"Thank you, sir," said Andy gratefully. "There is a train at three
o'clock. I would like to take it."

"By all means. And let me hear from you, even if you can't come back."

"I will certainly write, doctor. Thank you for all your kindness."

Penhurst Academy was an endowed school. On account of the endowments,
the annual rate to boarding scholars was very reasonable--only three
hundred dollars, including everything.

The academy had a fine reputation, which it owed in large part to the
high character and gifts of Dr. Crabb, who had been the principal for
twenty-five years. He had connected himself with the school soon after
he left Dartmouth, and had been identified with it for the greater part
of his active life.

Andy had been a pupil for over two years, and was an excellent Latin and
Greek scholar. In a few months he would be ready for college.

Dr. Crabb was anxious to have him go to Dartmouth, his own _alma mater_,
being convinced that he would do him credit and make a brilliant record
for scholarship. Indeed, it was settled that he would go, his parents
being ready to be guided by the doctor's advice.

From Penhurst to Arden, where Andy's parents lived, was fifty miles.
Starting at three o'clock, the train reached Arden station at five.

As Andy stepped on the platform he saw Roland Hunter, the son of a