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knocked vigorously on the door of Bert Bascome's room. If the character of his summons was any indication of his mind, the bearer of the letter was in no mood for compromise. As soon as he had tapped at the portal, there was audible within the apartment a hasty scramble.

"Guess they must think it's Zane, or Prexy," mused Tom, grimly. He waited several seconds, and then came the gentle and somewhat sleep-simulated query:

"Who's there?"

"It's me—Parsons," was the ready, if ungrammatical, answer. "Are you there, Bascome?"

"Yes, of course. I thought it was one of the profs. It's all right, fellows—you can come out," and, as the door opened, Tom saw several of Bascome's friends crawling from under the bed and couch. There was a smell of cigarette smoke quite noticeable in the room.