don't you worry. I am all right now, my head doesn't bother me a bit.
But I do wish I could get just one good chance at Pelter for the crack
that rascal gave me on the head with the footstool."

"It certainly was a shame to let him off, Tom, hut you know how father
felt about it. He was too sick to be worried by a trial at law and all
that."

"Yes, I know, but just the same, some day I am going to square
accounts with Mr. Jesse Pelter," and Tom shook his head determinedly.

Passing down the broad stairway of Brill College, the two Rover boys
made their way to the dining hall. Here the majority of the students
were rapidly assembling for the evening meal, and the lads found
themselves among a host of friends.

"Hello, Songbird! How are you this evening?" cried Tom, as he
addressed a tall, scholarly-looking individual who wore his hair
rather long. "Have you been writing any poetry to-day?"

"Well,-- er-- not exactly, Tom," muttered John Powell, otherwise known
as Songbird because of his numerous efforts to compose what he called
poetry. "But I have been thinking up a few rhymes."

"When are you going to get out that book of poetry?"

"What book is that, Tom?"

"Why, as if you didn't know! Didn't you tell me that you were going to
get up a volume of 'Original International Poems for the Grave and