“How’s that?” asked Tom. “I could see that something was troubling him the day I met him, but he wouldn’t say what it was.”

“No, that’s his way,” spoke the red-haired athlete. “I mean that he’s impulsive. He’d do anything for a friend, or an enemy too, for that matter, and that often gets him into trouble. He doesn’t stop to think, but he’s got a host of friends, and everybody likes him, even old Skeel I guess, for I’ve seen ’em together lots of times.”

“I wonder what his special trouble is now?” speculated Tom.

“Give it up. Bruce will never tell until it’s settled. He’s proud—won’t take help from any one if he can help it. So you know him?”

“Well, I hardly can say I know him. He may not want to keep up the acquaintance down here,” spoke Tom.

“Oh, yes he will. Bruce isn’t that kind. Once he meets you he’s always friendly, and, if he takes a notion to you, why you couldn’t have a better friend.”

Tom was glad to hear this, and he felt a warm spot in his heart for the somewhat unhappy Senior. He resolved to find out his trouble, if he could, and help him if it were possible.

“Of course there are some mean and undesirable chaps at Elmwood,” admitted Reddy. “Just as there are anywhere, I guess, only I wouldn’t want to name any of ’em. You’ll find out who they are, soon enough. But you just play straight and they’ll soon let you alone. They may try to pick a quarrel, and there are a few who are always trying to get up a mill. Do you fight?”

“I box a little,” admitted Tom.

“Good, then you can take care of yourself if it comes to a scrap, I suppose. But don’t get into a fight if you can help it. Not that I mean to run away, but it’s against the rules to fight, and you don’t want to be suspended, though there are more or less mills pulled off every term.”

“I’ll fight if I have to; not otherwise,” spoke Tom, quietly.

“Good. Say, you’ll think I’m trying to put it all over you, and do the big brother act with such advice; won’t you?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Tom, stoutly. “I’m glad to have you give me points.”

“All right then. I guess you’ll do. We’ve got one funny character at the school—Demosthenes Miller.”

“A student?”

“Land no. He’s our educated janitor. He’s always around with a copy of the classics, or some book on maths., and if he sees you getting at all friendly he’ll ask you to help him translate a passage, or work out a problem. He says he might as well be getting an education on the side as long as he’s at college. He’s good fun, but rather tiresome at times. Demy, we call him.”

“He must be odd,” agreed Tom.

“There! I guess I’ve told you all I know,” spoke Reddy, with a laugh. “The rest you’ll find out after you’ve been at the school a few days. Now tell me something about yourself.”

Which Tom did, mentioning about his father and mother going to Australia.

“That’s a trip I’d like to take,” said Reddy. “Cracky, what sport! I love travel.”

The lads talked on various topics as the train sped along. They were nearing Elmwood Hall, which was located in the town of the same name, on the Ware river. Several other lads, whom Reddy pointed out to Tom as old or new students, had meanwhile boarded the train. A number greeted Tom’s seatmate as an old friend and our hero was introduced to them. They greeted him nicely enough, but talked to Reddy.

Soon the latter was deep in conversation about the chances for a good football season, and Tom did not like to break in, but listened with all his might.

“Here we are, Fairfield,” said Reddy Burke, at length. “Get your grip, and I’ll show you the way to the Hall. Oh, I forgot, you’ve been here before, though.”

“Yes, I can find my way up well enough,” spoke Tom. “Don’t let me hold you back.”

“All right then. I’ll see you later. There’s Hen Mattock up ahead. He was football captain last year. I want to talk to him, so I’ll just run on. See you again!” and with that Reddy rushed off, to clap on the shoulder a tall, well-built lad, who looked every inch an athlete. Tom gathered up his belongings, gave his trunk check to an expressman, and headed for Opus Manor.

This residence, or dormitory, was one of the school buildings, located not far away from the main hall and was “within bounds,” so that the Freshmen, did they wish to spend an evening in town, had to get permission, or else “run the guard,” a proceeding fraught with some danger, carrying with detection a penalty more or less severe. It was the aim of the school proctor, Mr. Frederick Porter, to thus keep watch and ward over the first year students.

The others were allowed more liberty, or at least they took it, for many of them lived in fraternity houses, and some Seniors boarded in private families in town. Most of the Seniors, however, dwelt in a house near the Hall. It was called Elmwood Castle, and Tom looked longingly at it as he passed on his way to his own more humble, and less distinctive, dormitory.

As Tom was ascending the steps, intending to report to the monitor in charge, and also seek out the matron, he became aware of a student standing on the topmost platform, looking down at him. Beside him was another lad, and, as our hero came up, one shoved the other against Tom, jostling him severely.

Instantly Tom flared up. He could see that it was done intentionally. His face flushed.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“Whatever you like to think,” was the reply of the student whom Tom had first noticed.

“Well, I think I don’t like it,” retorted Tom quickly.

“You’ll have to get used to it then; won’t he, Nick?” and the lad who had done the shoving appealed to his companion, with a sneering laugh.

“That’s what he will, Sam.”

“I won’t then!” exclaimed Tom, “and the sooner you realize that the better.”

“Oh ho! So that’s the kind of talk, eh?” sneered the one called Sam. “What’s your name, Fresh?”

“Fairfield—Tom Fairfield—Fresh!” retorted Tom, for he could see by the other’s cap that he, too, was a first year lad.

“Well mine’s Heller—Sam Heller, Capital ‘S’ and capital ‘H,’ and don’t forget it. This must be the fellow who’s got my room, Nick,” he added.

“Probably,” replied Sam Heller’s crony, who was Nick Johnson. “Yes, that was the name the monitor mentioned, come to think of it.”

“How have I your room?” asked Tom.

“Because you have. I had the room last year, and I told ’em to save it for me this term. But you came along and snatched it up, so—”

“I took it because it was assigned to me,” spoke Tom, and from the other’s talk he understood that the lad was a Freshman who had not passed, and who, in consequence, was obliged to spend another year in the same grade. Perhaps this made him bitter.

“Well, you’ve got my room,” grumbled Sam, “and I’m going to get square with somebody.”

“You can get square with me, if you like,” said Tom quietly, “though I told you I had nothing to do with it. One thing, though, if you do any more shoving I’ll shove back, and it won’t be a gentle shove, either.”

“Is that a threat?” growled Sam.

“You can take it so if you like.”

“I will, and if you don’t look out—”

What Sam was going to say he did not finish, for, at that moment, the monitor in charge of Opus Manor came to the door, and the two who had sought to pick a quarrel with Tom slouched