Few students were awake, and the belated ones were poring over their studies under night lights. The reconnoitering party reported that Bartelme’s room was vacant, and that Bartelme was away for the evening, engaged in tutoring some backward Junior in his studies.

With much scuffling and smothered laughter the pig was borne up the back stairs and into the room of the student who was in charge of the youths quartered in that dormitory. An impromptu nightcap was fashioned and tied about the porcine head, one of Bartelme’s nightgowns was adjusted and, with feet securely bound, the “Herr Professor’s” valuable pig was left to his repose between the immaculate sheets of the bed.

The culprits, chuckling and whispering orders to each other to maintain silence, beat a retreat from the dormitory, and once outside, they gathered under the shade of a pepper tree and doubled with laughter over the success of their prank, drawing amusing pictures of what would happen when the dignified Bartelme discovered his roommate.

The success of Larry Kirkland and his friends in “stirring up” Cascade was beyond their wildest imaginings. Before noon of the following day the school was in a turmoil. The “Herr Professor’s” pig had disappeared and theft was charged.

It was little Butler who came running to whisper the announcement of this new development in the prank. It was known that when Bartelme reached his room the pig was gone. It had disappeared sometime between the moment the plotters had tucked it under the covers and forty-five minutes later, when Bartelme returned and made complaint that some students had invaded his room, mussed his bed clothing and stolen his nightgown. No one seemed to know what had become of the animal, nor did anyone connect the theft of the pig with Bartelme’s loss. It was inconceivable that the pig, tied and trussed as it was, could have escaped from the bed, opened the door, fled down three flights of stairs and reached freedom and surcease from operations by the professor. Besides, the boys remembered they had closed the bedroom door and also the door leading to the stairway.

The new phase of the situation made the prank appear more serious; but it was the attitude of the dignified “Herr Professor” that caused most uneasiness. He was inconsolable and, as Winans remarked, “his Dutch was up above the boiling point.” He had discovered his loss early in the morning, and had stormed into the offices of the president demanding vengeance. Unconsciously he added to the uproar by declaring loudly that “Dere vud be peeg excitement” when he caught the culprits.

The “peeg excitement” grew and increased, especially after chapel exercises, in which President Jamieson spoke seriously of the offense, detailed the earnest, unselfish work of Professor Schermer in the interests of science, of long hours of study in his bacteriological laboratory; how, by the use of the humble pig, he believed himself near the solution of the cause and prevention of a disease that was one of the worst scourges under which the farmers struggle.

The seriousness of the joke became more and more evident, and the “fun” rapidly was oozing from it. After chapel exercises the guilty quartette strolled across the campus talking.

“The thing that worries me,” said Winans, “is that the pig is gone. Of course, we thought it would be returned and we’d have the laugh on that serious old fossil Bartelme. I wonder who took that pig and what they did with it?”

“I’ve talked to several of the fellows who live in that end of the dorm,” admitted Butler. “Some of them heard us go up with the pig and come down again, but didn’t pay any attention. Rumsey said he was going for water later and, while passing down the hall, he heard two or three fellows carrying something down the back stairs, but before he reached the head of the staircase they closed the back door.”

“How many of them?” inquired Trumbull seriously.

“He couldn’t tell. He didn’t see them, and was judging from the noise only.”

“Well, one thing is certain,” remarked Larry. “Two or more fellows in this school know we took the pig and put it in the bed. Why did they want to spoil our joke? If they wanted to return the pig, why didn’t they put it back in the ‘Herr Professor’s’ pen?”

“And why don’t they tell on us now?” queried Butler anxiously.

“It wasn’t anyone connected with the faculty,” concluded Winans. “If it had been, we’d have been on the carpet in chapel and probably been fired or suspended. What the dickens I can’t understand is that they would keep quiet.”

“Maybe they took the pig to put in someone else’s bed, and it will show up all right when they see how serious this thing is.”

But the pig did not return. The guilty ones waited anxiously for two days, worried and expectant, hoping that the missing “peeg” would be returned and the situation relieved.

