The New Boy at Hilltop, and Other Stories. Barbour Ralph Henry

on his knee and smiled politely.

      "How do you do?" he responded.

      The newcomer dragged a big valise into the room and closed the door behind him, never for an instant taking his gaze off Kenneth. Then, apparently concluding that the figure in the armchair was real flesh and blood and not a creature of the imagination, he tossed his cap to the table, revealing a rumpled mass of golden yellow hair, and looked belligerently at the intruder.

      "Say, you've got the wrong room, I guess," he announced.

      "Here's where they put me," answered Kenneth gravely.

      "Well, you can't stay here," was the inhospitable response. "This is my room."

      Kenneth merely looked respectfully interested. Joe Brewster slid out of his ulster, frowning angrily.

      "You're a new boy, aren't you!" he demanded.

      "About an hour and a half old," said Kenneth. Somehow the reply seemed to annoy Joe. He clenched his hands and stepped toward the other truculently.

      "Well, you go and see the matron; she'll find a room for you; there are lots of rooms, I guess. Anyway, I'm not going to have you butting in here."

      "You must be Joseph Brewster," said Kenneth. The other boy growled assent. "The fact is, Brewster, they put me in here with you because you are such a fine character. Dr. Whatshisname said you were the pride of the school, or something like that. I guess they thought association with you would benefit me."

      Joe gave a roar and a rush. Over went the armchair, over went Kenneth, over went Joe, and for a minute nothing was heard in Number 12 but the sound of panting and gasping and muttered words, and the colliding of feet and bodies with floor and furniture. The attack had been somewhat unexpected and as a result, for the first moments of the battle, Kenneth occupied the uncomfortable and inglorious position of the under dog. He strove only to escape punishment, avoiding offensive tactics altogether. It was hard work, however, for Brewster pummeled like a good one, his seraphic face aflame with the light of battle and his yellow hair seeming to stand about his head like a golden oriflamb. And while Kenneth hugged his adversary to him, ducking his head away from the incessant jabs of a very industrious fist, he realized that he had made a mistake in his estimation of his future roommate. He was going to like him; he was quite sure he was; providing, of course that said roommate left enough of him! And then, seeing, or rather feeling his chance, he toppled Joe Brewster over his shoulder and in a trice the tables were turned. Now it was Kenneth who was on top, and it took him but a moment to seize Joe's wrists in a very firm grasp, a grasp which, in spite of all efforts, Joe found it impossible to escape. Kenneth, perched upon his stomach—uneasily, you may be sure, since Joe heaved and tossed like a boat in a tempest—offered terms.

      "Had enough?" he asked.

      "No," growled Joe.

      "Then you'll stay here until you have," answered Kenneth. "You and I are going to be roommates, so we might as well get used to each other now as later, eh? How any fellow with a face like a little pink angel can use his fists the way you can, gets me!"

      Kenneth was almost unseated at this juncture, but managed to hold his place. Panting from the effects of the struggle, he went on:

      "Seems to me Dr. Randall must be mistaken in you, Brewster. You don't strike me at all as a model of deportment. Seems to me he and you fixed up a pretty lively welcome for me, eh?"

      The anger faded out of Joe's face and a smile trembled at the corners of his mouth.

      "Let me up," he said quietly.

      "Behave?"

      "Yep."

      "All right," said Kenneth. But before he could struggle to his feet there was a peremptory knock on the door, followed instantly by the appearance of a third person on the scene, a dark-haired, sallow, tall youth of fifteen who viewed the scene with surprise.

      "What's up?" he asked.

      Kenneth sprang to his feet and gave his hand to Joe. About them spread devastation.

      "I was showing him a new tackle," explained Kenneth easily.

      Joe, somewhat red of face, shot him a look of gratitude.

      "Oh," said the new arrival, "and who the dickens are you, kid?"

      "My name's Garwood. I just came to-day. I'm to room with Brewster."

      "Is that right?" asked the other, turning to Joe. Joe nodded.

      "So he says, Graft. I think it's mighty mean, though. They let me have a room to myself all fall, and now, just when I'm getting used to it, what do they do? Why, they dump this chap in here. It isn't as though there weren't plenty of other rooms!"

      "Why don't you kick to the doctor?" asked Grafton Hyde.

      "Oh, it wouldn't do any good, I suppose," said Joe.

      Grafton Hyde sat down and viewed Kenneth with frank curiosity.

      "Where are you from?" he demanded.

      "Cleveland, Ohio."

      "Any relation to John Garwood, the railroad man?"

      "Ye-es, some," said Kenneth. Grafton snorted.

      "Huh! I dare say! Most everyone tries to claim relationship with a millionaire. Bet you, he doesn't know you're alive!"

      "Well," answered Kenneth with some confusion, "maybe not, but—but I think he's related to our family, just the same."

      "You do, eh?" responded Grafton sarcastically. "Well, I wouldn't try very hard to claim relationship if I were you. I guess if the honest truth were known there aren't very many fellows who would want to be in John Garwood's shoes, for all his money."

      "Why?" asked Kenneth.

      "Because he's no good. Look at the way he treated his employees in that last strike! Some of 'em nearly starved to death!"

      "That's a—that isn't so!" answered Kenneth hotly. "It was all newspaper lies."

      "Newspapers don't lie," said Grafton sententiously.

      "They lied then, like anything," was the reply.

      "Well, everyone knows what John Garwood is," said Grafton carelessly. "I've heard my father tell about him time and again. He used to know him years ago."

      Kenneth opened his lips, thought better of it and kept silence.

      "Ever hear of my father?" asked Grafton with a little swagger.

      "What's his name?" asked Kenneth.

      "Peter Hyde," answered the other importantly.

      "Oh, yes! He's a big politician in Chicago, isn't he?"

      "No, he isn't!" replied Grafton angrily. "He's Peter Hyde, the lumber magnate."

      "Oh!" said Kenneth. "What—what's a lumber magnet?"

      "Magnate, not magnet!" growled Grafton. "It's time you came to school if you don't know English. Where have you been going?"

      "I beg pardon?"

      "What school have you been to? My, you're a dummy!"

      "I haven't been to any school this year. Last year I went to the grammar school at home."

      "Then this is your first boarding school, eh?"

      "Yes; and I hope I'll like it. The catalogue said it was a very fine school. I trust I shall profit from my connection with it."

      Grafton stared bewilderedly, but the new junior's face was as innocent as a cherub's. Joe Brewster stared, too, for a moment; then a smile flickered around his mouth and he bent his head, finding interest in a bleeding knuckle.

      "Well, I came over to talk about the team, Joe," Grafton said after a moment. "I didn't know you had company."

      "Didn't know it myself," muttered Joe.

      Kenneth picked up his book again and went back to his reading. But he was not so deeply immersed but that he caught now and then fragments of the conversation, from which he gathered that both Joe and Hyde were members of the Lower House Basket Ball Team, that Hyde held a very excellent