CHAPTER XI.
THE BLUE DEVILS.
"Pop, old boy," said L. Putney Betts, "you've got something on your mind. Your presence exudes a blue haze suggestive of remorse or a dread of impending trouble. Cheer up! Care kills cats, you know."
Hart was sitting in the window with his feet up on the cushion, looking out at Nassau Street. Three or four chilly nights had scattered the leaves from the trees and they littered the walks and roadways. It was now late in October.
The Westerner's appearance had changed not a little in the past two months. He looked somewhat younger than he did when he had climbed up the stone steps from the station, the day of his first encounter with the sophomores. His face had become thinner, but it glowed with health. His coat was open and a big orange P flared on the breast of a new sweater. His only reply to Betts's remark was
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