that one place looked fresher, was all the one color. It was no longer marred.
He stood up, stretched his muscles, and sighed. Suddenly, at a sound, he whirled toward the door. Praska was there, and Littlefield and Hammond, the quarterback, and others of the football squad. Perry's face went white once more.
"You had us guessing for a while," said Hammond. "We knew you had the head, Perry, but"
"Why did you bother to clean it?" a voice asked.
"It was a blot on Room 13," said Perry, steadily.
They stood there looking across the room, the football crowd in a group, the lone boy with his collar still unbuttoned. Praska began to chuckle.
"You old bean-pole!" he said affectionately. "We thought we had you figured right. That's the reason we elected you manager of the term."
