Jesse Lynch Williams

"Johnnie, Johnnie, Dagnan,

Johnnie, Johnnie, Dagnan,

Do you want me?

No, sir-r-ee,

Not this afternoon, 'ternoon, 'ternoon, 'ternoon."

That is what a crowd of noisy, lazy, slouchy-looking fellows, in a circle in front of Reunion were singing to a little, old, dried-up man, with a plaintive face and blue uniform, in the centre of it.

John Dagnan, chief of college police and envoy extraordinary to the faculty, cast a sad reproachful glance at two of the number to whom he had borne many a summons to appear at one o'clock, and then relapsed into his characteristic melancholy silence, gazing inscrutably into the distance.

Over by the elm in front of the Princetonian Office were four seniors pitching pennies and looking very much in earnest over it. Up and down in front of the shambling old building two or three base-balls were flying back and forth over or against the heads of the loafers and passers-by. Several other groups were merely sitting on the steps or standing on the stone walks, talking or whistling or waiting for nothing.

The steps in front of the entry door were so crowded that young Symington, following his friend Tucker, had to tread upon some of the loungers to get inside. But the loungers were used to that and did not stop their conversation. It's easier than arising.

Symington would have liked to stop and watch the fellows pitching pennies, and hear more of the song, and see what the little policeman was going to do about it, but he did not say a word. He merely followed Tucker up to his room and wondered why he failed to notice it.

Charlie Symington was a well-built prep. boy who had been known to strike out three men with the bases full. He had been invited to spend Sunday in Princeton by some important athletic men in order that he might see how much better their college was than all others in the world. This was because Charles was young and foolish and had shown signs of shifting his youthful affections and his future athletic brilliance to that other college where two of his intimate friends were going, and which had brilliance enough already.

These athletic officials thought that this would be narrow-minded in him, and they were giving him a very good time. The way they did it was not by treating him as a distinguished guest or by telling him what a fine fellow he was, which would have turned the little boy's head and have made him think he could do as he pleased. They simply said "Come," and when he came, let him walk around with them.

For they were a right conceited lot in regard to their college, and thought that all they had to do was put a boy on the campus, let him use his eyes and breathe the air and get it in his young system, and his good sense would do the rest. If it did not, his sense was not good and they did not want him, thought they.

As for the young pitcher, he did not quite understand why these great and awful men whom he had often heard of were so kind to him, and he did not care. He only opened his eyes and ears and shut his mouth, and let his friends do whatever they wanted with him and thought it was very nice in them.

And that is all I am going to tell of; what Symington the prep. drank in with his eyes and ears open and his mouth closed. Nothing will happen.

A lame arm had laid him off his team for the usual Saturday game, so he had arrived in Princeton this afternoon in time to see the 'varsity play with a small college nine. He watched the game critically and closely, and passed judgment on each player—under his breath.

He knew the initials, age, class, and previous history of every man on the team, and he could have told you just what each one did and did not in the seventh inning of the Yale game two years before. In regard to the important games previous to that he was somewhat hazy. He was only sure of the scores by innings, the total base hits, and the errors, though he hated to confess it.

Tucker, the Base-ball president, had honored him to the extent of allowing him to sit on the bench under the canopy with the team. Here was a splendid opportunity of gazing upon their faces at close range. Once when the third baseman came in breathless from a home run, with perspiration running down his face, he tripped on Symington's toe and said to him in a loud tone, in order to be heard above the applause, "Pardon me, Symington," which Charlie did.

After the game, which was of the subdued, half-holiday recreation sort, good to bring either a pipe or a girl to, without fear of putting either out by inattention, Tucker, the president, brought him up the street and through the noisy quadrangle to Reunion Hall where he now was ascending the stairs.

Tucker opened the door and picked up a dozen or more letters from the floor and said, "Sit down, Charlie," and began to assort them.

But he said "Sit down Charlie" in an absent-minded tone, and Charlie knew that, and so he looked about the room instead. He thought this was the kind of a room a college man ought to have. He gazed at everything in it from the oar of the last Princeton crew (which must have rowed in triremes—there are two hundred and nine of those oars) to the small photograph of a girl's face in a dainty little figured blue silk frame, all alone over Tucker's desk. That was the first thing he had discovered of which he could not approve. It grieved him to be obliged to think that of Tucker. He seemed such a fine fellow, too.

Just then Mercer, the treasurer, came in with his rattling tin-box, and talked business with Tucker, who nodded his head and kept on opening and glancing through letters.

Symington tried not to listen, but he couldn't help hearing, so he got up again and went to the window. A great lot of racket was going on in the quadrangle below. Somebody had thrown some water out of a window at somebody else, and now they were trying to throw stones back without breaking glass, which was hard to do. Everyone was shouting or yelling, or both, and it was echoing from Old North and College Offices. This is called Horse.

