While they were preparing for bed that night John took David into his confidence, in a measure, and asked his advice. He made no mention of the letter. David’s views were not encouraging.

“What you want to do,” he said, “is to retire into the extreme distance and rest upon your haunches. Every fellow has the inalienable right to get rid of his money as he bloody well pleases, and even a foster-mother has no business dictating, Johnnie. If I were Phil and you tried it with me I’d punch your old head for you.”

“But Phil hasn’t the right to spend money he hasn’t got,” answered John. “And that’s what it amounts to. Of course, it’s mostly his family’s fault. They’ve no business letting him think that there’s plenty of money when there isn’t——”

“Different from most fellows’ families,” growled David.

“Well, it’s my duty to interfere.”

“It’s your duty to mind your own affairs. Look here, has Phil owned up to you that he’s been losing his tin?”

“Not exactly. He acknowledges that he’s broke, but he hasn’t mentioned cards.”

“Then how are you going to speak to him about it? If you go to him and say ‘Look here, some one—I can’t tell you who—tells me that you’ve lost more money than is good for you at cards,’ he’ll simply get mightily insulted and won’t speak to you again until you apologize.”

“Yes, I think he would,” mused John.

“Well, there you are!”

“And so I shan’t say a word to him about it. You see, I hadn’t intended to,” said John sweetly.

“Then what’s all this jabbering for?”

“It’s always a pleasure, an intellectual treat, to hear your opinions, Davy. Good-night.”

What John did the next morning was entirely characteristic of him. He went to Guy Bassett’s room, introduced himself, and told his mission in less than two dozen words. If Guy experienced either surprise or amusement he was too courteous to show it. Instead, he expressed much pleasure at meeting John, listened politely to what he had to say and then proffered his cigarette case.

“We did play rather high one night,” he said, “and Ryerson lost about sixty dollars, I believe. Since then we have confined ourselves to ten-cent limit and I’m certain he hasn’t dropped more than a two-dollar bill. Of course, if I’d known what I do now I wouldn’t have played with him. I supposed he had plenty of money, and the charming promptitude with which he paid his debts confirmed the supposition. I like Phil; he’s refreshingly simple and human; and he’s plucky, too; and so I’ll see that he doesn’t lose any more of his money here, North. For that matter, though, I guess he’s learned his lesson. I’m awfully much obliged to you for coming and telling me about it; and very glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you. Good-morning.”

In the afternoon John went to the Union and, establishing himself at a corner desk in the writing-room, picked holes in the nice clean crimson blotter for fully twenty minutes before he set pen to paper. When he did he wrote steadily for three pages. Then he read what he had written, smiled as though well pleased with it, chewed the end of his penholder for awhile, and then slowly and regretfully tore his letter into minute fragments. In its stead he filled a page with his small, heavy writing and subscribed himself, “Faithfully, John North.” He addressed the envelope to “Miss Ryerson, Elaine, Melville Court House, Virginia,” and dropped it into the box in the hall with elaborate carelessness lest Phillip should be looking on and should in some wonderful manner guess its destination. Then, whistling contentedly, he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and strode off to the field and practice.

The date of the Yale game was but some two weeks distant and confidence in a victory for the Crimson was steadily increasing throughout the college. The prophets were working overtime and, as is their wont, were writing more and saying less each day. It was nearing the time to send in applications for tickets, a fact of which Phil was reminded that evening. Everett Kingsford walked down the avenue with him after dinner and guided him into Leavitt’s for a game of billiards, a game for which Phillip had the highest admiration and at which he invariably lost. A counter was littered with blank applications and the two helped themselves.

“You’re an H. A. A. ticket-holder, aren’t you?” Kingsford asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, look here, then. I’ve got to take some of my folks to the game. There’ll be the mater and my sister and a friend; that means four seats, counting my own. I can only apply for two, of course. Are you going to take any one?”

