there had been a corking chap at the beach last month who had hailed from the Hub, too. Too bad he wasn't to have Benson for a pal instead of Walter Treat. Even that cheeky Kemble was more—more human, Clif grudgingly acknowledged. He got up and sent a difficult look toward Mr. Wyatt's window. It was empty now and the room was full of shadows. His watch proclaimed four-forty. There remained, then, an hour and twenty minutes before dinner—no, supper. Funny scheme, having supper in the evening and dinner at midday. He didn't suppose he was going to like that at first. Well, there were probably plenty of other things he wouldn't like any better! He guessed there wasn't any school that was as nice as a fellow's own home. Thinking of the square, brick house back in Providence made him feel decidedly unhappy. Pretty soon—well, not yet, but in another two or three hours—the lights would come out all over the city, and from the window of his room up there on the hill it was like looking down on fairyland. Sophie would be trotting to the front door about now, looking for the evening paper. She always got it first and took it back to the pantry and read the love story and the beauty hints before any one else could get hold of it. And pretty soon dad would come walking up the hill, the Boston financial paper held in one gloved hand, his silver-knobbed stick in the other—no, he wouldn't either; not this evening. Clif looked at his watch again. His father ought to be somewhere around Willimantic now; maybe further; he had a way of "stepping on it" when
