Jimmy Logan stood his skis in the corner behind the door and, tramping heavily to get the clinging snow from his shoes, climbed the first flight in Trow Hall slowly and then dragged wearied feet down the corridor to Number 19. Once inside the room, he said, “Hello,” shied his cap onto his bed and sank exhaustedly in the nearest chair, stretching his legs across the rug and slumping down until the wet collar of his mackinaw came in contact with his ears. Whereupon he muttered, “Ugh!” and sat up another inch or two.

Across the room, one foot on the floor and the other doubled up beneath him on the windowseat, was Jimmy’s roommate. His response to the greeting had been brief and delivered in a preoccupied voice, for Dudley Baker had a book open before him on the cushion and held a stained and battered baseball in his right hand. His attention was divided between book and ball and had no room for Jimmy. The latter’s gaze presently came away from his shoes, which were trickling water to the rug, and fixed itself on Dudley. He had to sit up still higher in the chair to get an uninterrupted view of his chum, which proceeding elicited a protesting groan from him, and after he had attained it he instantly decided that it was not worth while and deeply regretted the exertion it had caused him. He promptly descended again on his spine, crossed his feet and sighed luxuriously.

The dollar clock on Dudley’s chiffonier ticked briskly and loudly in the ensuing silence. Outside the windows tiny flakes of snow were falling. The shadows deepened in the room. In the corridor deliberate footsteps sounded and suddenly the transom over the door showed yellow and an oblong of light appeared on the ceiling. Mr. Crump, the school janitor, was lighting the dormitories. Jimmy wished that his shoes were off, and his mackinaw, and the woolen socks, but as yet he wasn’t equal to the task. When Mr. Crump’s footsteps had died away on the stairs Jimmy broke the silence.

“What’re you doing?” he asked uninterestedly. There was, however, no reply from the window-seat, possibly because Jimmy’s tones had been too faint to reach there. After a moment Jimmy turned his head and stared across a pile of books on the study table at the three or four inches of Dudley’s head that were visible. Then:

“Dud!” he bawled resentfully.

“Huh?”

“What are you doing, I asked you.”

“Oh, me? Oh, just trying to dope out some of this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff about pitching. How to hold the ball, you know.”

“Oh!” Jimmy subsided again and another period of silence followed. Then:

“You don’t expect to play baseball for a while, do you?” he asked lazily. “You’d better study how to throw a snowball!” He chuckled faintly at his joke.

“It isn’t so long now,” responded Dud soberly. “They’re going