Bartlett Cloud, since his encounter with Joel on the field the afternoon that he was put off the team, had had nothing to say to him, though his looks when they met were always dark and threatening.  But in a school as large as Hillton there is plenty of room to avoid an objectionable acquaintance, so long as you are not under the same roof with him, and consequently Cloud and Joel seldom met.  The latter constantly regretted having made an enemy of the other, but beyond this regret his consideration of Cloud seldom went.

So far Joel had not found an opportunity to accept the invitation that Remsen had extended to him, though that invitation had since been once or twice repeated.  But to-night West and he had made arrangement to visit Remsen at his room, and had obtained permission from Professor Wheeler to do so.  The two boys met at the gymnasium after supper was over and took their way toward the village.  West had armed himself with a formidable stick, in the hope, loudly expressed at intervals, that they would be set upon by tramps.  But Remsen’s lodgings were reached without adventure, and the lads were straightway admitted to a cosey study, wherein, before an open fire, sat Remsen and a guest.  After a cordial welcome from Remsen the guest was introduced as Albert Digbee.

“Yes, we know each other,” said West, as he shook hands.  “We both room in Hampton, but Digbee’s a grind, you know, and doesn’t care to waste his time on us idlers.”  Digbee smiled.

“It isn’t inclination, West; I don’t have the time, and so don’t attempt to keep up with you fellows.”  He shook Joel’s hand.  “I’m glad to meet you.  I’ve heard of you before.”

Then the quartet drew chairs up to the blaze, and, as Remsen talked, Joel examined his new acquaintance.

Digbee was a year older than West and Joel.  He was in the senior class, and was spoken of as one of the smartest boys in the school.  Although a Hampton House resident, he seldom was seen with the others save at the table, and was usually referred to among themselves as “Dig,” both because that suggested his Christian name and because, as they said, he was forever digging at his books.  In appearance Albert Digbee was a tall, slender, but scarcely frail youth, with a cleanly cut face that looked, in the firelight, far too pale.  His eyes were strikingly bright, and though his smiles were infrequent, his habitual expression was one of eager and kindly interest.  Joel had often come across him in class, and had long wanted to know him.

“You see, boys,” Remsen was saying, “Digbee here is of the opinion that athletics in general and football in particular are harmful to schools and colleges as tending to draw the attention of pupils from their studies, and I maintain the opposite.  Now, what’s your opinion, West?  Digbee and I have gone over it so often that we would like to hear some one else on the subject.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied West.  “If fellows would give up football and go in for golf, there wouldn’t be any talk about athletics being hurtful.  Golf’s a game that a chap can play and get through with and have some time for study.  You don’t have to train a month to play for an hour; it’s a sport that hasn’t become a business.”