Three or four of their classmates had gathered there. The gas was burning low, and a blanket had been tacked up at the narrow little window. Charles Townes, a pursy youth from Washington, D.C., was seated on the edge of the bed. He was yawning. "Gentle" Hart was drawing on a pair of cowhide boots. Jimmie James, "the Hawk-Faced Man," as he was called, was pulling away at a corncob pipe. As the others entered the room questions were fired and answered in hoarse whispers.
The sophomores had been seen a half hour ago, and one of their proclamations was pasted on the side of the railway station. Charlie Townes had read it himself with the aid of a match.
"Why didn't you tear it down?" asked Terence Golatly, who had just come in.
"It had such a good thing on you, McFadden, my boy."
"I would not take your judgment," said Golatly, "you have no wit."
"It's time we were starting, don't you guess?" said Hart, who treated the whole expedition very seriously. He had, the day after his talk with Franklin, received politely a long
