en his mouth opened, set, and
galvanically he rose to his feet, while the room seemed to tip up.

He grasped the desk to keep from slipping, never taking his eyes from
the Ciceronian countenance and the twinkling orbits above the slightly
twitching lips.

"Dear me," said a low, mocking voice with a curious rising and falling
infection, "who's here? Another delegate to this congress of
scintillating intelligences?"

"Yes, sir," said Dink in a whisper.

"Quite a valuable addition, I hope. Yes? What is the name?"

"John."

"Well--well?"

"John Humperdink Stover," said Dink with difficulty.

"Ah, yes, Stover: the name is familiar--very familiar," said The
Roman, with a twitch to his lip and a sudden jump of the eyebrow.
"Haven't we met before?"

Dink, suffocating, nodded. The class, at a loss, turned from one to
the other, watching for the cue.

"Well, Stover, come a little nearer. Take the seat between Stone and
Straus. Straus will be better able to take his little morning nap. A
little embarrassed, Stover? Dear me! I shouldn't have thought that of
you. Sit down now and--try to put a little ginger into the class,
Stover."

Dink looked down and blushed until it seemed as though his hair would
catch on fire. The class, perceiving only that there was a point for
laughter, burst into roars.

"There--there," said The Roman, stilling the storm with one finger.
"Just a little joke between us two; just a little confidential joke. Now
for a bee-ootiful recitation. Splendid spring weather--yesterday was a
cut; of course you all took the hour to study conscientiously--eager
for knowledge. Fifth and sixth rows go to the board."

While The Roman's modulated accents doled out conjugations and
declensions Stover sat, without a thought in his head, his hands
locked, staring out at the green and yellow necktie that rose on
Pebble Stone's collar.

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" he said at last. "Dished! Spinked! He'll flunk
me every day. I certainly am in wrong!"

He raised his eyes at the enthroned Natural Enemy and mentally threw
down the gage of battle with a hopeless, despairing feeling of the
three years' daily conflict that was to come. For, of course, now
there could be no question of The Roman's mortal and unsparing enmity.
But after the first paralyzing shock Dink recovered himself. It was
war, but the war he loved--the war of wits.

The Roman, having flunked a dozen by this time, had Channing, the
Coffee-colored Ange