of the word, and he felt resentful until a look at the boy's face showed
that he intended no impertinence.

"I love to hear a Southerner talk," he went on. "There was a chap here
named Broland year before last; came from Alabama, I think. He was fine!
Red-hot he was, too. You could always get a fall out of Bud Broland by
mentioning Grant or Sherman. He used to fly right off the handle and
wave the Stars-and-Bars fit to kill! We used to tell him that the war
was over, but he wouldn't believe it."

Clint smiled doubtfully. "Is he here now?" he asked.

"Broland? No, he only stayed a little while. Couldn't get used to our
ways. Found school life too--too confining. He used to take trips, and
Faculty didn't approve."

"Trips?" asked Clint.

The other nodded. "Yes, he used to put a clean collar in his pocket and
run down to New York for week-ends. Faculty was sort of narrow-minded
and regretfully packed him off home to Alabam'. Bud was a good sort,
but--well, he needed a larger scope for his talents than school
afforded. I guess the right place for Bud would have been a good big
ranch out West somewhere. He needed lots of room!"

Clint smiled. "What time do we eat?" he asked presently, when they had
silently watched the passage of the mower. The other boy tugged at a fob
which dangled at his belt and produced a silver watch.

"Let's see." He frowned intently a moment. "I was twelve minutes fast