Center Rush Rowland. Barbour Ralph Henry

by the school, offering accommodations.

      Parkinson School had a roster of four hundred and eighty-odd that year and the four dormitories housed but three hundred and ninety. Since Ira had applied for admittance as late as the preceding June he had not drawn a room on the campus, and now, leaving the little brick building, he drew the list from between the pages of the catalogue and consulted it. More than two dozen addresses were given, each followed by the mystifying letters “R” or “R & B.” Fortunately the catalogue contained a map of the town in the vicinity of the school, and by referring to that he found that most if not all of the addresses were within a few blocks of the campus. Instead of returning by Maple Street, he entered a gate and went along the gravel walk leading in front of the row of school buildings. Being very intent on the matter of locating the first entry on the list: “J. D. Anstruther, 29 Linden Street, R & B,” he failed to notice that the steps of the Gymnasium Building toward which he was proceeding held a half-dozen youths who were watching his approach with poorly concealed amusement. In fact, he would have turned off on the path leading across the campus to the middle gate on Washington Avenue had not one of the group hailed him.

      “Good morning, stranger! Are you looking for something?”

      Ira stopped and removed his puzzled gaze from the map. After a moment of hesitation he crossed the few yards to the gymnasium steps. “Yes,” he replied, addressing the group in general, “I’m looking for a room. Where’s Linden Street, please?”

      “Linden Street? Straight ahead. Follow this path until you come to a gate. Open the gate – it isn’t necessary to climb over it – and there you are.”

      “Thanks.” Ira viewed the speaker a trifle doubtfully, however. In spite of the serious countenance, the reference to the gate had sounded suspicious. “And will you tell me what ‘R’ means here; and ‘R & B’?”

      “‘R’? Oh, that means – er – ”

      “‘R,’” interrupted a tall, dark-haired chap, stepping forward and taking the list from Ira’s hands, “means ‘Rats,’ and ‘R & B’ means ‘Rats and Bugs.’ You see, the faculty is very careful about our comfort. Some fellows object to rats and some object to bugs. So they state here what you’re to expect.”

      “Rats and bugs!” exclaimed Ira. “You’re fooling, aren’t you?”

      “Certainly not,” replied the other almost indignantly. “Do you mind rats? Or bugs?”

      “Why – ” Ira’s gaze swept over the group in puzzlement – “I’m not particularly stuck on either of ’em. Aren’t there any places where they don’t have ’em?”

      “No, not in Warne. Warne is noted for its rats. Bugs are scarcer, though. You’ll notice that only about half the houses offer bugs with their rats.”

      “‘Offer’ ’em,” muttered Ira dazedly. Surely these fellows were poking fun at him. And yet they all looked so serious, so kind and eager to help him. He shook his head as he reached for his list. “Do you know anything about that first place, J. D. Anstruther’s?”

      “Not bad,” was the answer, “but I’ve never lived there myself. I’ve heard, though, that the rats at Baker’s are bigger. Billy, you roomed at Anstruther’s, didn’t you? How about it?”

      “Good rooms, but rats very inferior,” answered a chunky, broad-shouldered boy in tennis flannels. “And scarcely any bugs at all.”

      “There it is, you see,” said the dark-haired youth sadly. “Now if you want some corking big rats you’d better try Baker’s. That’s on Apple Street. Or, if you prefer bugs, too, you might go to Smith’s. I’ve heard Smith’s spoken of very highly.”

      Ira received this advice in silence. He was thinking. At last: “Well, I’m much obliged to you,” he said gratefully. “But I guess I’d rather go where the rats aren’t so big. Of course you fellows are used to rats, being together so much, but I’ve never had much use for them.”

      “Just a minute,” exclaimed a well-built boy of medium height who held a pair of running shoes on his knees. “I didn’t quite get that. About our being used to rats, Freckles. Come again, please.”

      “I beg your pardon?” said Ira innocently.

      “The gentleman wishes to know,” explained the dark-haired boy sweetly, “the meaning of your cryptic utterance. Why, Mr. Johnson, should our being together make us used to rats?”

      “My name is Rowland.”

      “Really? Well, then, Mr. Rowland, kindly elucidate.”

      “I guess I don’t know what you want,” said Ira, viewing them blankly.

      “Of course he doesn’t,” said another member of the group. “He didn’t mean anything. What class are you in, Hayseed?”

      “Who, me? I’m going into the third, I guess.”

      “Then you’ve got another guess,” jeered the boy with the running shoes. “How were the crops when you left home, Freckles?”

      “Speaking to me? My name’s Rowland. First name’s Ira.”

      “Well, don’t take on about it. You can’t help it. How’s crops?”

      “It’s mostly lumbering where I come from. Cheney Falls, Maine, is my home.”

      “Dew tell!” drawled the dark-haired youth. “What were you, a bump?”

      “A bump?” asked Ira.

      “Yes, don’t the logs up your way have bumps on them?”

      “Oh, yes!” Ira smiled faintly. “The bumps grow on ’em, though. You – you don’t put ’em on.”

      “Oh, you don’t? Thought you did. Well, what did you do in the lumbering line, then?”

      “Well, last Winter I worked on the knots. It’s hard on your fingers, though.” He observed a hand reflectively. “I’m not going to do that again,” he added.

      “Worked on the knots,” repeated the boy with the running shoes. “What do you mean by that?”

      “Why, you see,” explained Ira patiently, “you take a pine or a spruce log and it’s got knots in it and it isn’t so good for sawing.”

      “Well, what was your stunt?”

      “Me? Oh, I untied the knots,” replied Ira gravely.

      There was a moment of silence. Then most of the audience chuckled. But the boy with the running shoes flushed.

      “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” he asked irritably. “You’re one of those ‘country wits’ we read about, eh? Dressed for the part, too! For the love of mud, where’d you get the costume?”

      “Oh, cut it out, Gene,” said the dark-haired fellow. “Run along, Rowland, and find your room.”

      “Better get a job as a scarecrow,” sneered the boy addressed as Gene. “Say, those clothes must have cost you as much as six dollars, eh? If you’d had another dollar you might have got them big enough.”

      “They’re all right for me,” responded Ira calmly. “And the coat slips off right easy.”

      “What do you mean by that?” demanded Gene, jumping to his feet.

      “Oh, forget it, Gene!” begged one of the fellows. “Let him alone.”

      But Gene pushed his way past the boy’s detaining arm and thrust an angry countenance in front of Ira. “What do you mean, eh?” he repeated.

      “What do you take it that I mean?” asked Ira, viewing the other undismayedly with half-closed grey eyes.

      For answer, Gene Goodloe brought his right hand up quickly from his side. The boy with dark hair stepped forward to interfere, but he was too late. Ira sprang nimbly to the right and ducked, avoiding Gene’s blow, and at the same time shot his own right fist around. It was only a half-arm jab, but