Phillip struggled into an old coat, performed Maid’s toilet—removed her collar and rubbed her neck—and took up a book. But study didn’t appeal to him, and presently he turned the volume face down in his lap, stretched his legs in front of him, clasped his hands back of his head and reviewed the evening. For the first time since he had reached Cambridge he felt that he really belonged there; that he was a part of the college. Yesterday he had been a separate atom circling around the outer rim of things, occasionally touching other atoms for a space, only to be borne off again. To-day he had suddenly been drawn into the vortex; had jostled and overlapped others of his kind, and had, in fact, become a particle in the coherent body. He was sensible of a certain elation that bordered on excitement; he wanted to tell some one about it. To that end he lighted a pipe, seated himself at the table, drew paper and ink to him and wrote steadily for an hour. The letter was inscribed, “Dear Little Mamma and Margey,” and in it he set forth all that had happened since his last writing on Friday. He told of the theatre party of the previous evening, of attending church that morning, and then of John North’s appearance on the scene and their walk.

Phillip described the walk to the extent of three pages and promised to send a book of views which showed some of the places they had seen. Then,

Phillip found his days fully occupied. He attended chapel every morning, at first from a sense of duty, but afterward because he liked it and felt somehow better prepared for what the day was to bring. One morning he encountered Guy Bassett on the steps and gave voice to the surprise he looked:

“Good-morning; I didn’t expect——” He paused confusedly. Guy smiled.

“Didn’t expect to see me here?” he asked. “I fear you’re a Pharisee, Ryerson. I’m usually at prayers. I find it rather interesting; not exciting, you understand, but mildly interesting. And then, I think I’m better for it all the rest of the day.”

“Yes,” said Phillip, “so do I.”

“I’ve paced it off and have found that the distance from my room to chapel and from chapel to my boarding house is just over the half-mile. Half a mile is about the proper distance for a morning walk. I tried going to the Common and back at first, but as that involved viewing that extremely hideous soldiers’ monument I had to give it up. After that the chapel was really the only objective point that was the right distance. Besides, I fancy it lends one a certain amount of distinction.”

When Phillip, in the course of a conversation with Chester, incidentally mentioned having been to morning prayers, the latter was genuinely astonished.

“But you have to get up so early!” he exclaimed. “And then I should think you’d feel frightfully lonely.”

“Well, seeing that the place is generally pretty well filled——”

“Really? I shall have to try it some morning when I can’t sleep.”

“Bloody Monday Night” was a dire disappointment to Phillip. After marching about the yard arm in arm with Chester and Guy for the better part of half an hour, cheering defiantly for his class, the subsequent shoving and jostling, in which the most glorious thing that befell him was the loss of his cap, was distinctly unsatisfying. He went home feeling rather aggrieved, in the mood of one who has seen an ideal shattered.

There was another visit to the theatre about this time. He and Chester witnessed the performance of a sensational melodrama, which Chester subsequently re-enacted for his benefit on the platform of the Boylston Street Station of the subway, to the intense interest of several score of dignified citizens of Cambridge and the Back Bay. Phillip paid his half of the expenses without questioning, having discovered that Chester’s theatre parties were invariably Dutch treats. And about the same time Phillip awoke to the fact that there was a well-developed skeleton in his closet which, for want of a better name, might have been called Pecuniary Embarrassment. Expenses came thick and fast. He purchased a new suit of brown tweed cut in the prevailing mode, with a short jacket having a stunning plait and belt, and a pair of trousers surprisingly generous at the back. A dress suit followed this, and some shirts in blue and pink and green effects, a crimson cap and several pairs of wonderful socks. Then he made the startling discovery one morning that he was the only fellow at a recitation who wore high shoes. At noon he went to a shop on the avenue and purchased a pair of low ones with very extended soles. He caught a violent cold the first day he wore them—which happened to be wet and raw—but persisted and suffered in the cause of fashion for a week. When he had to stay in his room for the whole of one day and take medicine, he consoled himself with the knowledge that, even as an invalid, he was attired in the mode.

He joined the Union, bought an H. A. A. ticket and rented a locker at the Newell Boat Club. As he had nothing with which to grace the locker he purchased a pair of rowing-trunks and a shirt and promised himself a place in a freshman crew. Meanwhile he had joined a freshman club table at The Inn and was living very satisfactorily. But six dollars a week, payable monthly, caused the skeleton to rattle noisily. His connection with the table had come about as the result of an advertisement in the Crimson. He had interviewed the fellow who was getting it up and had learned the names of those who had already joined. He had conferred with John North, and the latter had advised him to cast in his lot with the freshmen rather than to go to the general table, where, as John delicately explained, freshmen weren’t popular. The Inn was not particularly handy to his rooms, but John insisted that the walk there and back several times daily would do him good.

There were nine other fellows at the table and, with the exceptions of Phillip and a man named Kingsford, all had prepared at the same school and were naturally somewhat clannish. But when a week had passed the two outsiders were accepted by the others, rather patronizingly, to be sure, but still unreservedly, and Phillip found himself amongst a congenial and thoroughly nice set. It did not occur to him to feel any surprise at his admission any more than when Chester Baker had so unconventionally scraped acquaintance in the Yard. But later on he discovered that he would never have been privileged to fill the vacancy had not his friendship with John North served as a guarantee. Kingsford had been admitted simply because he was one of the Marlborough Street Kingsfords and must of necessity be desirable, on the principle that the King can do no wrong.