“No, I reckon not. I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Well, will you put in your application with mine? I’ve got another fellow who is going to. That will give us six seats together, you see. Of course I’ll pay you for the second ticket. If you don’t want to be bothered talking to women folks you can have the end seat, but I want you to meet the mater. I think you’d like her.”

“I’d like to,” answered Phillip, “and the friend, too.”

“Oh, the friend!” laughed Kingsford. “Well, I can’t allow that, Phil. I’ll let you sit between Betty and the mater, but the friend’s barred.”

“Who’s Betty? Your sister?”

“She has that honour.”

“Is she—is she intellectual?”

“Terribly; a regular blue-stocking. But I’ll tell her to be easy on you. Besides, the mater’ll see fair play. You make out your application to-morrow and we’ll get them in. Your shot.”

Phillip, after long and careful aim, missed a simple carrom, and Kingsford, lounging negligently about the table, made a run of fourteen, while his adversary looked on enviously from the seat.

One chill and cloudy afternoon Phillip and Chester marched in a procession composed of some six hundred patriotic and enthusiastic fellows from the Union out to Soldiers’ Field, taking in the Yard en route and gathering recruits from halls and dormitories. At the head strode a band. Then came a diligent junior with a big crimson megaphone, and behind him the classes marshaled according to seniority, and each preceded by a flapping banner bearing the class numerals. Phillip and his friends were at the tag end, but it was all very inspiriting and impressive, and he was glad he belonged. And it was rather good fun, too, for it was the proper thing to walk on the heels of the fellows in front whenever possible and apologize profusely when they showed displeasure. The cheering and singing were incessant, and they crossed the square, where the sidewalks were lined with town folk and shopkeepers, the feminine element largely predominating, chanting the jovial strains of “Up the Street” with might and main:

From the band far up at the head of the line came the shrilling of the piccolos for a little space and with it the steady tramp, tramp of many feet. And then the drums crashed again and the voices took up the song once more, grandly, confidently:

Out Boylston Street they went, cheering by classes, across the little drawbridge which creaked complainingly beneath them, into the field by the big gate and past the monument. Outside the gridiron they came to a halt. The entrances were draped with canvas and secret practice was not yet over. So the indefatigable junior with the megaphone mounted a pile of lumber and called for more cheers; cheers for the players separately and collectively, for the coaches one by one and for the trainer, and finally for the college. And overhead the workmen leaned down from the big, many-trussed stand they were erecting and grinned sympathy and approval.

At last the canvas was drawn aside and the band and the followers marched into the amphitheatre. On the gridiron players and coaches paused for a moment to watch as the procession passed them and made its way around the field to the farther stand, and it is scarcely conceivable, despite the disinterested expression of their faces, that they were unmoved by the hearty cheers that arose to the bleak, wind-swept sky.

On the south stand the audience gathered itself into a group that looked very small against the long expanse of empty seats, and the players were lined up for an open practice game. But the audience paid for what was shown it. The songs that were to be sung at the big game were gone over with again and again, and the cheering was practised until throats grew dry and voices hoarse. During the five minutes’ intermission John North and several other coaches got together and joined their voices to the mighty chorus that swept across the field:

“If we could only win the game by cheering,” said the head coach, “I think I’d be quite satisfied with things.”

“We can come pretty near doing it that way,” answered John. “That sort of thing is worth at least two scores.”

