THE KIDNAPING

Fanwell Livingston was curled in the window-seat in his front room, his
book close to the bleared pane, striving to find light enough by which
to study. Outside it was raining in a weary, desultory way, and the
heavens were leaden-hued. Livingston's quarters were on the front of
that big lemon-yellow house at the corner of Oak and King Streets, about
equidistant from campus and field. The outlook to-day was far from
inspiriting. When he raised his eyes from the pages before him he saw an
empty road running with water; beyond that a bare, weed-grown, sodden
field that stretched westward to the unattractive backs of the one-and
two-storied shops on Main Street. Livingston's room wasn't in any sense
central, but he liked it because it was quiet, because aside from the
family he had the house to himself, and because Mrs. Saunders, his
landlady, was goodness itself and administered to his comfort almost as
his own mother would have done.

The freshman president laid aside his book, grimaced at the dreary
prospect, and took out his watch. "Ten minutes after five," he murmured.
"Heavens, what a beastly dark day! I'll have to start to get dressed
before long. Too bad we've got such weather for the affair." He glanced
irresolutely toward the gas-fixture, and from thence to where his
evening clothes lay spread out on the couch. For it was the evening of
the Freshman Class Dinner. While he was striving to find energy
wherewith to tear himself from the soft cushions and make a light,
footsteps sounded outside his door, and some one demanded admission.

"Come in!" he called.

The door swung open, was closed swiftly and softly again, and Neil