“I wouldn’t want to show my face around Hillton afterward, and if I met Gardiner or ‘Wheels’ I’d take the other side of the street.”

“Oh, you would?” cried his room-mate.  “You’re trying to make yourself out a little fluffy angel, aren’t you?  And I suppose I’m not good enough to associate with you, am I?  Well, if that’s it, all I’ve got to say—­”

“But,” continued Neil equably, “if you accept Brill’s offer, so will I.”

Paul paused open-mouthed and stared at his chum.  Then his eyes dropped and he busied himself with a stubborn stocking.  Finally, with a muttered “Humph!” he gathered up his clothing and disappeared into the bedroom.  Neil turned and smiled at the flames and, finding his own apparel, followed.  Nothing more was said.  Paul splashed the water about even more than usual and tumbled silently into bed.  Neil put out the study light and followed suit.

“Good-night,” he said.

“Good-night,” growled Paul.

It had been a hard day and an exciting one, and Neil went to sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.  It seemed hours later, though in reality but some twenty minutes, that he was awakened by hearing his name called.  He sat up quickly.

“Hello!  What?” he shouted.

“Shut up,” answered Paul from across in the darkness.  “I didn’t know you were asleep.  I only wanted to say—­to tell you—­that—­that I’ve decided not to go to Robinson!”

CHAPTER III

IN NEW QUARTERS

Almost every one has heard of Erskine College.  For the benefit of the few who have not, and lest they confound it with Williams or Dartmouth or Bowdoin or some other of its New England neighbors, it may be well to tell something about it.  Erskine College is still in its infancy, as New England universities go, with its centennial yet eight years distant.  But it has its own share of historic associations, and although the big elm in the center of the campus was not planted until 1812 it has shaded many youths who in later years have by good deeds and great accomplishments endeared themselves to country and alma mater.

In the middle of the last century, when Erskine was little more than an academy, it was often called “the little green school at Centerport.”  It is not so little now, but it’s greener than ever.  Wide-spreading elms grow everywhere; in serried ranks within the college grounds, in smaller detachments throughout the village, in picket lines along the river and out into the country.  The grass grows lush wherever it can gain hold, and, not content with having its own way on green and campus, is forever attempting the conquest of path and road.  The warm red bricks of the college buildings are well-nigh hidden by ivy, which, too, is an ardent expansionist.  And where neither grass nor ivy can subjugate, soft, velvety moss reigns humbly.