hard in class now. I have to bone away like a Trojan. Pitchfork has it in for me on Latin. I wish I had a vacation."
"Without baseball?" asked Tom.
"N-o—no, of course not without being on the team. But two weeks are soon over."
"Not soon enough," and Tom darted away.
"Where you going?"
"Back and study. I can't afford to fall behind in my work."
"My, but aren't you the grinder, though!" exclaimed Sid, but there was something of envy in his tone for all that. He went into recitation, while Tom continued on to their common room. He was walking along the path that led past Booker Memorial Chapel and paused for a moment to admire the effect of the early sun shining through a stained glass window. The combination of colors was perfect, and Tom, as he stood and looked at a depiction of a biblical scene which represented the Good Samaritan ministering to the stranger, felt somehow that it was a role that he himself had had a part in.
Then came a revulsion of feeling.
"Oh, pshaw! You're getting sentimental in your old age!" he exclaimed half aloud. "You've got to have your share of hard knocks in this world, and you've got to take what comes. But it's queer," he went on in his self-communing, "how
