“What’s the name?”

It was the tall youth whom Evan had begun to thoroughly detest who asked the question, and who, with note-book in hand and pencil poised, impatiently awaited an answer.

“Kingsford,” replied Evan.

“What age?” continued the other, looking as though he had never seen Evan before.

“Fifteen.”

“What class?”

“Junior.”

“Ever played foot-ball?”

“Three years.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Elmira, New York.”

“What position, I mean, you ninny!”

“Quarter—and half, a little.”

“We don’t need backs. Want to try for end?”

“I suppose so; yes.”

“Don’t do it if it’s going to hurt you,” sneered the other, turning away to catechise the next candidate. Evan looked after him angrily and then turned to his nearest neighbor, who happened to be Mr. George Washington Jell, resplendent in a new pair of khaki trousers which, because they had to be of generous proportions about the waist, fell ungracefully half-way to his feet.

“Who’s that chap?” asked Evan.

“Edgar Prentiss. He’s manager. He’s pretty much the whole show, for that matter. He and Hop are as thick as thieves, and Hop does about as Prentiss says. He’s no good; I hope he stubs his toe.”

“So do I,” agreed Evan, with enthusiasm. Jelly beamed on him.

“He’s a regular cad; no one likes him—except Hop. I made a good joke about him last year. Want to hear it?”

“Yes,” said Evan, good-naturedly. “What was it?”

“It’s a conundrum. What is a foot-ball manager? Give it up? He’s the captain’s apprentice. See? Prentiss—apprentice?”

Evan had to laugh, not so much at the joke as at Jelly’s eagerness for appreciation. “That’s all right,” he said. “What are you trying for, Jell?”

“Guard—or ’most anything. But, say, don’t call me Jell; no one ever does; and it sounds funny. Besides, I don’t mind. I know I’m fat, and I can’t help it. I’d rather be fat than be a bean-pole like Prentiss.”

“Ends and backs this way!” called a voice, and Evan trotted down the field to where a lad wearing a tattered light blue jersey and an air of authority was impatiently awaiting.

Practice was neither hard nor long that first afternoon. Some thirty-odd candidates had reported, of whom twenty or so represented what remained of last year’s first and second teams. The new candidates numbered scarcely more than a baker’s dozen. Frank Hopkins, although in foot-ball attire, took no part in the drudgery of passing and falling on the ball, contenting himself with wandering about the field or talking with Prentiss on the side-line. The real work was in charge of three of the first team members, Carter, Connor and Ward. There was very little system in evidence, and the veterans shirked barefacedly. Toward the end of the hour there was a good deal of rather aimless punting across the field and then the fellows were dismissed with instructions to report every afternoon at four o’clock.

Evan, a little tired and sore, for the day had been a very warm one and a lazy summer had put him rather out of condition, walked up to the gymnasium with Gus Devens and Jelly.

“How did you get on?” asked Devens.

“All right, I guess. I told Prentiss I was out for quarter or half but he said they didn’t need those things and told me I’d better try for end. I’ve never played end, but I suppose I could learn.”

“I dare say. How about you, Jelly?”

“I don’t know. I saw Hop this noon and told him I wanted a fair show and he said I’d get it. Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. All I want now is a shower.”

“Here too,” agreed Devens. “Anything doing to-night, Jelly?”

“A little something, I guess,” replied Jelly cautiously, with a quick glance at Evan. “I haven’t heard much about it.”

Evan looked at the others inquiringly, but asked no questions, and Devens changed the conversation.

“That’s a nice pair of trousers you’ve got there, Jelly. Why don’t you take a turn in them around the bottoms so as to keep them out of the mud?”

“You dry up,” responded Jelly good-humoredly. “I had to have them big so as I could get them around me. I guess I’ll ask Mrs. Crow to cut them off for me.”

“I would. Maybe she can make you an overcoat of the trimmings. Got a locker, Kingsford?”

“Yes, thanks,” Evan replied as they climbed the gymnasium steps and pushed open the big oak door. “But I haven’t any towels yet. Can you loan me one?”

“Sure thing—if I have any. I always forget to have ’em washed.”

But investigation proved that he had three clean ones in his locker and he handed one over to Evan.

“Toss it in the bottom here when you’re through with it, will you?” he asked. Evan promised and went off to get ready for his bath, encountering on the way Mr. George Washington Jell, who, hopping around on one foot, was pulling what appeared to be yards and yards of khaki trouser off the other leg.

“Excuse me,” panted Jelly, as he bumped into Evan. “Oh, that you? These fool breeches—”

“Here, sit down,” laughed Evan, “and I’ll pull them off. There you are. I really think I’d have Mrs. Crow fix those. You’ve got about a yard more than you need.”

“Or ankled,” growled Jelly, tossing the discarded trousers on to the bench. “Thanks, Kingsford. I’ll do as much for you sometime maybe.”

“I hope you won’t have to,” Evan laughed.

