g from head to
foot.

"Are you much hurt, Dad?" he stammered.

"Only a scratch," returned Whittington, senior. "But it's no thanks to
you that I wasn't killed."

He turned to Sanders, who was still chafing his ankle.

"Anything broken?"

"No, sir; only a sprain."

"I'm glad it's no worse. Have this mess cleared away and I'll fix up
with you later at the hotel; and get my suit-case over to my room, will
you?"

To his son he said:

"We'll go to your dormitory."

He limped grimly ahead; Percy followed. As he passed the three seniors
he pulled a face of mock repentance. The boys resumed their way to the
tennis-court.

"Pretty poor stick, isn't he?" commented Lane, disgustedly. "Almost
kills his father, and then laughs at it. Throws away in a few seconds
more than enough to put the three of us half-way through our freshman
year in college. No, I've no use for Whittington."

"If he'd had to earn his own money," remarked Spurling, "he'd look on
things differently. He's got a good streak in him."

"Maybe so; but it'll take mighty hard work to bring it out. Well, here's
the court. How'll we play?"

In Whittington's room father and son silently removed the traces of the
disaster. Then the father pointed to a chair.

"Sit there! I've something to say to you."

Percy took the indicated seat. Whittington, senior's, jaw stiffened.

"Well!" he snapped. "Seems to me excuses are in order. You've smashed a
thousand-dollar machine, ruined a five-hundred-dollar one, and just
missed killing yourself and me in the bargain. Pretty afternoon's work,
isn't it?"

Percy looked injured, almost defiant.

"You must know I'm mighty sorry to have dragged you into this scrape. I
was half frightened to death when I thought you were hurt. But what odds
does it make about the cars?"

A twinkle appeared in his eye.

"You've got the cash, Dad. Who'll spend it, if I don't?"

Taking out his book, he began rolling a cigarette.

"Stop that!" exclaimed his father, angrily, "and listen to me. It isn't
the money I mind so much as it is the fool style in which you've thrown
it away. Where's the thing going to end? That's what I want to know. If
you'd only get mad when I talk to you, there'd be some hope for you. But
you haven't backbone enough left to get mad. You've smoked it all away."

"Oh, come now, Dad!"

"You ask who'll spend the money. I know mighty well who won't, unless he
strikes a new gait. There's plenty of colleges and