“Some socks, are they not?” inquired the youth.

Clint, already a little embarrassed by the other’s friendliness, removed his gaze hurriedly.

“They’re very—­nice,” he murmured.

The other elevated one ankle and viewed it approvingly.  “Saw them in a window in New York yesterday and fell for them at once.  I’ve got another pair that are sort of pinky-grey, ashes of roses, I guess.  Watch for them.  They’ll gladden your heart.  You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I got here this morning,” replied Clint.  “I suppose you’re—­you’re not.”

“No, this is my third year.  I’m in the Fifth Form.  What’s yours?”

“I don’t know yet.  I reckon they’ll put me in the Fourth.”

“I see.  How’s everything below the Line?”

“Below the line?” repeated Clint.

“Yes, Mason and Dixon’s.  You’re from the South, aren’t you?”

“Oh!  Yes, I come from Virginia; Cedar Run.”

The other chuckled.  “What state did you say?” he asked.

“Virginia,” responded Clint innocently.  “Great!  ‘Vay-gin-ya.’” He shook his head.  “No, I can’t get it.”

It dawned on Clint that the other was trying to mimic his pronunciation of the word, and he felt resentful until a look at the boy’s face showed that he intended no impertinence.

“I love to hear a Southerner talk,” he went on.  “There was a chap here named Broland year before last; came from Alabama, I think.  He was fine!  Red-hot he was, too.  You could always get a fall out of Bud Broland by mentioning Grant or Sherman.  He used to fly right off the handle and wave the Stars-and-Bars fit to kill!  We used to tell him that the war was over, but he wouldn’t believe it.”

Clint smiled doubtfully.  “Is he here now?” he asked.

“Broland?  No, he only stayed a little while.  Couldn’t get used to our ways.  Found school life too—­too confining.  He used to take trips, and Faculty didn’t approve.”

“Trips?” asked Clint.

The other nodded.  “Yes, he used to put a clean collar in his pocket and run down to New York for week-ends.  Faculty was sort of narrow-minded and regretfully packed him off home to Alabam’.  Bud was a good sort, but—­well, he needed a larger scope for his talents than school afforded.  I guess the right place for Bud would have been a good big ranch out West somewhere.  He needed lots of room!”

Clint smiled.  “What time do we eat?” he asked presently, when they had silently watched the passage of the mower.  The other boy tugged at a fob which dangled at his belt and produced a silver watch.

“Let’s see.”  He frowned intently a moment.  “I was twelve minutes fast yesterday afternoon.  That would make me about twenty minutes ahead now.  I’d say the absolutely correct time was somewhere between eleven-fifty-eight and twelve-six.  And dinner’s at half-past.”

“Thank you,” laughed Clint.  He pulled forth his own watch and looked at it.  “I make it two minutes after,” he said, “and I was right this morning by the clock in the station in New York.”