my apartment, or, as I said, I'm on the wrong front stoop. Simpson is my name, Frank Simpson. I'm from California, and I've been attending Leland Stanford University, but father's business called him East permanently, and so I decided to come to Randall. I've just arrived," he concluded.
"Simpson," murmured Phil, wondering where he had heard the name before.
"With a capital 'S'," put in the strange student, with a whimsical smile.
"Oh, you're the fellow Jerry Jackson was speaking of," exclaimed Tom, recalling the Jersey twin's reference to some new students who were due to arrive at Randall.
"Much obliged to Mr. Jackson, whoever he may be," spoke the tall youth, "but I haven't the honor of his acquaintance."
"Oh, you'll soon know him," added Sid. "And so you're from California, eh?"
"Yes, but I think I'm going to like it here," was the response. "They tell me there was a Freshman football game to-day. Did our boys win?" he asked, eagerly. "You see, I'm making myself right at home, calling 'em our boys."
"That's the way to do," declared Tom, who, somehow, felt a sudden liking for the stranger. "Are you interested in football?"
"I played—some—at Stanford," was the mod-