If was rumored that city detectives were engaged on the case and that a spy had been placed in the dormitories to discover the identity of the culprits. The faculty was extremely busy with its investigation, and was threatening dire punishment. To make it worse, the newspapers had scented the facts and were blazoning the story of the “peeg excitement” at Cascade in lurid yarns, which held the “Herr Professor” up to ridicule and passed lightly over the loss to science. The burlesque on the missing germs became a joke for paragraphers and “funny men,” and each jest was a blow to the sensitive nature of the brusque, rotund, little scientist who had devoted the best years of his life to the study of cholera in hogs.

It was the fourth day after the theft of the “Herr Professor’s” inoculated pig that Larry Kirkland determined upon action. It had appeared as if the affair of the pig was being forgotten, but to Larry, as he studied and analyzed the situation, it became more and more serious.

As usual the chums had gathered in Larry’s quarters in the boarding house to study or romp when he raised the question.

“Fellows,” he remarked seriously, “I’ve made up my mind to go to Professor Schermer in the morning and confess that I stole his pig.”

“What for?” demanded Trumbull. “They are busy forgetting that infernal shoat, and in another week it will pass into the unwritten history of Cascade. Future generations of Freshmen will adore us and perhaps imitate us as heroes who stole the pig. Our names will go down with those of the heroes who got away with something and were not caught. Only the boob is caught; the hero is the one who gets away with it.”

“I know,” replied Larry; “but this is different. My conscious hurts me every time I think of it. If we only could get the pig back”——

“Let’s chip in and buy that old grouch a new pig,” urged Trumbull. “He’s made as much fuss over that pig as if it was a gold mine we stole.”

“Why didn’t you get up in chapel and declare we stole the pig, Larry?” taunted Winans. “If your conscience hurts you so much, why not tell them about who put the sauer kraut in Professor Ehmke’s ink well?”

“You fellows don’t understand,” protested Larry. “I won’t give any of you away. I think we ought to go and tell Professor Schermer we stole the pig and ask him if there is anything we can do to repay.”

“You’ll get us all fired from college,” protested Butler. “What’s the use? They’ll never find out who did it.”

“I’ve waited for them to find out,” said Larry. “I wasn’t going to confess while they might think it through fear of being caught.”

“Fellows,” said Trumbull, “I’ve been thinking that way myself. Let’s go over and have it out with the ‘Herr Professor.’ ”

“Oh, I say,” protested Larry; “I didn’t want to drag you into it. I’ll own up and see what can be done.”

“Nothing like that,” announced Winans. “We’re all in the same boat. What do you think, Butler?”

“Me? Why I’d just a lieve confess as to do it over again,” laughed the little fellow ruefully. “My conscience is clear. I didn’t carry the pig, and I’m so small the ‘Herr Professor’ probably will attack you big ones first.”

Rather dismally the small party set out across the campus and hesitatingly approached the residence of Professor Schermer. Winans, summoning all his courage, advanced and rang the bell, and the hesitating and confused culprits were ushered into the presence of the grave, courteous student, who regarded them over the tops of his glasses.

“Young shentlemans, to vot do I owe der honor off your presences?” he inquired gravely.

They shuffled, waited, each for the other, and glanced back and forth between each other for moral support.

“It’s this way, professor,” said Larry, screwing up his courage. “We swiped your pig and”——

“Vass? You stole mine pig?” he exclaimed, frowning. “For vy?”

He bristled with indignant anger and glared at them.

Quickly, now that the first plunge was taken, Larry related the circumstances, described the theft of the pig, of placing it in the bed and leaving it. Slowly a smile broke upon the face of the professor and, growing, it expanded into a laugh, and he sat rocking back and forth.

“You iss fery pad poys,” he said, removing his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Pad poys, but you iss honest. Where iss mine pig?”

Again Larry explained desperately, the professor nodding gravely.

“We wanted to tell you, professor,” he said, “how sorry we are. We’d do anything to help get the pig back, but we don’t know who took it or where it is.”

“Berhaps it vill return,” said the professor calmly. “You are ferry pad poys, but you are goot pad boys to tell me. Aber I shall not speak of it again, and you, I know, vill help me find mine pig.”

They shook hands with him seriously and backed from the study.

“Isn’t he an old trump?” said Winans enthusiastically. “He won’t even report it. I for one will break my neck to help him recover his fool pig.”