It interrupted Tucker so that he had to raise his voice and repeat several times what he said to Mercer. Finally the voices became louder than he liked. Stepping across the room in a matter-of-fact way with an open letter in his other hand, he threw down the window from the top, with a shrill squeak, and said, in a casual tone, "Ah, I'm afraid you'll have to be just a little bit more quiet down there. You're getting a trifle too noisy. There, that's better," and went on with his sentence to Mercer, who answered, "That's so. Shall I wire him about it?" The racket had suddenly subsided.

Symington the prep. sat down and looked at Tucker. But the senior changed his expression no more than when he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. Charles asked no questions because he was not that kind of a prep., but he arose, went to the window again and looked at the horse-players. Then he looked at Tucker once more. Most of them were bigger than Tucker.

They acted as if nothing unusual had taken place. They were laughing now at something else, only it was quiet laughter. They were under-classmen.

The two athletic officers were busy now, the president talking very rapidly and seriously, and the treasurer listening intently. Symington, the prep., gazed out of the window as only preps. can gaze. He found it interesting enough.

It was that hour of the day when the undergraduate leaves whatever has been occupying his attention, and thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, and heads for the spot in town where he feels like going three times every day. There were dozens of them in sight doing it now.

The prep. thought it odd, the way some of them stood still out in the middle of the campus, and with their eyes turned toward an upper story of one of the buildings yelled, "Hello-o, Sam, going down to grub?" or beseechingly, "Please shake it up," or commandingly, "Get a move up there!" He liked it though.

He could hear footsteps rumbling down the entry stairs, then the door slam, and then the man himself would emerge in sight. He saw them coming out of North, too, and from West, and he could make out others, way over by East College. Many of them headed toward Nassau Street. Some set out in the direction of the Chapel. Others turned toward the Gymnasium. Nearly all of them whistled or made a noise of some sort as they went along.

One fellow, a tremendous man, was stalking by with his head thrown back, singing at the top of his voice. But the funny part of it to Symington was that the big fellow's face seemed utterly unconscious of whether any one was around to see him or not. He was all alone, and he seemed to be having a quiet, comfortable time of it.

When the clock tolled six Tucker arose and said, "Now we'll go and get some dinner, Charlie—Pat, Symington and I dine at the Athletic Club this evening. We'll see you later." Pat was Mercer's right name.

Symington was glad to hear that he was to dine at the Athletic Club this evening. He had read all about this affair, and had seen pictures of it in Harper's Weekly. But he listened attentively to all Tucker had to say on the way down.

His friend opened the heavy oaken door with a small flat key, explaining that it was necessary to keep the doors locked because the mob would otherwise make themselves at home in there. "You see, Charlie," he said, "although this is the training-quarters it is a private club, and not a public affair like the field-house we were in this afternoon. But the membership is open to every one for competition. When you come to college, if you make the team, you will be a member as long as you are training with it. If you become a captain or get any of the Athletic offices you'll be a life member."

But Symington the prep. was not listening to that. When the door opened he caught a glimpse of a big brick fireplace with tiling over it, on which was inscribed "Oranje Boven," and higher up were footballs hung in clusters with scores painted upon them, and all about the wainscoted walls of the hallway were baseball and football and lacrosse championship banners with gilt lettering. That's what he was paying attention to.

"Yes, leave your cap there, any place. Now I want to see what you're good for in this line. We'll go over the house afterward." Tucker led the way toward the sound of knives and forks.

Now it should be understood that Symington, the head man of the school, was not afraid of anything on earth, and if he were dining at Prospect with the President of the University, it would not have mattered. But to walk straight into a room and be introduced to the captain of the team was a little too much. It took his appetite away at first, and he thought he could eat none of that famous training food of which he had heard. However, the shock soon passed.

He was presented to all the members of the nine, and to the subs and to the trainer, and also to two professional pitchers from the Brooklyn League team, who were down to coach the players, and who were just now eating with their knives a huge meal at a little side-table.

Symington was given a seat next to Jack, the trainer, who was cordial and kind to him, and said, "Oh, me boy, you must eat more than that."

The meal seemed to be a very business-like affair. The men were brown from their exercise in the sun, and ruddy and glowing from their recent rub down, and hungry from both causes, and they devoured great sections of rare beef as though they knew it was their duty to get strong for Old Nassau.

The conversation was quite shoppy. When he had finished, the captain pushed back his chair from the table and said, "Fellows, you played a pretty good game to-day. But we've got to brace up in team work. When a man's on a base we must simply push him the rest of the way around."

As soon as dessert was finished, Tucker said, "I want to smoke. Let's start up for the singing, Charlie."

