had a chance to answer. And then the story of the queer happenings was told again.
"Somebody's rigging you, I guess," was the opinion of the lad from Stanford. "I wouldn't let 'em see that I was worried."
"Oh, we're not, but we'd like to get our chair back," replied Tom.
"Something like that happened out in our college, when I was a freshman," went on the newcomer, who, it developed, was in the Randall sophomore class. "We fellows missed things from our rooms and made quite a row about it, thinking a thief was busy. But it developed that there was a secret society of seniors whose sworn duty it was to furnish up their meeting-room with something taken from every fellow's apartment in the college. Jove! But those fellows had a raft of stuff, every bit of it pilfered, and when we got next to it we stripped their meeting place as bare as a bone, and got our things back. Maybe that's what's happened here."
"It's possible," admitted Phil, "but we haven't heard of any senior secret society like that. It's worth looking up."
There was a knock on the door, and Holly Cross and Dutch Housenlager entered. They were introduced to Frank, and the congenial little party of lads talked of various matters, mostly football, until the striking of the new clock