Students were trooping back to Cascade after the Christmas holidays. Larry Kirkland, disappointed at having failed to see Helen Baldwin on the train, found himself fretting with eagerness to reach the campus. He understood, now, the feelings of the upper classmen toward the newcomers. He was part of it all now and he found himself shouting greetings, slapping his friends on the back and thrilling with the renewal of a comradeship that is dearer, perhaps, than any other in a man’s life. He felt the reverent awe of the old, gray buildings. At last he understood what is meant by “college spirit,” the unselfish patriotism to Alma Mater that all good college men must feel. He was part of it and he began to understand part of the debt he owed the institution for what it was giving him.

The winter sun was shining warm, and the tang of the trades was in the air. It was mid-January, but already the boys were talking of the baseball team, and of the chances of a strong club to represent the college. The first two weeks of the term passed rapidly. Cold and fog had succeeded the sunshine, but early in February the deferred call for candidates for the track and baseball teams was posted on the big bulletin board, to set the aspirants off in fresh excitement.

The boys gathered around the bulletin board were discussing, with much earnestness, the chances of making the team, when Paw Lattiser, sauntered closer, stood peering over his glasses for a moment and read the announcement.

“Hello, Paw,” called one Junior, proud of his right to address the veteran familiarly. “You going to try for the team this year?”

“Well,” said the veteran, “I may try to help out a bit. Here, lend me a lead pencil.”

A dozen youngsters rushed to hand him a pencil, and, holding a sheet of paper against the wall, Lattiser boldly lettered a fresh bulletin, which he tacked upon the board.

The swarm of younger boys pressed close and read:

The posting of Paw Lattiser’s bulletin created a furore in the ranks of the undergraduates. No one knew what the meaning of the bulletin was and in response to all questions Lattiser smiled his peculiar smile and sauntered along, pretending to be engrossed in his studies. The crowd still was grouped around the board, discussing Lattiser’s bulletin, when Coach Haxton, with Harry Baldwin, and several of the leaders of the “sporty” crowd came past and stopped to read the bulletin.

“What’s this?” asked Haxton angrily. “Who has been calling a baseball meeting?”

“Lattiser posted the notice,” chirped one Freshman. “He wouldn’t say what it was for.”

“That old fogy is always butting in,” remarked Harry Baldwin. “I suppose he thinks he knows how to run things better than Mr. Haxton does.”

“Hold on, Baldwin,” retorted Dalmores, the outfielder. “Lattiser is a pretty solid old square head. Whatever he is doing he has a reason for it—and don’t forget that he’s a pretty big man in this school—both with the students and the faculty.”

“He’s an old trouble-maker,” snapped Harry. “I think he’s a spy for the faculty”——

“You do?”

The question was asked quietly, and Harry Baldwin, confused and red, whirled to drop his eyes before the steady gaze bent upon him by Paw Lattiser, who stood, looking over the top of his spectacles. “Well, young man, if I were telling the faculty any tales I might relate interesting ones about you. However, about that bulletin: I have an idea that may help the team, and I want to put it to the students. I may be wrong, but Mr. Haxton can tell us. Hope all of you come.”

He turned away without another word, leaving Harry uncomfortable and fuming.

“I didn’t know the old fellow was interested in baseball,” said Haxton. “Anyhow, if he has any suggestions we ought to hear them. It is one certain thing that we need something.”

The meeting Friday evening was well attended. The news that Paw Lattiser had taken to baseball and was going to propose a remedy for the team attracted students from curiosity as well as from interest and many of the upper classmen who knew and respected the odd veteran came to listen to his proposed cure for the athletic ills of the college.

The small assembly hall used for athletic meetings was crowded when Lattiser appeared. He walked into the room, still reading, and continued engrossed in his subject until a laugh aroused him. He blinked as if striving to recall his whereabouts, then grinned and advanced to the small platform, where he stood, cracking his big knuckles, his book held tightly under one arm, while waiting for the laugh to subside.

“Boning on political science,” he said, smiling. “Sat down under the arc lamp outside to study and almost forgot the meeting. Very interesting subject—political science.”

He stood smiling while the students roared at his apologetic explanation.

