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 but close to none. He was going to miss Clif a whole lot; was missing him already, in fact. And there was Billy, too; and Loring Deane. They were, all three, corking chaps, and back home there wouldn't be any one to take their places. If it wasn't that it was already too late—

He pushed his suitcase forward where he could set his feet on it, let his knees dig into the back of the seat in front, and moodily stared along the length of the ill-lighted coach. No, it was too late to change his mind. Study hour was almost over now, and they'd have discovered his absence long since. Besides, there probably wasn't any way of getting back, even if he wanted to; and, of course, he didn't. Wyatt had played him a rotten trick, and to-morrow the old pest would maybe realize it! And, anyway, what was the good of being back there when he couldn't play football again this season? Heck, he had done just what any fellow with an ounce of gumption and spirit would do, and he was glad of it!

These reflections brought him to the lights of the junction, and a few minutes later he was descending the car steps, one of a half-hundred passengers from the north. To find himself staring into the solemnly respectful countenance of Wattles was such a surprising experience that it was several seconds before he found his voice, and during those seconds his suitcase was removed from his grasp. Finally: "Why, Wattles, were you on that train?" he exclaimed.

"No, sir, I came by car," replied the other. "Quite