in the interrupted task of shaving. Stover, a little
dismayed at his own audacity, sought to conciliate his future
roommate.

"Mister White, I say, where'll I stow my duds?"

No answer.

"I'm sorry--I didn't mean to be fresh. Which is my bureau?"

The razor, suddenly extended, pointed between the windows. Stover,
crestfallen, hastily sorted out the contents of his bag and silently
ranged collars and neckties, waiting hopefully for a word. Suddenly he
remembered the properties of the Pennsylvania Railroad and, sorting
out the signs, he advanced on Butsey White, saying:

"I brought these along--thought they might help decorate the room, Mr.
White."

Butsey White gazed at the three stolen signs and grunted a somewhat
mollified approval.

"Got anything else?"

"A couple of sporting prints coming in the trunk, sir."

"You want to get everything you can lay your hands on when you go
home. Now run on down and report to Fuzzy-Wuzzy--Mr. Jenkins. He'll be
waiting for you. After lunch I'll take you up to the village and fit
you out."

"I say, that's awfully good of you."

"Oh, that's all right."

"Say, I didn't mean to be fresh."

"Well, you were."

White, having carefully noted the ravages of the razor, turned from
the looking-glass and surveyed the penitent Stover.

"Well, what _did_ they fire you for?" he said point-blank.

"They fired me----" began Stover slowly, and stopped.

"Out with it," said Butsey militantly.

But at that moment the voice of Mr. Jenkins summoned Stover below, and
left the great question unanswered.

III

The interview with the house master was not trying. Mr. Jenkins was a
short, fuzzy little man, who looked him over with nervous concern,
calculating what new strain on his temper had arrived; introduced him
to Mrs. Jenkins, and seized the occasion of the luncheon-bell to cut
short the conversation.

At lunch Stover committed an unpardonable error which only those who
have suffered can understand--he sent his plate up for a second
helping of prunes.

"What in the name of peanuts did you do that for?" said Butsey in a
whisper, while the Coffee-colored Angel jabbed him with his elbow and
trod on his toes. "Now you _have_ put your foot in it!"

Stover looked up to behold every countenance grim and outraged.

"What's wrong?" he said in a whisper.

"Wrong? Didn't you ever have prunes and skimmed milk before, thousands
and thousands of times?"

"Yes, but----"

"Yo