“Fellows,” he said finally, “I don’t know much about baseball. Haxton attends to that part of it. But I hear a lot of criticism among the students. Maybe it’s only because we’ve been losing, but many of you seem to think we ought to get winning teams. I haven’t heard any of you say Haxton did not get the best work out of the men; you seem to think that the team doesn’t get the best men.”

He paused and there was a murmur of assent.

“I figure it this way,” he went on. “We haven’t any right to criticise unless we are willing to help. No use pointing out a flaw and not trying to discover the remedy. I believe every one here wants old Cascade to win”——

He paused until the applause subsided and then added:

“But someone is wrong. Half of us are criticising, and the other half resent the criticism. Most of us think we could do better than Haxton is doing”——

An outburst of laughter greeted the sally and showed that Lattiser had struck home with his whimsical thrust.

“The thing I propose is just this: You fellows who think you can play better, run a team better, and win more games than Haxton and the Varsity team can, are entitled to a chance, and you are complaining that you don’t get it”——

Lattiser was talking earnestly. He had dropped the half-humorous tone he had been using, and it was plain that he was flicking some of the students to the raw. Larry Kirkland, who was sitting with Katsura, had an uneasy sense of guilt, and wondered how much of the talk was meant for him.

“What I propose is just this,” continued Lattiser. “Let Haxton pick his regular team—fourteen men—the best he can select. Then let the others make up a team and play his choice. If Haxton, as some of you charge, is playing favorites, his team will get a beating. If he selects the best men no one has a kick coming.”

Haxton, angry and trembling, arose.

“Whoever says”——he commenced, then gained control of himself. “That’s a good plan, Lattiser. This school has been troubled by a lot of fellows who sit around and knock instead of coming out and helping build up the team. I accept the challenge on behalf of the Varsity team—and with the understanding that after we’ve beaten them they stop abusing the players and help the team.”

Three cheers for Lattiser, and three for Haxton were followed by three cheers for the Varsity team. It was Larry Kirkland who leaped upon his chair and proposed the cheers for the Varsity team—and suddenly little Billy Towne, the clown of the Junior class, restored good humor and ended the meeting with a laugh by proposing three cheers for the knockers.

An hour later, as Larry Kirkland and Winans were settling to their studies, Paw Lattiser entered their quarters.

“Hello, fellows,” he said cheerfully. “Hard at it?”

“Mr. Lattiser,” said Larry, “I thought you were hitting at me in your talk. Really, I’m not that way.”

“When you get older,” remarked Lattiser, “you’ll see that the best way to handle a crowd of hot heads is to jolly both sides. That meeting was a big bluff. You’re sitting here, planning to lead the Outcast team and beat the Varsity right now, I’ll wager a dollar.”

“I—I—well, I did think of it,” confessed Larry lamely.

“You won’t be on the second team, my boy,” said Lattiser calmly. “I know Haxton. He has realized all along he was wrong. He’ll choose you, and the little Jap and Winans for his team, and the second team will not have a chance. I purposely gave him the opportunity. Whether he wants you or not he’ll pick you now just to show he is fair—which he is not. The fact that he isn’t fair will make him do it.”

“He’s a wise old fowl,” remarked Winans. “He has Haxton figured out just as I have.”

“The trouble will not be with Haxton,” said Larry. “It will be with Baldwin. He’ll not let me on the team if he can keep me off it.”

Lattiser’s prediction proved true. On the first day of practice, after Haxton had spent two hours studying the candidates, he boldly posted a notice on the bulletin board, naming the fourteen players he had selected as members of the Varsity squad. Eight were veterans of the team of the preceding season; one was Jacobs, a youth who had tried for the team and who had been carried as a substitute; one was Wares, a new man who came highly recommended from a preparatory school, and the others were the rebels—Larry Kirkland, Trumbull, Winans and Katsura.

Even Larry was surprised to find that all four of them had been selected; and he was relieved, for secretly he had feared that Haxton, who was known to hold prejudice against the Japanese, would surrender on all other points and bar Katsura.

