Football affairs at Harvard went so smoothly that autumn, and promised so well that the local prophets were unanimous in declaring that “unless there came a slump at the critical moment” or “barring serious injuries to the players” or “if the present steady improvement in team-work continued,” Harvard would score a victory in the final game. A well-known authority (writing from New Haven), whose weekly articles were syndicated throughout the country, expressed the opinion—carefully hidden in a column and a half of close type—that, unless Yale played considerably better than her present performance promised, or Harvard failed to justify the hopes of her coaches, the contest would be an extremely close and interesting one, and that victory, by whoever won, would be well deserved.

At Cambridge, coaches and captain and trainer put on very lugubrious expressions whenever the ’varsity was mentioned, and scratched wood and also muttered “unberufen” on even the slightest provocation.

John North was out on the field daily for the better part of two hours, dressed in togs that would have disgraced an old clothes man if found in his possession. His efforts were chiefly directed at the guards, and the way in which he seized those weighty players and pushed them about was beautiful to see. After a particularly hard afternoon’s practice he was ready to admit that coaching was stiffer work than being coached. And there were evening meetings which had a way of coming when most inconvenient, and at which he was expected to deliver terse homilies on breaking through and blocking and other artifices of the game. With it all he had little opportunity for cultivating the further acquaintance of Phillip and enacting the rÔle of guardian to that youth. He told himself daily that he was derelict in his duty, and promised to find time the next day to look up his charge and salve his conscience. But his good resolutions came to naught. On Sunday evenings Phillip always showed up at his room, and the three, often reinforced by the presence of a visitor, spent a pleasant hour or two. David spoke of them as family gatherings and dutifully kept awake until they had broken up. But John found that Phillip since the previous Sunday had undergone experiences and made friends quite on his own hook and was generally managing his affairs without recourse to the maturer advice of John or David or anybody else. So far, John was sure the boy had not “broken out of pasture,” as Corliss put it. Chester Baker and Guy Bassett and Everett Kingsford were all straightforward, healthy-minded fellows, than whom no better associates could have fallen to Phillip’s lot. But, as John told himself with compunction, that Phillip had been so fortunate in his choice of friends was due to no help of his. He had replied to Corliss’s letter and had promised to look after Phillip. And he hadn’t kept his promise, or, at least, not fully. And then there was Margaret! What would Margaret think of him if she knew how illy he was executing his trust? For some reason it was always the latter thought that troubled him most.

And so one day—it was during the first week in November; a leaden, cheerless afternoon, with a stinging wind blowing across Soldiers’ Field from the river—John came out of the locker building an hour earlier than usual and, with the sparks blowing from his pipe-bowl, strode across the yellowing turf toward where, from the shelter of a little, iron-sheathed hut at the far end of the field, puffs of white smoke told that the Shooting Club were at practice. John nodded to several fellows he knew and found a sheltered corner. Phillip was shooting, a straight, wide-hipped, graceful figure in an old canvas coat, his battered Winchester shotgun, in noticeable contrast to the highly polished Scotts and Dalys that John saw about him, held easily before him.

“Ready!”

“Pull!”

A trap clicked and a Blue Rock quivered away to the left; there was a puff of smoke, a report and a little crackling sound as the clay disk broke into fragments. Another trap was sprung and again the butt was swung easily against the shoulder and once more the speeding bird fell in fragments. The left-hand trap sprang a broken disk, but Phillip, amidst the laughter of the watchers, chose the largest portion and sent it swerving out of its track.

“No bird,” called the scorer, and on the next try, a mean flight at a wide angle, he again scored a hit.

“Rather a good shot, isn’t he?” asked John of a neighbour.

“A peach! He’s better than usual to-day; hasn’t made a miss yet. His name’s Ryerson and he comes from Virginia. I fancy he’s done a lot of quail shooting; there’s nothing like that to give you an eye, you know.”

Phillip broke his gun, blew through the barrel and stepped back to the hut, looking quite as sober as though he had missed every bird. “He’s coming on,” thought John. “The ability to disguise your satisfaction at a deed well done seems to be one of the first lessons we teach at college nowadays.” He nodded to Phillip and the latter joined him.

“Hello,” he said. “Have they discharged you from the board of coaches?”

“No,” replied John; “but I got through early and thought I’d come over and see you shoot. They tell me you’re quite a dab at it.”

“Oh, well, I manage to hit them now and then. Of course, the captain there is our star. We’re about through. If you’ll wait I’ll walk back with you.”

