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Phineas wore a suit of some indescribable shade of grayish green which looked as though he had slept in it, and carried in one hand a much worn suitcase and in the other a brown straw helmet with a green-lined brim and a metal peak on top for ventilation. Afterward Rodney made the discovery that his hands were very small, as were his feet, and that of the latter the left one was encased in a dusty black Oxford and the right one in a low-cut Blucher that had at one time been tan.

“How are you,” said Phineas, advancing and shaking hands. “Glad to know you.” He had a deep, pleasant voice and spoke slowly, pronouncing each word very distinctly. When he had shaken hands he looked Rodney over attentively with his startled eyes and asked, “Ever try inhaling?”

“I don’t smoke,” replied Rodney disapprovingly. The green eyes blinked.

“Not smoke, air. Fresh air. Try it. Fine for the lungs. Take long walks and inhale. Expand. Nothing like it, Merriwell.”

“Merrill,” corrected Rodney, amused.

“Beg pardon. I don’t remember names.” He placed his hat on the table, sat down, got up, saw that Mrs. Westcott had gone, and sat down again with a sigh. “Twelve minutes, twenty-eight and two fifths,” he said.