The announcement of the team make-up broke the opposition to Haxton and his methods. As Lattiser had shrewdly guessed, Haxton had selected, as regulars, the very men upon whom the “knockers” based their charges of unfairness, and left them nothing upon which to base their charges. There was an enthusiastic movement among the lower classmen, who thought they could play well, to organize a team to play the regulars, but they were defeated in a farcical game and, true to their promise, they ceased criticising and became loyal adherents of the Varsity. Sentiment in the school had been unified, and the college spirit of Cascade revived. Only one sore spot remained—and that was the enmity between Larry Kirkland and Harry Baldwin.

“If only we played different positions,” Larry lamented to Winans. “It seems as if I always have to fight that fellow. One or the other of us has to be third baseman of this team.”

“He has declared he wouldn’t play on a team with you,” remarked Winans. “I guess he’ll have to make good.”

Another surprise resulted, however. Haxton was too shrewd a judge of players not to see that he had found an excellent infielder in Kirkland, and much as he disliked the youth, who had been a stumbling block in his path, he could not afford to overlook such material, especially as Larry’s fielding and base-running in practice games had attracted the admiring attention of some of the upper classmen who knew the game. He hesitated to offend Baldwin, yet, as the practice games proceeded, it became evident to all on the field that Larry was much the better at third base, and the superior to Baldwin in all-around playing. On the eve of the game with St. Mary’s, the first of the important games with rival teams of rival institutions, Haxton announced the line-up of the team, placing Baldwin at third, Kirkland at short, and, even more surprising, sending Winans in as catcher and placing Torney, the regular Varsity catcher, a veteran of three seasons, at first base. The move undoubtedly strengthened the team as a whole, but Larry Kirkland knew Haxton had compromised with his own judgment in keeping Baldwin on third, and that he either should have been sent to third himself or placed on the bench. He was disappointed that Trumbull had not been chosen, but the enthusiasm of the big outfielder over the choice of two of his friends as regulars was so honest that it was recompense.

The game with St. Mary’s proved a desperate one. For seven innings the two teams, evenly matched, battled for supremacy, with the score tied, each team having scored once. Larry saw several opportunities wasted, but, remembering the advice of Krag, he maintained silence, and made no comments upon the failure of his fellows to take advantage of openings. He realized for the first time that he knew more of the generalship of the game than did Haxton, who plainly was limited in his knowledge of baseball strategy. Krag’s lectures, and his own experience with the Shasta View team, had taught him a great deal about the inside game that was unknown to the college boys.

With the score 1 to 1 in the first half of the eighth, the first batter for St. Mary’s drove a long two-base hit out to left field. Larry expected the next batter to sacrifice, and had crept forward a few paces to be in readiness in case the ball should be bunted toward him, when the batter slashed fiercely at the ball and drove it on the ground between Baldwin and Larry. It was Baldwin’s ball, although the chance was difficult, and as Baldwin was caught standing flat-footed, Larry leaped sideways and made a desperate effort to head off the hit. He reached the ball back at the edge of the grass, outside the base lines, and in such a position that to recover, turn and throw to first base in time was an impossibility. Like a flash he thought of another play and without looking he scooped the ball and threw it underhand to third base. The runner coming from second had hesitated as Larry tore across the base line in pursuit of the ball, and he was all of fifteen feet from the bag when Larry threw. The play was unexpected and brilliantly executed. If Baldwin caught the ball and touched the runner it meant that St. Mary’s hopes were dashed and that Cascade was saved temporarily from a dangerous position. But Baldwin did not catch the ball. Larry’s warning shout aroused him just in time to enable him to dodge, the ball flashed past his head, went to the grand stand and while the St. Mary’s adherents screamed their applause, one runner scored and another reached second base. Before the inning ended he, too, crossed the plate and the score was 3 to 1 in favor of the visitors.

Larry, hot and exasperated, returned to the bench. He was determined not to speak of the misplay that had resulted so disastrously, but when he reached the bench he found Haxton and Baldwin in a heated argument.

“Why don’t you keep your eyes open?” Haxton demanded. “If you had been keeping your eye on the ball it wouldn’t have happened.”

“That —— —— simply tried to show me up,” snarled Baldwin. “He knew the play was to first, and he threw to third because he saw I wasn’t watching.”

“It was the only way he could have played it,” retorted Haxton, exasperated. “Don’t try to shift the blame. You were asleep and now you’re trying to lay it on someone else.”

