together—um—er—ah conjunctim so to speak,” and Peaches managed to keep a straight face even while struggling to find the right Latin word. “Yes, we threw conjunctim—together—and we both wanted to see who could do the best—er—supero—you know, and—er we—well, it was an accident—casus eventus. We are awfully sorry, and——”

Professor Rodd gave an audible sniff, but there was a marked softening of the hard lines about his face. He was an enthusiastic Latin scholar, and the trial of his life was to know that most of his pupils hated the study—indeed as many boys do. So when the teacher found one who took the trouble in ordinary conversation to use a few Latin words, or phrases, the professor was correspondingly pleased. Peaches knew this.

“It was a casus eventus—an accident,” the fair-cheeked lad repeated, very proud of his ability in the dead language.

“We are very sorry,” put in Joe, “and I’ll pay for having your hat ironed.”

“We threw in conjunctim,” murmured Peaches.

“Ha! A very good attempt at the Latin—at least some of the words are,” admitted Professor Rodd. “They do credit to your studying, Lantfeld, but how in the world did you ever get casus eventus into accident?”

“Why—er—it’s so in the dictionary, Professor,” pleaded Peaches.

“Yes, but look up the substantive, and remember your endings. Here I’ll show you,” and, pulling from his pocket a Latin dictionary, which he was never without, Professor Rodd, sticking his battered hat back on his head, began to quote and translate and do all manner of things with the dead language, to show Peaches where he had made his errors. And Peaches, sacrificing himself on the altar of friendship, stood there like a man, nodding his head and agreeing with everything the instructor said, whether he understood it or not.

“Your conjunctim was not so bad,” complimented the professor, “but I could never pass casus eventus. However, I am glad to see that you take an interest in your studies. I wish more of the boys did. Now take the irregular conjugation for instance. We will begin with the indicative mood and——”

The professor’s voice was droning off into his classroom tones. Peaches held his ground valiantly.

“Come on, fellows, cut for it!” whispered Teeter hoarsely. “Leg it, Joe. Peaches will take care of him.”

“But the hat—I damaged it—I want to pay for it,” objected our hero, who was square in everything.

“Don’t worry about that. When Old Sixteen gets to spouting Latin or Greek he doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his feet, and as for a hat—say, forget it and come on. He’ll never mention it again. Peaches knows how to handle him. Peaches is the best Latin lad in the whole school, and once Sixteen finds some one who will listen to his new theory about conjugating irregular verbs, he’ll talk until midnight. Come on!”

“Poor Peaches!” murmured Tom Davis.

“Never mind, Sister,” spoke George Bland, as he linked his arm in that of Joe. “Peaches seen his duty and he done it nobly, as the novels say. When Sixteen gets through with him we’ll blow him to a feed to make it up to him. Come on while the going’s good. He’ll never see us.”

Thus the day—rather an eventful one as it was destined to become—came to an end. The boys filed into the big dining hall, and talk, which had begun to verge around to baseball, could scarcely be heard for the clatter of knives and forks and dishes.

Some time later there came a cautious knock on the door of the room that Tom Davis and Joe Matson shared. The two lads were deep in their books.

“Who’s there?” asked Joe sharply.

“It’s me—Peaches,” was the quick if ungrammatical answer. “The coast is clear—open your oak,” and he rattled the knob of the door.

Tom unlocked and swung wide the portal, and the hero of the Latin engagement entered.

“Quick—anything to drink?” he demanded. “I’m a rag! Say, I never swallowed so much dry Latin in my life. My throat is parched. Don’t tell me that all that ginger ale you smuggled in the other day is gone—don’t you dare do it!”

“Tom, see if there’s a bottle left for the gentleman of thirst,” directed Joe with a smile.

Tom went to the window and pulled up a cord that was fastened to the sill. On the end of the string was a basket, and in it three bottles of ginger ale.

“Our patent refrigerator,” explained Joe, with a wave of his hand. “Do the uncorking act, Tom, and we’ll get busy. You can go to sleep,”—this last to a book he had been studying, as he tossed it on a couch.

“Oh, but that’s good!” murmured Peaches as he drained his glass. “Now I can talk. I came in, Joe and Tom, to see if you didn’t think it would be a good thing to have a fight.”

“A fight! For cats’ sake, who with?” demanded Tom.

“Are you spoiling for one?” asked Joe.

“Oh, I mean a snowball fight. This is probably the last of the season, and I was thinking we could get a lot of fellows together, make a fort, and have a regular battle like we read about in Cæsar to-day. It would be no end of sport.”

“I think so myself,” agreed Joe.

“Bully!” exclaimed Tom sententiously, burying his nose in his ginger ale glass. “Go on, tell us some more.”

“Well, I was thinking,” resumed Peaches, “that we——”

He was interrupted by another tap on the door. In an instant Peaches had dived under the table. With one sweep of his arm Joe noiselessly collected the bottles, while Joe spread a paper over the glasses. The knock was repeated, and the two lads looked apprehensively at the door.

CHAPTER III

AN ANGRY BULLY

“Well, why don’t one of you fellows open the door?” demanded Peaches in a hoarse whisper from his point of vantage under the table. “If it’s one of the ‘profs.’ or a monitor, he’ll get wise if you wait all this while.”

It might be explained that there was a rule at Excelsior Hall against students visiting in their classmates’ rooms at certain hours of the day, unless permission had been secured from the professor or monitor in charge of the dormitory. Needless to say Peaches had not secured any such permission—the lads seldom did.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” again demanded Peaches, from where he had taken refuge, so as to be out of sight, should the caller prove to be some one in authority.

“Yes—certainly—of course,” replied Joe. “Tom, you open the door.”

Once more came the knock.

“Open it yourself,” insisted Tom. “It’s as much your room as it is mine. Go ahead.”

But there was no need for any one to first encounter the stern gaze of some professor, if such the unannounced caller should prove to be. The knock was repeated and then a voice demanded:

“Say, you fellows needn’t pretend not to be in there. I can hear you whispering. What’s up?” and with that the portal swung open and Teeter Nelson entered. He advanced to the middle of the room and stood moving up and down on his tiptoes.

“I like your nerve!” he went on. “Having a spread and not tipping a fellow off. Is it all gone?” and with a sweep of his arm he sent the paper cover flying from over the half-emptied ginger ale glasses. “Where’s Peaches?” he demanded. “I know he’s out, for I was at his den, and there’s not a