And now Livingston, who by every law of nature should be five miles out in the country, was presiding at the feast and moving his audience to the wildest applause.
"But I helped put him in the hack!" Carey cried over and over.
"And I saw it drive off with him!" marveled another.
"And if that's Livingston, where's Baker, and Morton, and Cowan, and Dyer ?" asked the rest.

And all shook their heads and gazed bewildered through the rain to where a raised window-shade gave them occasional glimpses of "Fan" Livingston, a fine figure in dinner jacket and white shirt bosom, leading the cheering.
"_Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Fletcher_!" The group under the awning turned puzzled looks upon each other.
"Who's Fletcher?
What are they cheering Fletcher for ?" was asked.

But none could answer.
But over in the hall it was different.

Not a lad there, perhaps, but would have been glad to have exchanged places with the gallant confounder of sophomore plots, who was pictured in most minds as starving to death somewhere out in the rain, a captive in the ungentle hands of the enemy.
However, starving Neil certainly was not.

For at that very moment, seated at the hospitable board of Farmer Hutchins, he was helping himself to his fifth hot biscuit, and allowing Miss Hutchins, a red-cheeked and admiring young lady of fourteen years, to fill his teacup for the second time.