It was still broad daylight when they left the entrance of Holden Hall and started across the yard, the golden end of a perfect September day. Down the long sloping hill, beyond the athletic field, the waters of Lake Matunuxet showed blue between the encircling foliage. Farther east the river wound its way through marsh and meadow toward the bay, some three miles distant. The railroad embankment was visible here and there, and due east the little town of Riverport lay huddled. The school buildings described a rude crescent, with Holden, the newest of the three dormitories, at one point and the gymnasium at the other. Next to Holden stood Second House, with the laboratory tucked in behind. Then came Academy; then First; then the gymnasium. Behind First House stood the principal’s cottage, and here the land sloped abruptly upward in forest, and Mount Graytop raised its bald crown of scarred and riven granite hundreds of feet above the surrounding country. The elms in the yard still held green, although here and there a fleck of russet showed. On the lower slopes of the mountain a well-defined belt of maples was already turning yellow.

Rob and Evan were not the only boys who had recognized the advisability of being early on hand at supper in order to choose tables to their liking. The corridor leading to the dining-hall was pretty thickly sprinkled with boys of all ages between twelve and eighteen. Rob was greeted many times, and Evan was introduced to at least a dozen fellows whose names he didn’t remember five minutes afterward. It was all very confused and noisy and jolly, and in the middle of it the doors were flung open, and the waiting throng surged into the dining-hall and made a decorous but determined rush for the tables.

Evan followed Rob down the room and across to a table under one of the broad windows. Here, however, a difficulty presented itself. The table seated eight, and seven of the places were already occupied. Evan, observing that, hung back, but Rob beckoned him on. At one side of the vacant seat sat a stout, cherub-faced youth of about Evan’s age. Rob drew back the vacant chair and fixed his gaze on the stout youth.

“Why,—Jelly,—” he drawled in mock surprise, “what are you doing here? You’re surely not thinking of sitting with your back to the window in all this draft, you with your delicate constitution? What would your parents say, Jelly? No, no, out you go. We can’t have you falling ill; flowers are too expensive.”

“I got this place, Rob, and I’ve a right to keep it,” answered the boy. He spoke defiantly enough, but his tones lacked conviction, and he paused in the operation of unfolding his napkin. Rob patted him tolerantly on the shoulder.

“It isn’t a question of right, Jelly; it’s a question of what is best for you. You know you can’t stand a draft; I know it; we all know it. It’s your welfare we’re considering. Now if you look sharp you can sneak across and drop into that chair that Hunt Firman has temporarily vacated; but you want to be quick.”

Jelly was quick. He was out of his chair and around the table on the instant; and before Firman, who had gone across to a neighboring table to greet an acquaintance, was aware of it, Jelly had stolen his place. A contest ensued, Firman trying to oust Jelly without drawing the attention of the faculty, and Jelly, stable with his one hundred and forty-odd pounds, paying no attention to threats or blandishments.

“I’ll lick you after supper!” hissed Firman.

“Wonder if we’ll have ham to-night,” remarked Jelly, serenely, to the table at large.

“Get up, do you hear? That’s my place, you big roly-poly!”

“I smell hot biscuits, anyway. Pass me the butter, Ned.”

“You wait till I get hold of you! Rob, make him give me my seat. It’s all your fault, anyhow. You might—”

A bell tapped somewhere, and an instant hush fell over the hall. Firman ran to cover, subsiding in the first unoccupied chair he could find, leaving Jelly master of the situation. The laughter died into chuckles, the chuckles to snickers, and the snickers to silence, and from the head of the hall came the deep voice of the principal, Dr. Farren, asking grace.

“I’d rather be on this side, anyway,” announced Jelly, as soon as conversation began again. “It’s too cold over there in winter, Rob.”

“Well, by that time, Jelly,” was the sober reply, “we may have you so strong and sturdy that you can stand it over here.”

Even Jelly joined in the laugh that ensued. Evan was aware that the six boys who, with Rob and himself, filled the table were viewing him with unconcealed interest and was relieved when Rob proceeded to introduce him.