“I won’t play on a team with a mucker like that,” cried Baldwin, furious with anger. “He’s been trying to get my job ever since he came here and I won’t stand it.”

“All right—all right,” responded the now furious manager. “McAtee, you play short next inning and we’ll put Kirkland on third.”

Baldwin, stunned by the unexpected acceptance of his challenge, started to whine.

“Oh, say, Dick,” he pleaded, “I was mad—I didn’t mean it. Don’t put me out of the game—my girl is in the stand.”

“You must have been watching her instead of the ball,” snapped Haxton, too furious to relent.

Baldwin sprang to his feet, as if to strike the manager, and at that instant little Katsura, with a catlike move, seized his arm, gave it a quick twist, and Baldwin, half sobbing with pain, sank down, whimpering and holding his arm.

Suddenly he turned upon Larry Kirkland, cursing and half sobbing.

“You did this,” he said. “It’s all your fault. You’ve been trying to make trouble for me ever since you came here—but I’ll get even with you—I’ll”——

Larry had leaped to his feet, but Winans dragged him back, and Baldwin, still swearing and threatening, left the field.

During all the scene Larry Kirkland had not spoken a word. Indeed, Baldwin’s frantic outburst had been so unexpected that none of the players had recovered from their astonishment sufficiently to join the dispute. Larry turned to the coach.

“I’m sorry this happened, Mr. Haxton,” he said. “I tried to make the play”——

“I know it,” snapped Haxton. “Cartright, you get up there and try to get those two runs back.” He glanced along the bench a moment. “Trumbull,” he snapped, “you’ll hit for Arksall. We’ve got to get those runs back.”

But although they rallied and strove desperately to overcome the disadvantage, they were beaten, 3 to 2.

The time for the final selection of the Cascade team approached, with a score of youths working with might and main to win or hold places as regular players. The conduct of Haxton toward Larry Kirkland and his friends had not changed materially, although after the rebellion of Harry Baldwin he was fairer toward Larry and his friends. It was evident too that the opinion of the students who came regularly to watch the practice games was having its influence upon the coach, and that he was watching more attentively the playing, especially of Winans, the big, easy-moving, strong-throwing catcher, and of Kirkland, whose work at third base and at shortstop in the occasions in which he had been given the opportunity to play. Paw Lattiser’s active interest in Kirkland was having its influence among the Seniors, and Clark, one of the student directors of athletics, appeared to favor Kirkland or, at least, to treat him with condescending friendliness.

In several clashes in which the first team, chosen by Coach Haxton, had been pitted against the “scrubs,” Kirkland had shone brilliantly as compared with Harry Baldwin, who seemed to have an idea that the position was a sinecure after regaining his standing with Haxton. Baldwin and several of the sporty crowd that followed his lead lost few opportunities to belittle Kirkland, and several times they had flagrantly attempted to insult little Katsura. Only the calm philosophy of the little brown fellow and his ignoring of the rebuffs prevented open resentment of their conduct by Kirkland and Winans, who valued the friendship of Katsura.

Larry Kirkland returned to his rooms one evening after a call at St. Gertrude’s, quiet and troubled.

“Why all these glooms?” inquired Winans, who, as usual, was sitting up hoping to start an argument before going to sleep. “Has the lovely maiden treated you ill to-night?”

“I’m worried over something,” confessed Larry. “It was just a little remark I heard. I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time, but walking home I remembered it and I wish I had inquired more closely.”

“What was it?”

“Well—the friend I went to see happens to be related to Har——to one of the fellows here in school. She remarked that this fellow had told her I was sure to be fired from college. I thought it was merely some of his talk, as he has made similar remarks before, but on the way home I wondered whether it had anything to do with the pig case.”

“Oh, that’s dead, buried and forgotten. I haven’t heard it even mentioned lately, and the faculty probably gave it up in disgust when the ‘Herr Professor’ dropped it.”

“You forget,” said Larry earnestly, “that at least two persons knew we stole the pig. Why did they keep quiet? Maybe they will inform the faculty now. If this fellow I speak of knows we stole the pig, the faculty will hear of it soon enough.”

