The long-drawn shriek of a locomotive rose from the valley-bottom.
"There's the five-ten!" ejaculated Lane. "I pity Whittington when his dad finds how things have gone."
"Percy isn't the only one who needs sympathy," said Spurling, soberly. "What about his father?"
"I'm sorry for 'em both," was Lane's comment. "But the Whittington family'll have to handle its own troubles. Now, fellow-members, to the question before the house! Unless I raise at least two hundred dollars in the next three months, it's no college for me in September."
A short silence followed. Spurling took out his knife and deliberately slithered a long, splintery shaving off the fence-top.
"I've an idea," he said, slowly. "Give me till evening and I'll tell you about it. What d'you say to a last game of tennis?"
The others agreed and slipped off the fence. Lane glanced up the road.
"Here comes Whittington, scorching like a blue streak! And there's Bill Sanders's old auto crawling up May Street hill from the railroad station! If Percy should hit him—good-night!"
The gray machine rapidly grew larger. The people on the sidewalks stood still and watched.
May Street crossed Main at right angles, and a high cedar hedge before the corner house made it impossible for the two drivers to see each other until they were close together. On sped the gray car.