John waited and they tramped back to the square in the teeth of the November gale, loitering a minute or two on the porch of the Weld Club house to watch one of the crews disembark—eight glowing, water-drenched young giants and a shrill-voiced, imperative wisp of a coxswain. Phillip accompanied John to his room and they had a restful smoke in the gathering darkness, their feet well up and their heads well back, with the subdued clanging of the cars on the avenue and the rattling of the casements under the assaults of the wind for an accompaniment to their lazy conversation.

“Larry Baker told me you were round to see him the other night,” said John.

“Yes; I really didn’t want to go. I thought maybe he’d think I was cheeky. But he didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he was right nice to me.”

“Why should he mind? This thing of each class huddling to itself like a lot of chickens in a rainstorm is all poppycock, Phil. We’re all in the same boat; we’re all Harvard men. What earthly difference does it make whether a chap is a first year man or a fourth? Why shouldn’t I take my friends from the freshmen or sophomores if I can find them there? If there were more coalescence between the upper classes and the lower it would be a darned sight better, I think.”

“I reckon it would be better for the lower men,” laughed Phillip, “but it might be a bit of a bore to the upper. We freshies are a kiddish lot, you know—that is, most of us. Some aren’t. There’s Guy Bassett. He seems more like a fellow of twenty-five or six than a freshman, he’s so kind of serious and—and smart.”

“I’ve heard of Bassett,” yawned John. “Came from Exeter. I believe he’s about twenty. His folks sent him to school when he was fourteen and he stayed there until Christmas, and then disappeared from human ken for the space of eighteen months or so. When they heard from him next he was in Melbourne, having, I think, gone pretty well around two sides of the globe on a schooner. At least, that’s the yarn Larry Baker tells.”

“Really? I’d never heard that,” answered Phillip. “I reckon that accounts for his seeming so old and—experienced.”

“I daresay. What kind of a chap is he now? Quiet or—er—up to things?”

“Oh, quiet, I’d call him. He plays football, you know. He’s on the freshman second, and I reckon he’ll make the first before the Yale game. Yes, he seems quiet enough. He rooms with a fellow named Boerick—an awful beast.”

“Yes, I’ve met Boerick,” laughed John. “This is his second year as a freshie. He is a beast, isn’t he? Awful cad. His father has gobs of money; made it in the clothing business in New York. You can see his ads. any old day in the papers: ‘Now then, how about a new overcoat for winter? Getting chilly, isn’t it? Have you seen our nobby Newmarkets in English worsteds? We like them ourselves; maybe you would if you saw them. Only thing is, when they’re gone—and they’re going fast—there won’t be any more. A word to the wise!’ That’s the style, you know; that beastly familiar style that always makes me want to kick somebody.”

Phillip laughed.

“Talking of clothing,” he said presently, “I’ve had some new things made, and they’ve cost an awful lot of money. I didn’t know things were so high.”

“It’s a way they have hereabouts,” answered John. “If you want to get anything at a reasonable price the best plan is to make affidavit that you’re a car conductor or a coal-heaver or something of that sort; anything save a Harvard student. The shopkeepers think we’re fair game for anything. Try it next time, Phil.”

“I reckon there won’t be any next time,” answered Phillip ruefully; “at any rate, not for a good while. Fact is, I’m pretty well cleaned out.”

“Yes? I presume what Davy calls ‘boarding and baiting’ is costing more than you thought it would?”

“N—no; it’s—it’s the other things, you see: clothes and belonging to things, like the Shooting Club, and—— Oh, I don’t know; there’s always something!”

“I see. In other words, the price of admission is what you expected,” said John, “but the figures on the menu are fierce. Well, it’s all part of the programme, Phil. It’s a sort of course in practical economy, you know, in which you’re your own instructor and in which an E is the average mark; a course in which, strange to say, lectures follow examinations.”

“That’s the worst of it,” said Phillip. “I’d ought to be lectured, but I won’t be. Mamma will tell Margey that it was ridiculous of them to expect me to get along until Christmas on so little, and will be in an awful fidget until I assure her that I haven’t suffered any privations. I—I wish father had lived.”

“You’re a queer beggar, Phil. But, I say, I wouldn’t—er—bother your sister and your mother too much about money affairs. If you need any I’ll always be glad to loan, Phil. And, honestly, I feel rather guilty about you, old man. You know I undertook to sort of keep an eye on you, and I haven’t done it. I daresay I might have saved some of that money to you if I’d been around.”

“Thank you,” answered Phillip, “but I’d rather not borrow from anybody, John. I’ve written home and told Margey what a blamed fool I’ve been and all that, and I reckon I’ll have some money as soon as I need it. It isn’t that that’s troubling me. But—but how shall I get along for the next three years and a half without spending a sight more than I’m worth? If I was being educated for something, you see—if I was going to be a doctor or a lawyer or anything practical it wouldn’t be so hopeless. But I’m just ‘going through Harvard,’ as my father did, merely because—because he wanted it.”

