“As if you needed anything of that sort,” grinned Sam.  “The first thing you know, you’ll be eating so much that the college management will be charging you double for board.”

Down on the campus, Tom ran into Songbird. and, a few minutes later, William Philander Tubbs.  Songbird, as usual, had a pad and pencil in his hand.

“Composing verses, I suppose,” remarked Tom.  “What have you got now?”

“Oh, it isn’t so very much,” returned Songbird, hesitatingly.  “It’s a little poem I was writing about dogs.”

“Dogs!” chimed in William Philander.  “My gracious me!  What sort of poetry can you get up about dogs?  I must confess, I don’t like them.  Unless, of course, they are the nice little lap-dog kind.”

“This isn’t about a lap-dog, exactly,” returned Songbird.  “It’s about a watchdog.”

“Um!  By the way, Songbird, haven’t the Sandersons a new watchdog?”

“Yes.”  And now Songbird reddened a little.

“Well, let us have the poem, anyway.  I love dogs, and some poetry about them ought to run along pretty good.”

Thereupon, rather hesitatingly, Songbird held up his writing-pad and read the following: 

  “The sun sinks low far in the west—­
      The farmer plodeth home to rest,
   The watchdog, watching in the night,
      Assures him ev’ry thing is right.”

“Fine!” cried Tom.  “Real, dyed-in-the-wool poetry that, Songbird.  Give us some more.”  And then the would-be poet continued: 

   “The sun comes up and it is morn,
      The farmer goes to plow his corn,
   The watchdog, watching through the day,
      Keeps ev’ry tramp and thief away.”

   And be it night or be it day——­”

  “The watchdog’s there, and there to stay!”

continued Tom, and then on: 

  “The watchdog, watching in his sleep,
      Catches each flea and makes him weep!”

“Catching fleas indeed!” interrupted Songbird.  “Now, Tom, I didn’t have any fleas in this poem.”

“But all dogs have fleas, Songbird—­ they own them naturally.  You wouldn’t deprive a poor, innocent dog of his inheritance, would you?”

“But, Tom, see here——­”

“But I wanted to say the poem couldn’t be better,” went on the fun-loving Rover.  “Why don’t you send it to some of the dog journals?  They would be sure to print it.”

“Dog journals?” snorted the would-be poet.  “Do you think I write for such a class of publications as that?”

“Well, you might do worse,” responded Tom, coolly.  “Now, for a first-class journal, they ought to pay you at least a dollar a foot.”

“Oh, Tom, you are the worst ever!” murmured Songbird, as he turned away.  A few minutes later, Tom saw him sit down on a bench to compose verses as industriously as ever.

“I think I must be going,” said William Philander, who had listened to Songbird’s effort without making any comment.