"I haven't heard that they are doing much about these things," answered
Paul. "If the sophs can stick things around why can't we?"

"You'd better ask the Dean," suggested Neil. "Hello, who's that chap?"

They had entered the grounds and were standing on the steps of the
locker-house. The person to whom Neil referred was just coming through
the gate. He was a medium-sized man of about thirty years, with a
good-looking, albeit very freckled face, and a good deal of sandy hair.
The afternoon was quite warm, and he carried his straw hat in one very
brown hand, while over his arm lay a sweater of Erskine purple, a pair
of canvas trousers, and two worn shoes.

"Blessed if I know who he is!" murmured South. They watched the newcomer
as he traversed the path and reached the steps. As he passed them and
entered the building he looked them over keenly with a pair of very
sharp and very light blue eyes.

"Wow!" muttered Paul. "He looked as though he was trying to decide
whether I would taste better fried or baked."

"I wonder--" began Neil. But at that moment Tom Cowan came up and Paul
put the question to him.

"The fellow that just came in?" repeated Cowan. "That, my boy, is a
gentleman who will have you standing on your head in just about twenty
minutes. Some eight or ten years ago he was popularly known hereabouts
as 'Whitey' Mills. To-day, if you know your business, you'll address him
as _Mister_ Mills."