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194 Langridge seems to be getting mixed up with me. This is twice I've had to suffer on his account. I'd like—yes, hang it all, what's the use of pretending to yourself—I'd like to take it out of him—in some way. It's not fair—that's what!"

The thought of Langridge brought another sort of musing to Tom. He saw a certain fair face, with pouting lips and bright, dancing eyes, a face framed in a fluffy mass of hair, and he fancied he could hear a little laugh, a mocking little laugh.

"Worse and worse," growled Tom to himself. "You're getting dopy. Better go take a long walk."

He kicked impatiently at a stone in the path and wheeled around just as a voice exclaimed:

"Ah, Parsons, admiring the windows? The color effects are never so beautiful as early morning and the evening. The garish light of day seems to make them common. But—er—are you going to recitation? If so, I'll walk along with you," and genial Dr. Churchill, with a friendly nod of his head and a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, came closer to the lad.

Tom wondered if the good doctor knew of the punishment that had just been meted out. If he did not he soon would have the report of the proctor for confirmation.

"I've been suspended," blurted out Tom. "I was going to my room to study."