A half-hour later he walked back alone up the hill to Holden, and as he went he reviewed his first day at Riverport. It had been pleasant enough on the whole, he decided. Rob had awakened him at a quarter past seven and there had ensued a mad scramble into clothes and across to Academy Hall for morning prayers. Breakfast had been at eight, a jolly, leisurely meal with the big windows open and the September sunlight flooding the tables. At nine he had gone to his first class, presided over by Mr. Alden, or Old Joe as the boys called him. This was his Latin class, and at eleven came Greek, with Old Joe again presiding. Previous to that there had been a half-hour of mathematics under Mr. McGill, and in the afternoon, at three, there was English from the principal, Dr. Farren. In all, aside from physical training, which, as long as he was playing foot-ball, was not required of him, he had nineteen hours of recitations a week. This didn’t sound much, but it was evident that the work was going to be pretty stiff and the nineteen hours in class meant a good many other hours of hard preparation. Dr. Farren’s English class looked formidable, and so did the Greek, which study was entirely new to Evan.

He hadn’t seen much of Rob save at meals, for, although they attended the same classes, their seats were in each case separated by the length of the room, since Evan, as a newcomer, was forced to accept whatever unclaimed space he could find. But he was sure that he and Rob were going to get on very well together and was beginning to feel rather grateful to Frank Hopkins for bringing about the meeting which had resulted so fortunately. If Hopkins would let him on to the team, thought Evan, he would be more than willing to cry quits.

It was still only a little after half-past five when he reached his room, and so, as Rob was not there and he had it quite to himself, he decided to write a letter home. He had finished two pages of his epistle when there was a knock on the door and Malcolm Warne entered.

“Hello, are you all alone?” he asked. “Where’s Rob?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since English 3. Have you got moved?”

“Yes. I thought perhaps you’d like to come over and see my room.”

“I would,” said Evan.

“It isn’t quite as nice as my other place,” explained Malcolm as they crossed the corridor together, “but it fixes up rather well, I think. And it’s going to be peachy not having any one in with me.”

“Well,” exclaimed Evan as he paused inside the door of 36 and looked about him, “I didn’t see your other room, but if it beat this it must have been a wonder! Gee, but you’ve got a lot of dandy truck! Where did you get all the pictures? Is that couch yours? It looks good enough to sleep on.”

“Sit down,” invited Malcolm. “Try that wicker chair. Most of these things I brought up with me when I came, although I’ve fetched one or two things since then. Glad you like my pictures.”

“I like everything,” replied Evan warmly. “It looks—it looks almost like home! I don’t see how you ever got fixed up so quickly. Why didn’t you let me help you?”

“Oh, it wasn’t any bother, and I liked doing it. Besides, I reckon you were pretty busy playing foot-ball, weren’t you? There’s Rob, I think. I’ll call him in.”

“Talk about your palatial mansions!” exclaimed Rob as he surveyed the room. “I tell you what, Evan; we’ll use this for our parlor and all sleep in 32.”

“I’m afraid Mrs. Crow wouldn’t stand for that,” laughed Malcolm. “And then, too, you say this is cold.”

“Cold! What of it? Who would care whether he was cold or warm when he could lie in the midst of such luxury?” Rob stretched himself on the leather couch and crushed innumerable pillows under his head. “We will now have soft music and light refreshments, Mal.”

“I’ve got some crackers,” said Malcolm eagerly.

“Fetch them along. What do you think of all this, Evan? Isn’t our little friend a—a one of those things commencing with an S?”

“Cinch?” asked Evan gravely.

Rob viewed him doubtfully.

“Cinch! That doesn’t begin— Oh, you run away and play! Syb—sybarite! That’s the word. What is a sybarite, Mal?”

“Oh, a man fond of good things, I reckon. Actually the Sybarites were inhabitants of Sybaris, in southern Italy. Don’t you remember that Seneca tells of a Sybarite who complained that he hadn’t slept well, and when they asked him why he told them that he had found a rose petal doubled under him and that it had hurt him?”

“Isn’t he a wonder?” demanded Rob admiringly of Evan. “Do you wonder that he’s a whole class ahead of us stupids? Frankly, though, Mal, I don’t recall that story of Mr. Seneca’s, but he said a whole lot of things I’ve forgotten—or never heard of. Anyway, that’s what you are, Mal, a sybarite, a blooming sybarite.”

Malcolm passed the crackers around and they tried their best to spoil their appetites for dinner. Luckily the supply of crackers gave out before their end was accomplished. Rob, who, stretched luxuriously on the couch, had been too busy eating to talk, suddenly began to moan and grimace in a frightful manner and roll around.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Malcolm.

“I—I think,” muttered Rob, speaking thickly because his mouth was full, “I think there must be a crumpled rose petal under me.”

Investigation, however, proved the rose petal to be nothing more romantic than a block of wood in Rob’s pocket, a block which, so he declared, was to be fashioned into the model of his greatest invention as soon as he could borrow somebody’s knife, his own having all blades broken.

They went over to supper together and as they parted from Malcolm at the dining-room door the latter brushed against Evan and thrust a bit of paper into his hand. Puzzled but discreet, Evan dropped it into his pocket and promptly forgot all about it until supper was almost over. Then, remembering it because Malcolm’s name was mentioned, he drew it out cautiously and read it under the protection of his napkin. The message, written in a tiny neat hand on hardly more than a square inch of paper, was short.

“Hazing to-night” (it ran). “Bunk in with me and they won’t find you. Destroy this and don’t tell.”