Behind the Line | Page 8

decided not to go to Robinson!"
CHAPTER III
IN NEW QUARTERS
Almost every one has heard of Erskine College. For the benefit of the
few who have not, and lest they confound it with Williams or
Dartmouth or Bowdoin or some other of its New England neighbors, it
may be well to tell something about it. Erskine College is still in its
infancy, as New England universities go, with its centennial yet eight
years distant. But it has its own share of historic associations, and
although the big elm in the center of the campus was not planted until
1812 it has shaded many youths who in later years have by good deeds
and great accomplishments endeared themselves to country and alma
mater.

In the middle of the last century, when Erskine was little more than an
academy, it was often called "the little green school at Centerport." It is
not so little now, but it's greener than ever. Wide-spreading elms grow
everywhere; in serried ranks within the college grounds, in smaller
detachments throughout the village, in picket lines along the river and
out into the country. The grass grows lush wherever it can gain hold,
and, not content with having its own way on green and campus, is
forever attempting the conquest of path and road. The warm red bricks
of the college buildings are well-nigh hidden by ivy, which, too, is an
ardent expansionist. And where neither grass nor ivy can subjugate,
soft, velvety moss reigns humbly.
In the year 1901, which is the period of this story, the enrolment in all
departments at Erskine was close to six hundred students. The
freshman class, as had been the case for many years past, was the
largest in the history of the college. It numbered 180; but of this
number we are at present chiefly interested in only two; and these two,
at the moment when this chapter begins--which, to be exact, is eight
o'clock of the evening of the twenty-fourth day of September in the
year above mentioned--were busily at work in a first-floor study in the
boarding-house of Mrs. Curtis on Elm Street.
It were perhaps more truthful to say that one was busily at work and the
other was busily advising and directing. Neil Fletcher stood on a small
table, which swayed perilously from side to side at his every movement,
and drove nails into an already much mutilated wall. Paul Gale sat in a
hospitable armchair upholstered in a good imitation of green leather
and nodded approval.
"That'll do for 'Old Abe'; now hang The First Snow a bit to the left and
underneath."
"The First Snow hasn't any wire on it," complained Neil. "See if you
can't find some."
"Wire's all gone," answered Paul. "We'll have to get some more.
Where's that list? Oh, here it is. 'Item, picture wire.' I say, what in
thunder's this you've got down--'Ring for waistband'?"

"Rug for wash-stand, you idiot! I guess we'll have to quit until we get
some more wire, eh? Or we might hang a few of them with boot-laces
and neckties?"
"Oh, let's call it off. I'm tired," answered Paul with a grin. "The room
begins to look rather decent, doesn't it? We must change that couch,
though; put it the other way so the ravelings won't show. And that
picture of--"
But just here Neil attempted to step from the table and landed in a heap
on the floor, and Paul forgot criticism in joyful applause.
"Oh, noble work! Do it again, old man; I didn't see the take-off!"
But Neil refused, and plumping himself into a wicker rocking-chair that
creaked complainingly, rubbed the dust from his hands to his trousers
and looked about the study approvingly.
"We're going to be jolly comfy here, Paul," he said. "Mrs. Curtis is
going to get a new globe for that fixture over there."
[Illustration]
"Then we will be," said Paul. "And if she would only find us a
towel-rack that didn't fall into twelve separate pieces like a Chinese
puzzle every time a chap put a towel on it we'd be simply reveling in
luxury."
"I think I can fix that thing with string," answered Neil. "Or we might
buy one of those nickel-plated affairs that you screw into the wall."
"The sort that always dump the towels on to the floor, you mean? Yes,
we might. Of course, they're of no practical value judged as towel-racks,
but they're terribly ornamental. You know we had one in the bath-room
at the beach. Remember? When you got through your bath and groped
round for the towel it was always lying on the floor just out of reach."
"Yes, I remember," answered Neil, smiling. "We had rather a good

time, didn't we, at Seabright? It was awfully nice of you