At first there was no response, but when the signal had been thrice repeated both boys heard the voice of their friend apparently coming from behind the bushes growing on the bank directly beside them.

“All alone, Will?” called Peter John timidly.

“Yes.  Yes.  Where are you, Peter John?” responded Will, peering about him, but as yet unable to determine where his friend was hiding.

“Here I am.”

“Where’s that?”

“Right here.”

“Come out here where we are.  Stand up like a little man and be counted.”

“Sure nobody’s with you?”

“Foster’s here, that’s all.”

Slowly Peter John arose from his hiding-place and peered anxiously about him.  “It’s all right.  Come on!” called Will encouragingly.  Thus bidden, Peter John stepped forth, still holding tightly in his grasp his precious carpet-bag.  Will Phelps did not even laugh nor did he have any inclination to do so as he perceived how genuine was the suffering of the terrified boy.

“You needn’t be afraid now, Peter John,” he said soothingly.  “You’re all right.”

“That was a close call.”

“Call for what?” demanded Foster sharply.  Will turned and looked in surprise at his room-mate, for the tone of his voice was very unlike that which he had used when he had insisted that they should go to the aid of their classmate.

“I tell you they were after me!” said Peter John, wiping his brow with a huge handkerchief as he spoke.

“Who were after you?” demanded Foster still more sharply.

“The sophomores.”

“Don’t you believe it!”

“Why, they’d have got me if I hadn’t put in my prettiest.”

“Nobody would have paid any attention to you if you hadn’t run.  You drew it all on yourself and have no one else to blame.”

“Guess you weren’t there when I landed!  They gave such a yell when I started from the cars as I never heard before in all my born days.”

“Did you think they were yelling for you?”

“Of course I did.  I knew they’d be waiting for me.”

“Peter John, you’ve made a fool of yourself.  There wasn’t a soul there except Will and me that knew there was such a fellow in all the world as Peter John Schenck.  Everybody in college will know it now, though.”

“What made ’em yell so, then?” demanded Peter John.

“They weren’t yelling for you at all.  They were cheering for Baker, the captain of the football team.  He was just ahead of you.”

“They were?”

“That’s what I said.”  Foster smiled slightly as he spoke, for the expression upon the face of Peter John was a study.  Consternation, incredulity, and partial unbelief in what Foster had said were all expressed there, and his entire attitude was so indescribably ludicrous as almost to be pathetic.

“Swan!  I didn’t know that,” he said at last slowly.

“Well, you know it now.”