el" Burton was there, smiling embarrassed appreciation. _He_ had
won the game for The Towers, when it seemed hopelessly lost. Every one
agreed to that. He made a speech, thanking everybody for everything.

_Why, oh, why_, Dick cried to himself, as he climbed three flights after
"creams" a half-hour later--_Why hadn't he had the sense to lie?_

* * * * *

Dick Harrington crept into bed, and his roommate crept into bed. The
roommate slept and Dick Harrington tried to sleep, but sleep eluded
him--it seemed for hours. Perhaps it was only for fifteen or twenty
minutes. Then he too slept, dreaming of torchlit chariots.

He woke and gave a low cry. Some one was sitting on his bed. He started
to jump up, scared through; but a strong hand touched his shoulder and
a friendly voice whispered--"It's all right, Harrie; don't be scared."

[Illustration: HE WOKE AND GAVE A LOW CRY. SOME ONE WAS SITTING ON HIS
BED]

Dick was still half asleep and dazed. "Who are you?" he cried in an
unnatural voice.

"It's Bill Burton."

"Who?" he asked, amazed.

"Bill Burton."

"You're somebody trying to fool me," Dick whispered after a pause.

"No, I'm not, Harrie," said the other's deep, rich voice. "I wanted to
talk to you. I couldn't wait until to-morrow, so I got permission from
Prof, and here I am."

"What makes you want to see me?" asked Dick softly. "I guess I don't
understand at all. I didn't think you knew me."

"You remember yesterday in the Algebra class?"

"You bet I remember," whispered Dick emphatically.

There was a moment's utter quiet. From away over in the direction of
Chicken Hill came the sound of a rumpus in the Black Belt of Hainesburg.
Then again quiet.

Burton spoke at last, slowly and rather more softly than before. "Beaver
asked you and me the same question, you remember?"

"Yes," murmured Dick, breathlessly.

"You told him the truth."

"I just blurted out a lot of----"

"Well, I _lied_."

* * * * *

Somehow the shock of those words was to Dick Harrington like the impact
of a terrible fist. He literally saw stars. The idea that "The Colonel"
should tell a lie was inconceivable. Sneaks and cowards lied. His
reeling standards straightened suddenly. His bitter regret that _he_
hadn't had the sense to lie evaporated in the glow of an overwhelming
gratitude. He could not speak.

"Harrie," Burton went on with a quiet depth of feeling which