"I'll take good care of him, Jim, and send him to bed early."
The trainer turned and spoke to the burly figure at his side.
"He's goin' to make a good 'un some day, when I get through with him."
Matthew Goldie, the proctor, shrugged his heavy shoulders.
"I thought he was a pretty good 'un when he got hold of me," he grunted.
The story of the struggle in L. Putney Betts's room was abroad, even if it had not been discussed at a faculty meeting—officially.
Ned Bliss lived in Orange, his father being a well-to-do business man who had travelled untold thousands of miles in the aggregate between New York and the New Jersey suburb and had never missed a train.
"It's Saturday and we may meet the governor at the station," said Ned, as he and Hart settled themselves in their seat, "and that means that there'll be a family driving party.—Care much for driving?"
"I've never done much of it for pleasure," Hart responded, "but I like a good horse.—Does your father raise them?"