Later the procession formed again and marched back the way it had come, still singing, still cheering, the fellows dancing arm in arm from side to side across the dusty road. But the freshman contingent, or the greater part of it, didn’t return to the square then, but veered off, swaying, snakelike, across the turf to where their eleven was battling with the second squad. There they practically surrounded the players, so that from a little distance it looked as though an impromptu prizefight were going on, and cheered them incessantly and got in their way every moment and arose to wonderful heights of enthusiasm. Phillip and Chester pushed their way to near where Guy Bassett was playing right end on the second team and applauded his every act wildly. Nothing was too trivial to win their plaudits. If he rubbed his hands together they cheered madly; if he shoved his opponent they cried “Played, Bassett! Played, sir!” and if he ran their enthusiasm simply overpowered them and they waved their caps frantically and leaped into the air and hugged each other ecstatically. Their friends rallied to them in such numbers that when, presently, Guy got the ball on a double pass and promptly fumbled and lost it, the “three long Harvards and three times three for Bassett” which thundered forth might have been heard half a mile away. Guy bore it splendidly for awhile and they got little satisfaction, but the applause called forth by his fumble was the last straw; and, goaded to madness, he turned and charged the group of his too ardent admirers and scattered them. The crowd cheered, and when Phillip and Chester found each other again they deemed discretion the better part of valour and marched back across the river in single file, Chester imitating a bass drum and a cornet alternately and Phillip singing “Hard Luck” and cheering for everything he could think of.

“Anyhow,” said Chester, when they had reached Phillip’s room and had subsided, weary and panting, onto the couch and had been duly licked by Maid, “that evens up things with Guy. I move that we forgive him for introducing us to the Christian Association chap.”

“Seconded,” cried Phillip.

“Moved and carried,” cried Chester. “He is forgave!”

Then came one dismal and dripping morning when Phillip cut two recitations to stand in line in the little stuffy post-office and await his turn to receive Yale game tickets, which were distributed by registered mail. Kingsford had promised to come at half past ten and relieve him, but he evidently thought better of it, for that hour passed without his appearance. The line began at the last window and then wound and rewound about the room, flanked on either side by pools of water from wet umbrellas. The crowd, which was good-naturedly impatient, broke into cheers on the slightest provocation—such as the advent of some fellow of prominence in college or the advance of the line after a long delay occasioned by the temporary disappearance of some one’s envelope.

Whenever an envelope revealed the obnoxious green tickets of the west stand groans of sympathy nerved the recipient to a show of fortitude. All sorts of awful tales illustrating the depravity of the committee in charge of the distribution were told, while a small junior with a head for figures proved conclusively that the 34,000 seats would be gone long before the season ticket holders were reached. He did this by covering a ground-glass window with numerals and breaking the point of his fountain pen. Phillip had digested a wealth of information regarding the pernicious habits of the gypsy moth and the methods of extermination, and was two-thirds of the way down the list of advertised letters when Guy Bassett appeared.

“I’ll match you to see whether I take your place and get your tickets or whether you keep your place and get mine,” he said.

They matched and Phillip won. Guy took his place with a sigh.

“If I don’t show up by to-morrow night,” he said, “write to my folks and tell them I perished nobly in performance of my duty. How long have you been circulating around this picturesque and well-ventilated salon?”

“About an hour and a quarter,” answered Phillip. “Seems to me it’s a mighty poor arrangement. Why can’t they give out the tickets at the Union or somewhere? I’ve heard lots of fellows kicking about it.”

“Really?” asked Guy. “And—speak lower!—did you by any possibility overhear any one suggest writing to the Crimson about it? Don’t be afraid to answer; I’m discretion itself.”

“Why, yes, I heard several. Why?”

“Thank Heaven!” said Guy fervently. “The old spirit that refuses to endure unjust oppression is still with us. Just so long as we have the courage to write to the Crimson protesting against the ‘present unsatisfactory method of distributing the Yale game tickets’ the cause of liberty is not lost! Varian—he’s an editor or an office boy or a printer’s devil or something on the Crimson—told me yesterday that they’re going to issue a special sixteen-page paper this year to accommodate the letters from indignant subscribers. I’m going to write myself; I promised him I would. And you ought to, too. It’s your duty. Think it over. And, by the way, if you care about getting these tickets, you’d better call at my room this afternoon about four. So long.”

When Phillip got the tickets he was inclined to follow Guy’s advice and “register a kick.” There were six of them, two of his own, two for Kingsford and two for a fellow named Muir, and they were half-way up the South Stand and just back of the ten-yard line. But Kingsford said it didn’t matter; that he wasn’t going to watch a lot of sluggers wrestle about in the mud; that he had other things to do during the game.