“Fellow Luculluses,” said Rob, “I take pleasure in introducing to you my friend Mr. Kingsford. Mr. Kingsford is honoring the school with his presence for the first time. He hopes to remain with us at least until the end of the term. Kingsford, on your right you will find Mr. Law, of the well-known firm of Law and Order. Next, Mr. Pierce. Next, a gentleman whose acquaintance I haven’t the pleasure—”

“Peterson,” prompted Jelly.

“Mr. Peterson. Next to Mr. Peterson, Mr. George Washington Jell; Mr. Jell speaking eloquently, as you can see, for the excellence of the board provided. At the other end of the table you may dimly observe Mr. Devens. And here we have Mr. Wright, on my right. Now everybody knows everybody, and Jelly is requested to stop taking all the biscuits, as there are others here present.”

It was a very jolly meal, with a good deal of laughter and much fragmentary conversation. The supper was excellent, and Evan was hungry and did full justice to the hashed chicken on toast, baked potatoes, cold lamb, hot biscuits, preserves, and cake. He also accepted a second cup of cocoa at Rob’s suggestion, and then drank a glass of milk just to make certain of keeping life in his body until morning. And while he ate, as he took only a small part in the talk, he had opportunity to look about him.

The dining-hall was large and cheerful and well lighted. It occupied all one end of Second House, and so had windows on three sides. Between the windows were pictures, most of them photographs of Roman and Grecian ruins, while at either side of the door stood pedestals holding, on one side, a bust of Socrates and, on the other, a bust of Washington. There were twenty-odd tables, accommodating at present one hundred and seventy students and the faculty and staff of the school. Dr. Farren occupied a small table at the head of the hall with the school secretary, Mr. Holt, and the matron, Mrs. Crane, or, as she was called, “Mrs. Crow.”

“I don’t know how she got that name,” said Rob, as he pointed out the dignitaries. “Maybe it’s on account of her black hair. Anyhow, it isn’t because the fellows don’t like her. She’s a dear. That’s Holt next to her. He’s secretary. No one knows him very well. And there’s the Doctor. The rest of the faculty is scattered. The white-haired chap over at the far table is just ‘Joe’; real name Alden; Greek and Latin. The slim, youngish fellow over there is ‘Mac,’ who tries his level best to make me discern the beauties of algebra. He also teaches history, and it’s a cinch. The big fellow down here on your left is ‘Tommy’ Osgood. Tommy teaches chemistry and is also and likewise physical director; and he’s a tartar. Mr. Cupples, affectionately known as ‘Cup,’ is down there by the door. Cup pours French and German into you. Now you know the faculty. Be kind to them and very patient. After supper I’ll take you over to Mrs. Crow’s. You’d better get on the right side of her, because she’s a mighty good sort and can do a lot for you if she wants to. And I’ll try and see the Doctor and tell him about your consumption.”

“I never had a cold in my life,” laughed Evan.

“Knock wood. And if the Doctor calls you over to the office, try and look as delicate as possible. You might cough a little, too. A hacking cough would help a lot.” Rob turned from Evan and addressed Gus Devens, a large, ruddy-faced youth. “I say, Gus, what does the foot-ball situation look like to your practised eye?”

“Like the dickens,” answered Gus, promptly and heartily.

“About the same as usual, then,” suggested Pierce. “Say, fellows, why doesn’t some one do something?”

“Such as what?” asked Rob.

“Fire Hopkins!” blurted Jelly.

“Oh, Hop means well enough,” said Joe Law.

“Yes, he does!” answered Devens, sarcastically. “I’ll wager I could pick a better team out of the two lower classes than Hop will get together this fall. Adams will lick us again as sure as fate. They’ve got almost all of last year’s team left. Hop may mean well enough—only I don’t believe it—but he certainly doesn’t do well enough. I’m sick of seeing the school beaten every year.”

“We won year before last,” said Law.

“Yes, we’ve won once in five years,” said Rob. “I suppose that’s all we ought to expect. They tell us that defeat is much better for us morally than victory, victory enlarging the cranium and making us vain and arrogant and unlovely. Remember ancient Rome.”

