w pulled
up a leg of the other boy's trousers. "They're grey, fellows," he
announced sorrowfully. "Someone's gone and died, and Amy's in mourning!"

"Grey!" exclaimed another. "Never. Amy, tell me it isn't true!"

"Shut up! I want to interdoodle my most bosom friend, Mr. Clinton
Thayer, of Vay-gin-yah, sah! Clint, take off your hat."

The merriment ceased and the occupants of the room got to their feet as
best they might and those within reach shook hands.

"That large lump over there," indicated Amy, "is Innes. He's one of your
hosts. The other one is Mr. Still; in the corner of the bed; the
intelligent-looking youth. The others don't matter."

"Glad to know you, Thayer," said Jack Innes in a deep, jovial voice.
"Hope you can find a place to sit down. I guess that bed near you will
hold one more without giving way."

Clint somewhat embarrassedly crowded on to a corner of the bed and Amy
perched himself on an arm of the Morris chair. A smallish,
clever-looking fellow across the room said: "You're a punk introducer,
Amy. Thayer, my name's Marvin, and this chap is Hall and the next one is
Edwards, and Still you know, and then comes Ruddie, and Black--"

"Red and Black," interpolated Amy.

"And next to Innes is Landers--"

"Oh, forget it, Marvin," advised Still. "Thayer won't remember. Names
don't matter, anyway."

"Some names," retorted Marvin, "have little significance, yours amongst
them. I did the best I could for you, Thayer. Remember that. What's the
good word, Amy?"

"I have no news to relate," was the grave response, "save that Jordan
obtruded his shining cranium as we came in and requested me to inform
you fellows that unless there was less noise up here--"

Jeers greeted that fiction. "I love your phrases, Amy," said Marvin.
"'Shining cranium' is great"

"Oh, Amy is one fine little phraser," said Innes. "Remember his theme
last year, fellows? How did it go, Amy? Let me see. Oh! 'The westerning
sun sank slowly into the purple void of twilight, a burnished copper
disk beyond the earth's horizon!'"

"I never!" cried Amy indignantly.

"He loves to call a football an 'illusive spheroid,'" chuckled another
chap.

"So it is," asserted Amy vehemently. "I know, because I tried to play
with one once!"

"I'll bet a great little football player was lost when you forsook the
gridiron for the--the field of scholarly endeavour," said Tom Hall.

"He's caught it, too!" groaned the youth beside him, Steve Ed