“Oh, forget it,” advised Winans. “I’ve figured out that the fellows who took the pig out of Bartelme’s bed are afraid to say a word because they are as deep in the mud as we are in the mire.”

“I know that,” urged Larry. “That’s why I’m thinking about this. If we can find out who they are, maybe we could find the ‘Herr Professor’s’ pig for him.”

“Chances are, piggy, germs and all, has gone to pig heaven long before this,” yawned Winans. “I’m sleepy, and I refuse to worry about that pig any further. I’ve grown so sick of pig that I won’t touch my ham and eggs.”

Larry’s troubled evening was not without cause. Two days later he returned from class and found Winans and Trumbull awaiting him in gloomy forboding. Each had received notice to appear before the Faculty Committee at three o’clock that afternoon without fail. Another note of the same import was awaiting addressed to Larry, and a hasty scouring of the campus revealed little Butler in the throes of despair over an order of similar nature. The discovery that all of those implicated in the “peeg” plot had been summoned made it a certainty that the faculty at last had received information as to the identity of the culprits. Butler seemed much relieved.

“Gee,” he ejaculated, “I’m glad it’s that. I was afraid it was some confounded flunk in math. I’d rather be called up for first degree murder than to flunk in math. I think father would forgive me more quickly.”

“I’m certain father will be proud of me now,” said Winans.

The luncheon period was spent in idle speculation as to the manner in which the faculty had received its information. Larry, although his suspicions pointed strongly to Harry Baldwin, and who felt assured that Baldwin at least knew the faculty would be informed, decided to withhold his accusation until after the ordeal in the president’s office.

The quartette, a little awed, filed into the offices of the president promptly at the assigned hour. The president, cracking his knuckles, as was his wont, sat in state, flanked on the right by Professor Jervis, dean of the mathematical department and the terror of many generations of Cascade youths, ready and eager to enforce any penalty up to capital punishment upon any accused or suspected student, and on the left by Professor Weyrich, head of the college of chemistry, the jovial, twinkling-eyed, fat friend and defender of all boys, who loved them most when they had fractured college law worse than usual.

As the quartette entered, President Jamieson gazed at them over the rims of his spectacles, cracked his knuckles until they sounded like corn popping, and said:

“Ahem—young gentlemen, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” they replied faintly.

“Ahem,” continued the president, eyeing them one after the other pompously. Professor Jarvis scowled threateningly, and Larry Kirkland, shifting his glance from the forbidding and the accusing countenances, looked at the solemn-faced head of the chemical department just in time to observe a quick, but unmistakable wink from the eye furtherest from the others of the faculty.

“Ahem,” repeated the president. “Ahem,—Winans, Kirkland, Trumbull and Butler; all here I see. Very satisfactory. Very satisfactory.”

“Yes, sir,” they agreed in chorus.

“I suppose,” the president hesitated and cracked his knuckles again. “I conclude, at least, that you young gentlemen are aware of the charge about to be considered? You need not reply. I can see you at least fear we have discovered you; but, to be just, I will merely add that if any one of you is in ignorance, which is possible, but hardly probable, the charge is that you are the four miscreants who committed the crime of theft in stealing one pig, the property of Cascade College, for use in scientific investigations, then in the custody of Professor Schermer.”

He bent a judicial, yet accusing, look upon them.

“Well, well, what have you to say?” demanded Professor Jervis sharply. “What defense have you to offer—if any?”

“I think,” interjected Professor Weyrich, “that the facts of the case have not been fairly stated. The pig was not, as I understand it, the property of Cascade College, since Professor Schermer paid for it from his own salary, and Jervis, I believe it was at your suggestion that the Faculty Finance Committee refused to pay for the pig.”

“The matter of ownership is inconsequential,” declared the president. “No matter whether Professor Schermer paid for the pig or not, it was a valuable asset to the scientific department of Cascade and therefore really the property of the institution. What have you young gentlemen to say?”

The quartette shuffled uneasily, waiting for one to advance as spokesman. Winans nudged Larry Kirkland, who stepped a pace forward and, looking straight at Professor Jervis, replied:

“We stole the pig.”

His antagonistic nature was stirred by the attitude of Professor Jervis, and he set his lips tightly, determined not to say another word. At that moment Professor Schermer entered.