“What about ancient Rome?” demanded Jelly.

“Eh? Oh—oh, nothing; just remember it. I heard Mac say that once in class, and it sounded rather well.” When the laugh had passed, Rob addressed Devens again: “Are you going out this year?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” answered Devens, disgustedly. “This will make the third time. But I’m sick of getting knocked around on the second team. I’m going to tell Hop that if he doesn’t give me a fair show for the first, I’ll quit, and he can find some one else to do the human stone wall act for him. Look here, you fellows, you all know, every one of you, that I can play all around Bert Reid.”

“That’s no joke,” said Wright, and the others concurred.

“Well, then, why can’t I get on? Favoritism, that’s all it is. Every one knows it, and there’s no harm in saying it. I don’t talk like this outside of school, of course, but—”

“What we ought to have is a coach,” declared Peterson.

“Of course we ought, and we’ve tried hard enough to get one ever since I’ve been here,” answered Devens. “One year it’s one reason and the next year it’s another; anyway, we don’t get him.”

“Hop said last year he’d be mighty glad to have a coach,” said Law.

“Yes, but he wanted a fellow he knew and wouldn’t talk about any one else. If the Doctor would take a decent interest in things—”

“He always begins to hum and haw about ‘the danger of investing sport with undue prominence,’” said Pierce, disgustedly.

“Oh, the Doctor means well, too,” protested Rob. “I’ve got an idea in my head, you chaps, and some day soon I’ll spring it. I’m going to let it seethe a bit first.”

“Another of your numerous patents?” asked Jelly, with a grin.

“Maybe. Look here, Gus, my friend Kingsford wants to try for the team. I told him what he was up against, but he has the—the indomitable will and reckless courage of his forebears, and refuses to be intimidated. You sort of put him up to the tricks, will you? See that he doesn’t get into any more trouble than necessary.”

“Glad to,” answered Gus Devens, with a friendly nod to Evan. “Played, have you, Kingsford?”

“Yes, quite a little.”

“What?”

“Half and quarter; quarter mostly.”

“Whew! we certainly could use a good quarter,” said Wright. “Miller’s the limit. I hope you get a show, Kingsford.”

“Yes, but don’t expect it,” remarked Jelly, despondently. “Just look at the way they treated me last year!”

A howl of laughter arose, and Jelly viewed his table-companions indignantly.

“That’s all right, you fellows, but I did as well as Ward did. He didn’t get through me very often, I can tell you! You know he didn’t.”

“You did great work, Jelly,” said Rob, soothingly. “They ought to have kept you on the second. I have an idea that the reason Hop dropped you was only because he was afraid that sometime you’d fall on the ball and squash the air out of it.”

“Oh, you run along,” growled Jelly. “I’m going to try again this year, anyway, and I’m going to make the second for keeps.”

“Why don’t you go out and be the ball?” asked Wright, pleasantly. Jelly pushed back his chair and walked disgustedly away, and his departure was the signal for a general exodus. Rob’s progress was often interrupted, and Evan had to shake hands with many more new acquaintances, most of whom, as there were a great many new-comers wandering around the corridors that night, shook hands with him in a perfunctory way, muttered that they were glad to know him, and paid him no further attention. But Evan didn’t mind. Although this was his first experience of boarding-school, he held no romantic notions of such places and so was not disappointed because so far nothing romantic had happened. He drew out of the way and waited for Rob to get through talking, thinking to himself that it would be nice to have as many acquaintances as his new room-mate had, and making up his mind that some day the fellows of Riverport School should be as glad to talk to him as they now were to Rob Langton. While he stood there waiting, Frank Hopkins passed, talking to the tall youth of whom Evan had asked his way that afternoon. If they saw him they made no sign.

Presently Rob parted from the last of his acquaintances and, followed by Evan, reached the door.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he apologized. “Some of those chaps, though, I wanted to be nice to—for a reason. I’ll tell you why some day soon. Now let’s cut across to First House and call on Mrs. Crow.”