics you ever knew, give your oath never to study again, and appear at chapel two consecutive mornings in thigh boots and a plaid ulster.”

Despite West’s pleas Joel refused to “cut” his recitation, promising, however, to follow to the station as soon as he might.

“It’s only a long mile,” West asserted.  “If you cut across Turner’s meadow you’ll make it in no time.  And the train isn’t due until three.  You’ll see me standing on the truck.”  And so Joel had promised, and later, from the seclusion of the schoolroom, which to-day was well-nigh empty, had heard the procession take its way down the road, headed by the school band, which woke the echoes with the brave strains of the Washington Post March.

To-day the Aeneid lost much of its interest, and when the recitation was over Joel clapped his new brown felt hat on his head—­for West had conducted him to the village outfitter the preceding day—­and hurried up to his room to leave his book and pad.  “Dickey” Sproule was stretched out upon the lounge—­a piece of personal property of which he was very proud—­reading Kenilworth.

“Hello!” cried Joel, “why aren’t you over at the lab?  Isn’t this your day for exploding things?” Sproule looked up and yawned.

“Oh, I cut it.  What’s the good of knowing a lot of silly chemistry stuff when you’re going to be an author?”

“I should say it might be very useful to you; but I’ve never been an author, and perhaps I’m mistaken.  Want to go to the station?”

“What, to meet that stuck-up Remsen?  I guess not.  Catch me walking a mile and a half to see him!”

“Well, I’m going,” answered Joel.  An inarticulate growl was the only response, and Joel took the stairs at leaps and bounds, and nearly upset Mrs. Cowles in the lower hall.

“Dear me, Mr. March!” she exclaimed, as together they gathered up a load of towels, “is it only you, then?  I thought surely it was a dozen boys at least.”

“I’m very sorry,” laughed Joel.  “I’m going to the station.  Mr. Remsen is coming, you know.  Have I spoiled these?”

“No, indeed.  So Mr. Remsen’s coming.  Well, run along.  I’d go myself if I wasn’t an old woman.  I knew Mr. Remsen ten years ago, and a more bothersome lad we never had.  He had Number 15, and we never knew what to expect next.  One week he’d set the building on fire with his experiments, and the next he’d break all the panes in the window with his football.  But then