to sing, and Van left with a hurried good-night. The
streets were full of Christmas shoppers. At the first drug store he
bought some Jamaica ginger; then he went to the hotel and slid into bed,
leaving the lights on.

After the concert Perkins did not go to the cafe with the rest; he, too,
hastened back to the hotel.

"I'll bet he's at the Payson ranch this minute," he thought, as he made
for Van's room, but the sick musician was lying on his face, breathing
heavily.

"Well, what's the matter, anyway?" said Perkins, his suspicions fading.

"I don't know," groaned Van. "It came on all of a sudden at the theatre.
The pain is here on my right side. Gee whiz, it knocks me out!"

"Shan't I get a doctor?" asked the leader. "What do you think it is?"

"Of course," moaned the sufferer, "it may be appendicitis,--I don't
think that could hurt more,--but it can hardly be anything like that.
I've taken the ginger, and it will set me up, probably."

"You ought to have a doctor look at you, though. It's dangerous to put
it off," urged Perkins.

"No," said Van. "I'll stick it out to-night, and if I'm not better
to-morrow, why, you may get one. Never mind me, Ted. Where is the gang?"

"They're all down in the Grotto."

"Go on and join them; don't stay here, it isn't necessary. I'll be all
right, I say, and I can ring if I'm not. Come in in the morning, won't
you?"

"Sure. The train goes at ten-fifteen, you know. We can't get along
without you very well."

"Oh, I'll be fit in the morning. So long, old man."

"Good-night," and Perkins shut the door.

The Freshman lay still awhile, then got up and, smiling broadly, turned
out the lights and tumbled back to sleep.

Meanwhile Perkins joined the men at the restaurant.

"Van Dyke is sick," he said. "I've just been up in his room."

"What's the matter?"

"We don't know. He's afraid it's appendicitis."

"I'll tell you what it is," said Mason, the baritone; "it's heart
trouble. I wouldn't believe that man Van under a triple oath, if there
were a skirt in the case."

"You won't have to search far in this case," laughed a deep bass voice
behind a cool stein.

"Oh, I don't think so," protested Perkins; "he looked bad, bad. I think
it's square enough."

"Don't you believe him a minute. I'll bet it's a fake, pure and simple."

"He couldn't expect to work one on us."

"Why not? The time the Mandolin Club went North with the Berkeley Glee
somebody played the same blooming