“Oh!” said Phillip. “Well, that’s well enough for you; you’ve got your friend. But how about me?”

“Why, you ingrate! Haven’t I agreed to put you between the mater and my sister? The mater will tell you all about the strange ailments that visited me when I was a babe in arms, and how from the very earliest moment I gave indications of the intellect that is now making me famous. And Betty will recite Thoreau or Emerson to you dreamily, and ask you whether you think you’re what you could have been had you been other than what you are—or words to that effect.”

Phillip looked frightened.

“I reckon you’d better let me have that end seat,” he said dejectedly. “I don’t know how to talk about Emerson or Thoreau. I didn’t even know he pronounced his name that way—Thoreau, I mean. They’ll think I’m an awful fool, won’t they?”

“Cheer up!” laughed Kingsford. “Maybe they won’t guess it. Anyhow, I promise not to tell.”

On the Tuesday evening preceding the game Phillip went with Chester and Guy to the Union and fought his way with them to seats in the rear of the Common Room, denuded of its rugs and tables and easy-chairs for the occasion. The room was crowded to suffocation long before the meeting was to begin, and the air was blue with tobacco smoke that wreathed and eddied fantastically about the big chandelier of spreading antlers. The enthusiasm was already bubbling, and the fellows were whistling softly and talking and rustling the slips on which were printed the words of the songs they were to practise. A platform had been erected at one end of the room, in front of the big fireplace and under the bust of John Harvard, and onto it there presently filed the speakers and an assortment of coaches. The Senior Class President, as master of ceremonies, led the cheering that thundered up against the paneled walls and ceiling: first for the President of the University; then for a well-loved and kindly faced man whose generosity had made possible the building of the Union; then for another who had given liberally; and then for the coaches, one after another, and the team, and, lastly, for “Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!”

The speakers spoke, the band played, and 1,400 men cheered joyously. Phillip looked about him at the earnest faces bent forward in close attention to the speakers or thrown slightly back to give vent to the deep-voiced cheers and felt an odd, unaccustomed warming at the heart and a sort of tingling in his veins. There was an atmosphere of comradeship there that was good to feel. He wondered if the others were experiencing the same glow of good-fellowship and patriotism that he was. He was certain Chester was. As to Guy he could not be so sure. He was leaning back with half-closed eyes, puffing hard on a little blackened briar pipe. For awhile Phillip forgot the speaker and his eyes ranged about the room, seeking out the panels which, here and there, were carved with the names of men whom their alma mater was proud to so honour. Perhaps, he dreamed, some day his own name would stand out from one of the oaken panels. He picked one out, modestly choosing one far up in a corner, and tried to picture the words “Phillip Scott Ryerson” thereon, and wondered whether the decorations would be of oak leaves or laurel or what.

His musings were suddenly interrupted by a burst of long-drawn “A-a-ays,” that soft, exhaled applause peculiar to college men. Then the cheers burst forth again, and the fellow on his left, a fellow whom he had never seen before, brought his hand down with a resounding smack on Phillip’s knee; and then, instead of apologizing, only smiled and nodded; and Phillip smiled back as though it was quite the most natural thing in the world. After the speeches were finished the band had its innings, and the junior who had borne the crimson megaphone in the march to the field climbed onto the platform and told them earnestly that the singing had got to be improved and that they would start off with “Glory for the Crimson,” and please wouldn’t every fellow learn all the songs by heart? And every fellow declared loudly that he would; and the band struck up, the leader waved his hands and the assembly broke forth into:

After it was all over, after they had stood and sung “Fair Harvard” through—most of them repeating the words of the first verse over and over, for the reason that it is a matter of precedent never to know anything but the first verse—after he had dropped Guy in the square, Phillip went home and, seizing pen and paper impatiently, told “Dear little Mamma and Margey” all about it.