During that first week of polite ostracism Phillip and Everett Kingsford got to know each other thoroughly. Phillip felt uncomfortable at times when the conversation at table veered to subjects outside his experience and emphasized his aloofness, but Kingsford found only amusement in the situation.

“It’s funny,” he confided one day, “how those chaps think that no one who hasn’t been to school at Milton can be quite correct. They put up with me because they have been brought up to consider a Boston Kingsford one of the elect, but it’s easy to be seen that, try as they may, they can’t help looking down on me a bit. And the most amusing thing about it is the really generous and charitable way in which they all strive to conceal it.”

Despite the fact that his waking hours were pretty well filled, Phillip pined for other fields in which to win distinction. At Chester’s advice he had become a subscriber to the Crimson, and every morning he read the calls for candidates for one thing and another and tried to find some line of action that appealed to him. For a week he was undecided whether to try for the Rifle and Pistol Club, the Lacrosse Team or the Pierian Sodality. Later he gave up thoughts of the latter because the only instrument he could play was a jewsharp, and he discovered that for some reason jewsharps were not included in the orchestra. Inquiries elicited the disappointing information that if he joined the Lacrosse Team he could not hope to take part in a game before midspring, and he relinquished the idea of gaining glory in that sport. That left only the Rifle and Pistol Club under consideration, and it is probable that he would have tried there had he not found a notice one day calling for candidates for the Shooting Club. Phillip rather prided himself on his ability with the shotgun, and so attended a meeting in Claverly one Wednesday night and was duly enrolled as a member.

He had not given up hope of gaining a place in one of the crews, but John had advised against it for the present and so he put off the attempt. He joined a class at the gymnasium and went there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons and did strange things with chest weights, dumb-bells, Indian clubs, ladders and bars, and had aches in all sorts of out-of-the-way corners of his body. But he measured and remeasured his chest and biceps and found, to his delight, that he was rapidly increasing the girth of both.

Squad E had not yet been called to the field, and Phillip realized that his chance of playing on the Freshman Football Team that year was not worth considering. Guy Bassett had been taken onto the second squad and was distinguishing himself there. But Chester, like Phillip, was quite out of it and they bemoaned their fate together.

The freshman reception came off, and Phillip and Chester went to Saunders Theatre and heard much excellent talk and shook hands with a great many persons whose names they could not recall afterward and whom they were practically certain never to meet again. Later, in the transept, they came across Guy Bassett wearing an expression of lively interest. He was in conversation with an earnest and thin-faced man whose clothes looked several sizes too large for him. As they passed Guy called to them and introduced his companion. They didn’t understand his name; it sounded like “Mr. Mumumum.” Later they learned that Guy didn’t know it himself.

“We have been talking about the Christian Club,” said Guy, “and——”

“Christian Association,” corrected the earnest man gently.

“Of course; very stupid of me—Association I should have said. It’s very interesting; in fact, quite astonishing, I refer to the good that the Association has accomplished here in college.” Guy laid a hand on Chester’s shoulder and addressed him with large enthusiasm. “And I’ve been telling—er—this gentleman how deeply interested you both are in—er—that sort of thing, you know, and I want you to hear him tell about it. That is,” turning to the earnest one, “if you have time.”

“Yes, indeed; I shall be happy to explain something of our work,” replied the other eagerly. “I am delighted to find any members of the—ah—entering class who are interested in the subject of spiritual betterment and christian endeavour.” He positively beamed. Chester strove to break away from Guy’s detaining grasp and Phillip looked blank.

“Awfully kind of you,” exclaimed Guy. “You’ll find both these chaps earnest and—er—eager, I am sure, to take practical interest in the Association. Mr. Baker, especially, is the man for you, and I truly hope that you may be able to prevail upon him to take up the Bible study work. I’m very glad to have met you, sir, and hope to do so again frequently.” He shook hands with the other. “I will consider the matter and let you hear from me. Good-night, sir; good-night.”

He favoured Chester and Phillip with a satyr-like grin and hurried away after refreshments. Twenty minutes later his victims followed, murder in their eyes, but both Guy and the refreshments had disappeared.

“Phil, have you the slightest idea what we promised that fellow?” asked Chester wearily as they crossed Broadway.

“No; only I remember you told him you’d be on hand next Sunday.”

“Did I? I daresay. Great Scott, how he can talk! If I don’t get even with Guy for this I’m—I’m—I’ll——” But words failed him and he stumbled into Thayer without saying good-night.

Phillip’s Sunday evenings with John and David Meadowcamp had now become regular institutions, and he looked forward to them with real pleasure. He saw John frequently during the week, but their various meetings, at Soldiers’ Field, in the square or at The Inn were short and hurried. But another custom which Phillip had formed was destined to result in less good. On Saturday nights he and Chester visited Guy in the latter’s rooms, where they smoked many more cigars and cigarettes than was good for them and drank beer from mugs which had music boxes secreted in them—a harmless enough dissipation if it had ended there.