"Not much style to Thomas," the other was continuing. "My middle name's Ackerman. That was my mother's before she married. When I was a kid I used to write my name T. Ackerman Kemble, but the fellows got on to it and called me Tackerman, and then Tak. Mother used to call me Tommy, but I had to lick a chap in school for doing it. It was all right from her, but I couldn't stand for it generally."
"Is your mother—I mean—"
"Yes, she died about six years ago. A man named Winslow is my guardian. Mother didn't have any near relatives and this guy was her lawyer and so she stung me with him. He's sort of a pill. I say, pipe the faculty chap on the steps!"
Against the light of West Hall entrance a tall figure was darkly silhouetted as they came up the drive.
"Faculty chaps are bad luck for me," confided Tom; "like black cats!" Clif laughed uneasily. Then they were at the steps and he said "Good evening, sir," as pleasantly as he knew how.
"Good evening," was the response. "Where have you boys been?"
"Just looking around, sir," answered Tom promptly.
"What have you there?" The man indicated Tom's right hand. Tom looked and replied affably: "A peanut, sir."
"Hm. What's your name?"
"Kemble, sir."
"And yours?"
"Bingham, sir."
