I never desert a pal, Nod. Come on, we 'll trot along. Much obliged for taking us in, Starling. Hope we have n't ruined your rug. Half-past three to-morrow, if the courts are dry. I'll meet you in School Hall." "Glad to have you drop around at my room some time," said Lee. "I'm in West; Number 7."

"Same here," added Laurie. "Sixteen, East Hall. Thanks, Starling."

"You 're welcome. Come in again, fellows. When I get that tennis-court fixed up, we 'll have some fun here. You need n't wait for that, though. I'd like you to meet my father and aunt. No one 's at home just now. I say, better take a couple of umbrellas."

"Maybe you'll learn a little about the game from him," said Laurie, sweetly. "How old do you say he is?"

"Starling? Oh, seventeen, maybe. He's in upper middle."

"He

"Sixteen, more likely," said George. seems a decent sort, eh? How did you come to know him?"

"I did n't really know him. He's in some of my classes and we 've spoken a couple of times. Rather a-an interesting kind of chap. Wonder what his father does here. Funny place for him to come to. He spoke of an aunt, but did n't say anything about a mother. Guess she 's dead. Auntie probably keeps house for them."

As they entered the gate George chuckled

and Laurie asked, "What's your trouble, Old Timer?"

"I was just thinking what a joke it would be if Starling took that stuff seriously about the hidden money and began to hack away the woodwork and dig up the cellar floor!" "Why, was n't it true?"

"Sure! At least, as true as anything is that folks tell. You know, Nod, after being `repeated a couple of hundred times a story sort of grows.'

Lee grunted. "After some smart Aleck has written it up as an English comp. its own mother would n't know it! The real joke would be for Starling to wreck the woodwork and find the money!"

"No, that would n't be a joke," said George, "that would be a movie! Come on! It's starting again! Last man in East buys the sodas! Come on, Lee!"

Lee and Laurie ran a dead heat, and all the way to George's room, on the second floor, each sought to shift to the other the responsibility of providing soda-water for the trio. In the end, George appointed himself referee and halved the responsibility between them. When, twenty minutes later, Laurie climbed onward to Number 16, he found a very disgruntled Ned curled up in the window-seat, which was now plentifully supplied with cushions. "Where 've you been all the afternoon?" he demanded aggrievedly.

"Many places," replied Laurie, cheerfully. "Why the grouch?"

"You'd have a grouch, I reckon, if you 'd messed around with a soggy football for almost two hours in a cloud-burst!"

"Did you-er-get wet?"

"Oh, no, I did n't get wet! I carried an umbrella all the time, you silly toad! Or maybe you think they roofed the gridiron over for us?"

"Well, I got sort of water-logged myself, and don't you let any one tell you any differ

ent! Wait till I return this rain-coat and I'll tell you about it."

"I've got troubles enough of my own," grumbled Ned, as Laurie crossed the corridor.

Kewpie was n't in when the borrowed garment was returned, but Hop Kendrick was, and Hop said it was quite all right, that Nod was welcome to anything of Kewpie's at any time, and please just stick it in the closet or somewhere. And Laurie thanked him grate

fully and placed the rain-coat, which was n't very wet now, where he had found it. And the incident would have ended then and there if it had n't started in to rain cats and dogs again after supper, and if Kewpie had n't taken it into his head to pay a visit to a fellow in West Hall. Which is introductory to the fact that at eight o'clock that evening, while Ned and Laurie were conscientiously absorbed in preparing to-morrow's Latin, a large and irate youth appeared at the door of Number 16 with murder in his eye and what appeared to be gore on his hands!

"That's a swell way to return a fellow's coat!" he accused.

He brandished one gory hand dramatically, and with the other exhumed from a pocket of the garment a moist and shapeless mass of brown paper and chocolate creams. "Look at this!" he exhorted. "It-it's all over me! The pocket's a regular glue-pot! Ugh!"

Laurie looked and his shoulders heaved. "Oh, Kewpie!" he gurgled, contrition-or something quite over-mastering him. "I'm s-s-so s-s-sorry!"

Kewpie regarded him scathingly a moment, while syrupy globules detached themselves from the exhibit and ran along his wrist. Finally he exploded. "Sorry! Yes, you are!"

Whereupon the door closed behind him with an indignant crash, and Laurie, unable longer to contain his sorrow, dropped his head on his books and gave way to it unrestrainedly.

Nina Hatchitt Duffield.

In

FOR the sake of new ST. NICHOLAS readers who have not heard of Wildyrie, it is necessary to repeat that in New York State there is a wilderness of forest, lake, and mountain, river, pass, and pond, larger than Yellowstone Park, called the Adirondacks. this wilderness at latitude 44° 17' 14" N., longitude 78° 54' 41" W., there is a group of buildings made of logs, moss-chinked, set in a particular section called Wildyrie, which we named Wilderness House. At Wilderness House live Essex Lad, an ex-city chap of fifteen plus, Prunier, the French-Canadian guide, a descendant of the old coureurs de bois, who is mellow with wisdom and woodsmoke, and myself, who am not yet bent with years.

It is a beautiful spot near a lake called Dark-eyed Water and a mountain, Clouds' Cobble, and we live there the year round. We have two chief amusements-living and answering letters. Since it is considered unusual for three men to live of their own accord in a place that is so lovely, so healthful, and so interesting, we get a great many letters. These collect for us at the Lake Placid Club post-office and have to be carted in on our backs, along with books, bacon,

wool socks, lollypops, and the other necessaries of a forest life.

But they are worth their weight in amusement. On an evening when the snow is piling silently down upon the spruces, and Prunier is pulling at his old pipe before a blazing birch-log, E. L. and I drag out the wood-box in which we keep the unanswered correspondence and have a good laugh. We are as cosy as toasted cheese, having just had a supper of broiled venison and tarts made from some of Prunier's wild raspberries, then E. L. will read questions like these:

"How on earth do you get enough to eat?" "What do you mean, forty-five below zero?" "Why on earth do you remain in that heatforsaken spot?" "What on earth do you

find to do?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, FORTY-FIVE BELOW?" To begin with, forty-five below zero means that the mercury has to rise seventy-seven degrees before it reaches freezing point. That makes you safe-no thaws, no wet feet, the ice will stay hard, the snow will stay soft. This feeling of security is very comforting to anybody who has lived where every snow-storm turns to rain and every