on the car steps. It was Chester Trask. The great Tate hero had been on the train with him, and he had never known it! Rapidly Harold walked over to join the shouting crowd of Trask's greeters. But he was nearly bowled over by the rush of the late-comers among the students eager to welcome back Chester Trask to the scene of his triumphs.
Bewildered, Harold paused beside the train to catch his bearings and take a fresh grip upon the luggage that was slipping from his grasp. He happened to be standing directly underneath an open window of the smoking car. A passenger within chose that precise moment to light his pipe and flick the smoldering match carelessly out of the window. It landed upon the woolly white sweater Harold was wearing. Harold, absorbed in the scene about him, was for the instant unaware that the match was burning a hole in his sweater, sending a thin curl of acrid smoke into the air. But the passenger, gazing from the window, saw the impending danger. Leaning over the sill, he clapped a large paw upon Harold's back and smothered the blaze in its infancy.
That was enough for lonesome, anxiouseyed Harold. In this atmosphere of greeting and back-slapping, the Freshman guessed at once that some friendly soul was slapping
