ROBINSON SENDS A PROTEST When Sydney left Mills that morning he trundled himself along Elm Street to Neil's lodgings in the hope of finding that youth and telling him of his good fortune.

But the windows of the first floor front study were wide open, the curtains were hanging out over the sills, and from within came the sound of the broom and clouds of dust.

Sydney turned his tricycle about in disappointment and retraced his path, through Elm Lane, by the court-house with its tall white pillars and green shutters, across Washington Street, the wheels of his vehicle rustling through the drifts of dead leaves that lined the sidewalks, and so back to Walton.
He had a recitation at half-past ten, but there was still twenty minutes of leisure according to the dingy-faced clock on the tower of College Hall.

So he left the tricycle by the steps, and putting his crutches under his arms, swung himself into the building and down the corridor to his study.

The door was ajar and he thrust it open with his foot.
"Please be careful of the paint," expostulated a voice, and Sydney paused in surprise.
"Well," he said; "I've just been over to your room looking for you." "Have you?
Sorry I wasn't--Say, Syd, listen to this." Neil dragged a pillow into a more comfortable place and sat up.