sses
dotted the campus before the dingy brick buildings. Tennis-courts and
ball-field were alive with active figures. A few days more and students
and strangers would be gone, and the old town would sink into the drowsy
quiet of the long summer vacation.

Lounging on the notched, whittled fence, Lane, Spurling, and Stevens
fell once more into earnest conversation.

Spurling came from a Maine coast town. He was nineteen, tall,
broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned, deliberate in speech and movements.
Physically very strong, he had caught on the academy ball team and
played guard in football. Mentally he was a trifle slow; but in the
whole school there was no squarer, more solid fellow. So far as finances
went, he was dependent on his own resources; whatever education he got
he must earn himself.

Lane afforded in many respects a decided contrast to Spurling. Reared on
a New Hampshire farm in the shadow of the White Mountains, he was of
medium build, wiry and active, a practical joker, full of life and
spirit. He had red hair and the quick temper that goes with it. Though
not much of a student, he had at eighteen a keen, clear business head.
Like Spurling, he had been obliged to make his own way; and, like
Spurling, he was abundantly able to make it.

Winthrop Stevens, or "Throppy," as his friends nicknamed him, claimed a
small Massachusetts city as his home. He was the best scholar of the
three, dark, quiet, studious, with a decided trend toward mechanics and
electricity. Though not obliged to work for his schooling, he had always
chummed with the other two, and with them had been a waiter at a shore
hotel the previous season.

The trio were endeavoring to decide what they should do the coming
summer.

"Well," said Lane, "what shall it be? Juggling food again at the
Beachmont?"

"Not for me," answered Spurling, decidedly. "I'm sick of hanging round a
table, pretending to do as many unnecessary things as you can, wondering
whether the man you've waited on is going to give up a half-dollar or a
nickel, knowing that the more uncomfortable you can make him feel the
bigger fee you'll pull down. No more tipping for me! I'd rather earn my
money, even if I don't get so much."

"Hits me, Jim," assented Stevens. "What do you say, Budge?"

"Same here," agreed Roger.

The long-drawn shriek of a locomotive rose from the valley-bottom.

"There's the five-ten!" ejaculated Lane. "I pity Whittington when his
dad finds how th