than in Perry Hall and more in accord with Peter John’s pocket.  In school he had been made the butt of many a joke, but his fund of good nature had never rebelled and his persistence was never broken.  Tall, ungainly, his trousers seemed to be in a perpetual effort to withdraw as far as possible from his boots, while his hands and wrists apparently were continually striving to evade the extremities of his coat sleeves.  His face was freckled, not the ordinary freckles produced by the heat of the sun, but huge splotches that in color almost matched his auburn-tinted hair—­at least his sister was prone to declare that the color of his hair was “auburn,” though his less reverent schoolmates were accustomed to refer to him as a “brick-top.”

But Peter John was undeterred by the guying of his mates, and when he had first declared his intention to go to college his words had been received as a joke.  But it was soon discovered that in whatever light they might be received by others, to Peter John himself they were the expression of a fixed purpose; and so it came to pass that he too had passed the entrance examinations and was duly enrolled as a member of the freshman class in Winthrop College.

When his determination had been accepted by his mates, some of them had made use of their opportunities to enlarge upon the perils that lay before him—­perils for the most part from the terrible sophomores who were supposed to be going about seeking their prey with all the fierceness of a roaring lion.  Peter John had listened to the marvelous tales that were poured into his ears, but so far as his expression of face was concerned, apparently they had been without effect.  Nevertheless, deep in his heart Peter John had stored them all and his fear of the class above him had increased until at last just before he departed from home he had written to his friend Will Phelps informing him of his fears and begging that he and Foster would meet him at the station and protect him from the fierce onslaughts, which, he confessed, he expected would await him upon his arrival.  This letter Will Phelps had found at the little post office when he made inquiries for his mail, and upon his return to his room it had provided the basis for the conversation already recorded.

“We’d better go right down to the station, then, Will,” Foster had said.

“All right.  Peter John will be in mortal terror if he shouldn’t find us there.  He probably believes the sophs will have a brass band and knives and guns and will be drawn up on the platform ready to grab him just the minute he steps off the car.”

“Not quite so bad as that,” laughed Foster.  “But we’ll have to help the poor chap out.”

“Sure.  Come on, then,” called Will as he seized his cap and started toward the hallway.

“Hold on a minute.  Wait till I lock the door.”

“‘Lock the door?’ Not much!  You mustn’t do that.”

“Why not?”