“Torrence.”  Amy stopped and viewed him With sudden interest.  “Say, what number?”

“Fourteen.”

“Well, what do you know about that?”

“What?” Clint faltered.

“Why—­why—­” Amy seized his hand and shook it vigorously.  “Clint, I want to congratulate you!  I do, indeed!”

Clint smiled.  “Thanks, Byrd, but what about?”

“Byrd?” murmured the other disappointedly.  “Is that the best you can do after our long acquaintance?  You—­you grieve me!”

“Amory, then,” laughed Clint.

“Call me Amy,” begged the other.  “You’ll call me worse than that when you’ve known me longer, but for now let it be Amy.”

“All right.  And now, please, what am I being congratulated for?”

Amy’s face became suddenly earnest and sober, “Because, my young friend, you are especially fortunate.  A kindly Providence has placed you in the care of one of the wisest, most respected, er—­finest examples of young manhood this institution affords.  I certainly do congratulate you!”

Amy made another grab at Clint’s hand, but the latter foiled him.

“You mean the fellow I’m going to room with?” he asked.

“Exactly!  Faculty has indeed been good to you, Clint.  You will take up your abode with a youth in whom all the virtues and—­and excellencies—­”

“Who is he?” demanded Clint suspiciously.

“His name”—­Amy drew close and dropped his voice to an awed and thrilling whisper—­“his name is—­Are you prepared?”

“Go on.  Ill try to stand it.”

“His name, then, is Amory Munson Byrd!”

“Amory Mun—­”

“—­son Byrd!”

“You mean—­I’m in with you?”

“I mean just that, O fortunate youth!  Forward, sir!  Allow me to conduct you to your apartment!” And, putting his arm through Clint’s, he dragged that astonished youth into dormitory.

CHAPTER II

CAPTAIN INNES RECEIVES

“What’s that awful noise?” asked Clint startledly, looking up from his book.

It was the evening of the second day of school and Clint and Amy Byrd were preparing lessons at opposite sides of the green-topped table in Number 14 Torrence.

“That,” replied Amy, leaning back until his chair protested and viewing his room-mate under the shade of the drop-light, “is music.”

“Music!” Clint listened incredulously.  From the next room, by way of opened windows and transoms, came the most lugubrious wails he thought he had ever listened to.  “It—­it’s a fiddle, isn’t it?” he demanded.

Amy nodded.  “More respectfully, a violin.  More correctly a viol-din. (The joke is not new.) What you are listening to with such evident delight are the sweet strains of Penny Durkin’s violin.”  Amy looked at the alarm clock which decorated a corner of his chiffonier.  “Penny is twelve minutes ahead of time.  He’s not supposed to play during study-hour, you see, and unless I’m much mistaken he will be so informed before the night is much—­”