“No, a stretcher!”

“What a horrible pun,” mourned Amy.  “Say, suppose we drop in on Jack Innes?”

“Suppose we do,” replied Clint cheerfully.  “Who is he?”

“Football captain, you ignoramus.  Maybe if you don’t act fresh and he takes a liking to you he will resign and let you be captain.”

“Won’t it look—­well, sort of funny?” asked Clint doubtfully as they passed along the Bow.

“What?  You being captain?”

“No, our going—­I mean my going to see him, Won’t he think I’m trying to—­to swipe?”

“Poppycock!  Jack’s a particular friend of mine.  You don’t have to tell him you want a place on the team, do you?  Besides, there’ll likely be half a dozen others there.  Here we are; one flight.”

They turned in the first entrance of Hensey and climbed the stairs.  Innes’s room, like Clint’s, faced the stair-well, being also Number 14, and from behind the closed door came a babel of voices.

“Full house tonight,” observed Amy, knocking thunderously.  But the knocking wasn’t heard inside and, after a moment, Amy turned the knob and walked in, followed by Clint.  Nearly a dozen boys were crowded in the room and each of the two small beds sagged dangerously under the weight it held.

“We knocked,” said Amy, “but you hoodlums are making so much noise that—­”

“Hi, Amy!  How’s the boy?” called a youth whose position facing the door allowed him to discover the newcomers.  Heads turned and other greetings followed.  It was evident to Clint that his room-mate was a popular chap, for everyone seemed thoroughly glad to see him.

“Come here, Amy,” called a big fellow who was sprawled in a Morris chair.  Amy good-naturedly obeyed the summons and the big fellow pulled up a leg of the other boy’s trousers.  “They’re grey, fellows,” he announced sorrowfully.  “Someone’s gone and died, and Amy’s in mourning!”

“Grey!” exclaimed another.  “Never.  Amy, tell me it isn’t true!”

“Shut up!  I want to interdoodle my most bosom friend, Mr. Clinton Thayer, of Vay-gin-yah, sah!  Clint, take off your hat.”

The merriment ceased and the occupants of the room got to their feet as best they might and those within reach shook hands.

“That large lump over there,” indicated Amy, “is Innes.  He’s one of your hosts.  The other one is Mr. Still; in the corner of the bed; the intelligent-looking youth.  The others don’t matter.”

“Glad to know you, Thayer,” said Jack Innes in a deep, jovial voice.  “Hope you can find a place to sit down.  I guess that bed near you will hold one more without giving way.”

Clint somewhat embarrassedly crowded on to a corner of the bed and Amy perched himself on an arm of the Morris chair.  A smallish, clever-looking fellow across the room said:  “You’re a punk introducer, Amy.  Thayer, my name’s Marvin, and this chap is Hall and the next one is Edwards, and Still you know, and then comes Ruddie, and Black—­”