“But, great Scott, Phil, you’ve only begun! There’s time yet to decide on a profession. Why not be a lawyer?”

“I couldn’t,” answered Phillip decisively. “I haven’t the least aptitude for it, John. No, I’d rather be a good farmer than a poor lawyer. And I reckon that’s what it’ll come to. After all, I might do worse. Elaine can be made to pay right well, I reckon, and I can find plenty of work there. It’s a healthful, wide-awake sort of life, with plenty of enjoyment, and I reckon it’s about the only sort I’m fit for.”

“‘Blessed is that man who has found his work,’” quoted John. “And, for my part, I can’t imagine a more ideal existence than farming a place like Elaine—or even a good deal smaller place—as long as it could be made to pay for itself and supply a few luxuries. I don’t think I’d trouble about a profession, Phil. Be a farmer and thank the Lord you live in a State where you can be that and a gentleman at the same time. And don’t think for a moment that a college education is wasted on you. It’ll pay for itself in the long run; it would if you were only going to lay sewer pipe all the rest of your days.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Phillip doubtfully.

“I really do. We hear a good deal of talk nowadays about the superiority of the practical over the college education. There are a number of men who, by dogged perseverance and hard labour, have managed to accumulate millions of dollars without ever having set foot in college. Some of these have a good deal to say about the uselessness of college learning. But it’s a safe bet that if those same men had gone to college they’d have piled up their millions just the same, and it’s more than probable that they’d have made the piles bigger than they are. If learning to be self-dependent, broad-minded, well poised mentally and physically, isn’t practical education, what in Heaven’s name is?”

“Well.... But broad-minded?” demurred Phillip. “That’s the very thing that lots of folks say college men are not.”

“And I say they are,” answered John warmly. “I’m not discussing the men of any special university; I mean all of them—Harvard men, Yale men, Oxford men, the whole push. They’ve got to be broad-minded if only for the reason that they have learned how broad the world is. I don’t mean to say that college men, like other men, have no hobbies or prejudices. Of course they have; they can be just as big cranks as any. But the fact that you’re brushing a fly off your nose doesn’t signify that you haven’t a long reach. Don’t be afraid that college is going to narrow your mind, Phil. You’ll find, to the contrary, that it has much the same effect upon it as chest-weights have on your lungs. And, by the way, how comes on the physical development?”

“Oh, I’m getting more like Sandow every day,” laughed Phillip. “And I’m going to take your advice and try track work. I think I could run right well if I knew more about it.”

“Good work. And how about studies? Having much trouble?”

“N—no, I’m getting along a heap better than I expected to. Government bothers me a good deal; but I reckon I’ll pass in it all right.”

Footsteps sounded outside the door and the letter-drop clicked. John dropped his feet from the window-seat and pulled himself out of his chair. Phillip followed his example.

“Don’t run off,” said John. “I’ll just light up and see what’s in the mail. I’ve been expecting a letter from my folks since Saturday.”

“I’ve got to go back to the room before dinner,” answered Phillip, as the gas flared up, “and so I reckon I’ll jog along.” He walked toward the door. John had gathered several letters from the rug and was examining them on the table. The writing on the envelope of one was wholly unfamiliar and he glanced at the postmark and with difficulty made it out: “Melville C. H., Va.” He started and glanced quickly at Phillip.

“Hold on, Phil,” he called, “here’s——” He stopped himself suddenly. “Never mind; it’s nothing. Wish you’d stay and come to dinner with me. No? Well, so long; very glad you came in, Phil. Don’t forget Sunday night if I don’t see you before.”

When the door had closed behind the other, John’s gaze returned to the letter in his hand and his forehead became a maze of creases. Then he slowly slit the envelope and, drawing forth the single sheet it held, glanced perplexedly at the signature. He read it twice and his frown of perplexity gave place to an odd little smile that expressed wonderment, pleasure and something of dismay. Laying down the missive, he went to the pipe-tray, refilled his briar and lighted it, keeping the while an eye on the letter as though he feared it would whisk itself out of sight. Then he drew a chair to the light, settled himself comfortably and took up the letter again. But ere he began it he turned it over and looked once more at the signature as if in doubt as to the correctness of his previous interpretation of the small yet angular writing. But there was no mistake; the letters spelled “Margaret Ryerson” and nothing else. John emitted a sigh of relief and turned to the beginning. This is what he read:

When David came in a few minutes later he found John puffing hard at an empty pipe, his hands—one of them holding a letter—clasped behind his head and his countenance expressing great contentment.