“Good boy!” laughed Frank, his face full of satisfaction.  “Shake!”

They clasped hands.

Rat-tat-tat!  A knock at the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Dismal Jones, his face longer and sadder than usual, came slouching into the room.

“Hello, Jones, old boy!” cried Frank, cheerfully.  “What is troubling you now?  You look like a funeral.”

“I’m mad,” said Dismal in a spiritless way.

“Is that what ails you?  I’d never suspected it from your appearance.”

“Appearances are oftentimes deceitful,” croaked Jones.  “Whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.”

“Well, sit down and tell us all about it,” invited Frank, offering a chair.  “My boy, it must be that you are studying too hard.  You have the outward appearance of a greasy grind.”

“What’s that I just told you about appearances?  You are too hasty in your judgments.  The trouble with me this evening is that I have found out something.”

“I never supposed it would trouble you like this.”

“Wait.  You do not know what it is.”

“That’s right.  What is it?”

Frank was familiar with Dismal’s queer ways, and he knew it was not easy to tell when this son of a “shouting Methodist” was jollying and when he was in earnest; but now he was convinced that Jones was really serious, and he felt that there must be some cause for it.

Harry, strangely sobered and silent, sat listening.  He could not understand Jones, and he was on his guard, knowing how often the fellow turned into a farce what seemed a serious matter.

Dismal locked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs.  He cleared his throat and then said: 

“Merry, what would you say if I were to tell everything I could find out about our crew to the sophs?”

“I should say you were a confounded sneak!”

“Hum!  I kinder thought you’d say something like that.”

“But you do not know too much about the crew.”

“I know something, and I could know more if I had a mind to.  All I would have to do would be to play the spy a little.”

“Well, I suppose that is right.  What about it?”

“Somebody is playing the spy.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve got it straight enough, for the sophs know all about what our crew is doing.  They are laughing over the Oxford stroke and the English oars.”

“How do you know this?”

“Heard ’em.”

“When?”

“To-night.”

“Where?”

“On the street.  Browning and a party were going down to Morey’s, and they were having a high old time with Hartwick, who was explaining the advantages of the stroke and the oars our crew has adopted.”

“That’s not proof that somebody has played the spy.  It may have slipped out through the carelessness of some of our men.”

“It may.  But I don’t think so.  I heard Emery ask Hartwick how he knew so much about us.”