Mr. Wadsworth. I'll stay and fight it out—if Dr. Clay will let me."
He left the dormitory and without hesitation hurried below and to Dr. Clay's private office. His knock was answered by a brief, "Come in," and he entered, to find the master of Oak Hall poring over some academy bills.
"What is it, Master Porter?" questioned Dr. Clay, pleasantly.
"Can I have a few words in private with you, Dr. Clay?"
"Certainly. What do you want?"
"I—I want to—to speak about myself." Dave tried to talk steadily, but his voice trembled in spite of himself.
"Yes?"
"When Mr. Wadsworth had me placed here, did he—he tell you anything about me—of the past—where I came from?"
"Oh, that is what you want to know." The doctor leaned back in his easy chair. "Why, yes, he told me that you had been living with an old broken-down college professor who was trying to run a farm, and that the professor had had you bound out to him by a—er—a public institution."
"It was the Crumville poorhouse. Did he tell you that?"
"Yes. But Mr. Wadsworth said you were not a—er—a common boy, but very bright, and very
