The same morning, in a comfortably furnished room in Simpson Hall, sat, or rather lounged, Walter Sherwood.
“I feel sleepy this morning, Gates,” he said to his chum. “I can't fix my mind on this confounded logic¹.”
“No wonder, Sherwood. You have good reason to be tired after last evening.”
“That's so! We had a good time, though. I am sorry you couldn't accept my invitation.”
“I couldn't afford it, Sherwood. You know we are very differently situated². You are rich, while I am the oldest son of a country minister, with all I can do to get through college. As it is, I shall be in debt.”
“Why not be in debt to me? You never would accept anything from me.”
“Yes, I did. I have let you go to the entire expense of furnishing this room, though I have an equal share in it.”
“Oh, that's nothing! You pay me in helping³ me through my lessons when I am behind. If you hadn't read my Horace to me the other day I should have flunked⁴ as sure as can be.”
“It would be better for you to get your own lesson, Walter.”
“Well, I suppose it would,” answered his roommate, yawning. “I wish you could drive this logic into my head. I suppose I am unusually stupid this morning.”
“Suppose we go over it together.”
Fifteen minutes later Walter said complacently⁵: “Thanks, old fellow; you have made it as plain as a pikestaff.”
“And very likely you will get a higher mark at the recitation than I.”
“Well, perhaps so,” laughed Walter. “I suppose it is because I have more cheek than you.”
“You can do better on slight preparation, certainly. You talk like a professor when you are on your feet.”
“You want to be a professor some time, Gates, don't you?”
“Yes,” answered his chum, his face flushing, “I should be proud to become a professor in old Euclid.”
“It would be awfully⁶ slow, I think,” returned Walter,

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