“Shut up, and let a fellow sleep,” growled “Sandy,” from his bed in the corner.

“Indian?” exclaimed young Locke, sitting bolt upright; “this ain’t a Redskin school; he’s got to get put out, or I’m a deader.”

“You’ll be a deader if you try to put him out,” sneered Cop Billings; “first place he’s got an arm like braided whipcord, and he’s got a chin—­hanged determined swat-you-in-the-face sort of chin—­not a boiled-fish sort of jaw like yours,” and he glared at the unfortunate Locke with sneering disapproval.

“Where’d you see him?” ventured little chunky Johnny Miller, getting into his clothes.

“Saw him in the library as I passed.  The Head called me in and—­”

“Stow it! stow it!” they all yelled; then Locke jeered, “The Head is never up at six-thirty—­we are not rabbits.”

“Just where you get left; the Head was up at five-thirty and went to the station to meet mister Indian.”

“Well, I’ll be jing-banged,” exclaimed Sandy, nearly awake; “what’s the meaning of it all?”

“Meaning’s just this, my son,” replied Cop, getting out of his limited running togs into something more respectable, “that if you chumps guessed all day you’d never strike just how the Indian came to this school.  Who do you suppose wrote to the Head recommending him to take the Redskin, and kind of insinuating that the college would do well to treat him properly?  None other than His Excellency Lord Mortimer, Governor-General of ‘this Canada of ours.’  Now, Locke, will you act good and pretty, and take your bread and milk like a nice little tootsy-wootsy and allow the Indian to stay?”

“Whew!” bellowed Locke, “I guess I’m it, fellows.”

“Just found it out, eh?” answered Cop; then, as the first bell clanged throughout the building and hustling was in order, he proceeded to explain that as he passed the library door on his way to the baths, Professor Warwick called him in and introduced him to the tall, lithe Westerner, who had wonderfully easy manners, a skin like a tan-colored glove, and whose English was more attractive than marred by a strong accent that sounded “Frenchy.”

“When he found that I was heading for the baths he asked to come, too,” rattled Cop; “been on the train over three days and nights coming from Winnipeg; said he felt grimy, so I took him along.  Jingo, you should see his clothes—­silk socks, silk shirt, top-coat lined with mink, an otter collar—­must have cost hundreds.  Says I, ’Well, pal, your governor must be well fixed.’  Says he, ’My father is a trapper and trades with the Hudson’s Bay Company.  He trapped all these minks, and my other clothes—­oh, we buy those at the H.B.C. in Winnipeg.’  Wouldn’t that phase you, fellows?  But I forgot his clothes when I saw him strip.  Jiminy Christmas!  I never saw such a body.  I’m in bully training, but I’m a cow compared to ‘Shag.’”

“What a rum name!” said Locke, still a little resentful.