"The weeping winds were whispering through the wood, The rolling rill ran 'round the ragged rock; The shepherd, with his sunny, smiling face, Was far away to feed his flitting flock.

Deep in the dingle, dank and dark--"

"I thought I heard an old crow bark!"

finished Tom. "Say, Songbird, how much is that poetry by the yard--or do you sell it by the ton?" he went on.

At the sound of Tom's voice the would-be poet gave a start. But he quickly recovered. He scowled for a moment and then took on a look of resignation.

"You've spoiled one of the best thoughts I ever had," he said.

"Don't you believe it, Songbird," answered Tom. "I've heard you make up poetry worth ten times that. Don't you remember that little sonnet you once composed, ent.i.tled 'Who Put Ink in Willie's Shoes?' It was great, grand, sublime!"

"I never wrote such a sonnet!" cried Songbird. "Ink in shoes, indeed!

Tom, you don't know real poetry when you see it!"

"That's a fact, I don't. But, say, what's on the carpet, as the iceman said to the thrush?"

"Nothing. I thought I'd write a few verses, that's all. Thought you were going to town with Sam and d.i.c.k?"

"Can't." And once again Tom had to tell his story. He had not yet finished when Songbird gave an exclamation.

"It fits in!" he cried.

"Fits in? What?" asked Tom.

"What I heard a while ago."

"What did you hear?"

"Heard Flockley, Koswell and Larkspur talking together. Koswell said he had fixed you, and that you were having a bad half hour with the president."

"Where was this?"

"In the library. I was in an alcove, and they didn't see me. I was busy reading some poetry by Longfellow--fine thing--went like this--"

"Never mind. Chop out the poetry now, Songbird. What more did they say?"

"Nothing. They walked away, and I--er--I got so interested in making up verses I forgot all about it until now."

"I wish you had heard more. Do you know where they went to?"

"No, but I can look around if you want me to."

"I wish very much that you would. I can't leave, or I'd go myself."

A few more words followed, and then Songbird went off to hunt up the Flockley crowd. On the campus he met Max Spangler.

"Yes, I saw them," said the German-American student in answer to a question. "They are down along the river, just above the boathouse."

"Thank you."

"I'll show you if you want me to," went on Max.

"You might come along, if you have nothing else to do," answered Songbird.

The two walked toward the river, and after a few minutes espied Flockley and the others sitting on some rocks, in the sun, talking earnestly.

"I want to hear what they are saying," said Songbird. "I have a special reason." And at Max's look of surprise he told something of what had happened.

"If Koswell is that mean he ought to be exposed," said Max. "I don't blame him for playing a trick on old Sharp, but to lay the blame on Tom--why, that's different."

"Will you come along?"

"If you want me to."

"I don't want to drag you into trouble, Max."

"I d.i.n.k I can take care of myself," answered the German-American student.

The pair pa.s.sed around to the rear of the spot where Flockley and his cronies were located. Here was a heavy clump of brushwood, so they were able to draw quite close without being seen.

The talk was of a general character for a while, embracing football and other college sports, and Songbird was disappointed. But presently Jerry Koswell began to chuckle.

"I can't help but think of the way I put it over Tom Rover," he exclaimed. "I'll wager old Sharp will make him suffer good and proper."

"Maybe they'll suspend Rover," said Bart Larkspur. "But that would be carrying it pretty far, wouldn't it?"

"They won't suspend him, but he'll surely be punished," came from Dudd Flockley. "By the way, are you sure it was a photo of Sharp's best girl?"

"Yes; but she isn't a girl, she's a woman, and not particularly good-looking at that," answered Jerry Koswell.

"Well, Sharp isn't so very handsome," answered Larkspur. "His nose is as sharp as his name."

"I suppose Rover will wonder how somebody got hold of that case of pencils and crayons," remarked Flockley. "If he--"

"h.e.l.lo, Max!" cried a voice from behind the bushes, and the next moment a stout youth landed on Max Spangler's back, carrying him down with a crash in the brushwood. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

At the interruption the whole Flockley crowd started to their feet, and turning, beheld not only Max and the boy who had come up so suddenly, but also Songbird. The latter was nearest to them, and Koswell eyed him with sudden suspicion.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, while Max and his friend were wrestling in a good-natured way in the bushes.

"Oh, I've been listening to some interesting information," answered Songbird.

"Playing the eavesdropper, eh?" came from Flockley with a sneer.

"If so, it was for a good purpose," answered the would-be poet warmly.

"Say, Jerry, you want to look out for him!" cried Larkspur warningly.

"He rooms with d.i.c.k Rover, remember. They are old chums."