"Indian?" exclaimed young Locke, sitting bolt upright; "this ain't a
Redskin school; he's got to get put out, or I'm a deader."

"You'll be a deader if you try to put him out," sneered Cop Billings;
"first place he's got an arm like braided whipcord, and he's got a
chin--hanged determined swat-you-in-the-face sort of chin--not a
boiled-fish sort of jaw like yours," and he glared at the unfortunate
Locke with sneering disapproval.

"Where'd you see him?" ventured little chunky Johnny Miller, getting
into his clothes.

"Saw him in the library as I passed. The Head called me in and--"

"Stow it! stow it!" they all yelled; then Locke jeered, "The Head is
never up at six-thirty--we are not rabbits."

"Just where you get left; the Head was up at five-thirty and went to
the station to meet mister Indian."

"Well, I'll be jing-banged," exclaimed Sandy, nearly awake; "what's
the meaning of it all?"

"Meaning's just this, my son," replied Cop, getting out of his limited
running togs into something more respectable, "that if you chumps
guessed all day you'd never strike just how the Indian came to this
school. Who do you suppose wrote to the Head recommending him to take
the Redskin, and kind of insinuating that the college would do well
to treat him properly? None other than His Excellency Lord Mortimer,
Governor-General of 'this Canada of ours.' Now, Locke, will you act