onto the silence of the deserted dormitory. That ought to have ended
Clint's chances of study, it seemed, but, oddly enough, after he had
listened for five minutes or so, his eyes sought the page in front of
him and then--well, then it was more than an hour later, the violin was
silent and someone was knocking on his door!

Clint gazed with surprise on the pencilled notes adorning the margins of
the pages, from them to the open lexicon, from that to the pencil in
his hand. He had absolutely done five pages! And then the knock at the
door was repeated and Clint stammered "Come in!" and Tracey
Black entered.

The football manager was a slimly-built, nervous-mannered chap of
eighteen and wore glasses through which he now regarded Clint
accusingly.

"What's wrong with you, Thayer?" he demanded bruskly. "Sick?"

"Sick" repeated Clint vaguely. "No, thanks, I'm all right."

"Then why do you cut practice?" asked Black severely. "Don't you know--"
It was then that Black recalled Clint's face and remembered having met
him in Innes's room a week before. "Hello," he said in a milder tone. "I
didn't recognise you. Er--you see, Thayer, when you fellows don't show
up I have to find out what the reason is. Maybe you didn't know it, but
it's the customary thing to get permission to cut practice."

"Oh! No, I didn't know it, Black," replied Clint. "I'm sorry. I got in a
mess with my Greek and thought I'd better stay away and take a fall out
of it. Besides, I didn't think anyone would care if I didn't report."