“Didn’t the Hebrews have a feeling like the one you tell of?  Isn’t there a psalm that begins ’I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help’?  Didn’t they describe the high hills that were round about Jerusalem?”

“Ah, yes.  That is true,” assented the professor in some confusion.  “I had not thought of it in that light precisely.  You have given me a new insight to-day, Mr. Phelps.  I shall at once go over my data again.  I am grateful to you for acceding to my request to remain to-day.”

“But, professor,” persisted Will, “what about my work in Greek?  I’ve had a tutor ever since you told me to get one and I’ve been working hard too.  Today I didn’t do very well, but I was so excited about the fever, for Peter John—­I mean Schenck—­is one of the fellows to come down with it, you know, and we’ve been telephoning and telegraphing home—­”

“Ah, yes.  But you heard my remarks to-day concerning the necessity of increased work in Greek as a preventive, did you not?”

“I did.  But, professor, I’m willing to work.  If I’m to be shut out of the exam—­I mean the examination—­as you seem to think I will, anyway, I don’t see any use in my trying any more.”

The expression on the professor’s face became instantly harder as he said, “I fawncy the effort to curry favor with the various members of the faculty is not very popular with the student body.”

“Do you think I’m trying to ’boot-lick’?” demanded Will quickly.

“I look upon that term as somewhat objectionable, but I fawncy in the vernacular of college life it is one that is quite expressive.”

“I’m not trying to boot-lick you or any other professor!” retorted Will, now feeling angry and insulted as well.  “I didn’t stay here to-day because I wanted to.  You yourself asked me to do it.  And I asked you a perfectly fair question.  I knew I hadn’t been doing very well, but after I saw you I’ve been trying, honestly trying, to do better.  And all the encouragement you give me is to say that if I work harder I may almost come up to the passing mark.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Phelps, but you are the one to change your record, not I. All I do is merely to jot down what you have been doing.  I do not do the work—­I merely record it.”

For a moment Will Phelps was almost speechless with anger.  He felt outraged and insulted in every fibre of his being.  He hastily bade the professor good-morning, and, seizing his cap, rushed for his room, a great fear being upon him that unless he instantly departed he would say or do something for which he would have a lifelong regret.

As he burst into his room he found Foster already there, and, flinging his books savagely across the room, Will seated himself in his easy-chair and glared at his room-mate.

“Why?  What’s wrong?  What’s happened, Will?” demanded Foster, in astonishment.

“Oh, I’ve just had another delightful interview with old Splinter.  He’s the worst I ever struck yet!”