Symington would have liked to explore the rest of the club-house, though of course he did not say so. He did not even ask what the singing meant. But as they arose to leave the table he did ask a question about one of the portraits of the ancient and modern athletic heroes which line the walls.

"Yes, Charlie," said Tucker, "that's he."

"I remember just how he looked when he made that long, low drive, that time, in the ninth inning," Symington said, solemnly.

"Yes," said Tucker, briefly, "a great many of us will always remember his long, low drives. Here is your cap."

This was in reference to a large portrait at the end of the room. The frame had a deep black border.

Tucker and his friend, the other fellow, the University treasurer, whose name the prep. had forgotten, waited until entirely out of the house before lighting their pipes.

Two or three of the team joined Tucker and Symington and the University treasurer. The prep. felt that one of them was coming up beside him. He waited a moment and then glanced out of the corner of his eye. He caught his breath, but did not fall down. It was the captain of the 'varsity nine.

It's a very fine thing to be head man of your school and pitcher on your team, but oh, if the school could see him now!

"How do you like our club?" asked the captain in a voice something like other men's.

"I like the club," said Symington.

"Yes, we think it's a pretty comfortable place. Come down to-morrow and we'll show you the Trophy-room and all." Then he began to question him about his team at school.

To Symington's surprise and delight the captain seemed to know the score of all the important games they had played and how many—or how few—base hits had been gained in each one off him, Charles Symington. And he can tell you to this day every word of the conversation and at what point of the walk it was when the captain said, "Well, you are pitching pretty good ball this year. This is McCosh walk. Look at those trees."

"Yes," said Symington.

The soft evening light was sifting down through the interlacing branches, making a glow to dream about, which Symington did not notice. He had no time to waste at present.

They passed between Chapel and Murray Hall and across back of West toward North. Just as they reached Old Chapel strange notes of music broke in on the prep.'s ears. At first he could not make up his mind whether it was vocal or instrumental, or whether it was real at all, in fact, or part of a dream like everything else perhaps. The seniors were singing, and from that part of the campus it echoes oddly, as you doubtless know.

When they turned the corner and were on the front campus a wonderful sight met the prep.'s eyes. On the steps of Old North, and spilling over upon the stone walks in front and filling up the window casements on either side, was the senior class in duck trousers and careless attitudes with the dark green of many class-ivies for a background and the mellow brown wall of the ancient pile showing through in places. Most of the fellows had an arm about one or two others.

One of the number was standing up in front beating time with a folded Princetonian. They were singing a dear old song called "Annie Lyle." Their voices came rich and sweet in the twilight air.

Under the wide elms were the rest of the college. Also the poor post-graduates and some of the faculty's families and the little muckers, and even a few seminary students from over the way. But only the undergraduates seemed becoming to the scene. The others rather spoiled the effect.

Some of the fellows were sprawled out flat on their backs looking up through the tree-tops at the fading blue. Some rested their heads on each other and got all mixed up so that no one could tell which were his own legs. Others were strolling about or looking at the strangers who came to spend Sunday or to see the game. A few were passing tennis-balls and being cursed by the rest. All of them wore nÉgligÉ clothes or worse.

The captain said he did not feel like singing and led Symington across in front of the seniors and made him sit down beside him on the grass. This was in the eyes of the whole University.

Symington was quite near the men on the steps. He looked them over and tried to catch the joke they were all laughing at now the song was finished. He thought it would be a right fine thing to sit up there and sing to a college. And he made up his mind that if he ever did it he would climb up on top of one of the lion's heads like that little short fellow with the long pipe.

After singing "Rumski Ho" in long, measured cadence, and other good old things and several new ones, some one on the steps began shouting, "Brown! Brown!" Several voices said, in concert, "We must have Brown." Out in the crowd they began crying, "Right! Brown. We want Brown! We must have Brown!"

Three seniors lay hold of one senior and lifted him to his feet. Symington could hear him saying, "Don't, don't. I'm a chestnut. They won't listen to me any more. Please don't make a fool of me, fellows." But he was made to stand out in front and sing a solo.

While this was going on the rest of the college jumped up from their places and pressed up into a close semicircle about the steps. Symington and the captain had to arise to keep from being trampled on.

When Brown finished his solo he was applauded so much that he had to sing another, and Symington made up his mind that next to being the captain he would most like to be Brown.

Then the crowd called for "Timber," and a man got up who had the queerest face Symington ever saw. He looked as if he were trying with all his might to look serious and would never succeed. Everyone began to laugh the moment Timberly stood up, especially his own classmates. And when he began to sing his comic ballad they laughed still more.

When he finished, the audience clapped their hands and yelled. A crowd of juniors gave the college cheer and ended with the words "Timberly's Solo." In some respects Symington liked Timberly more than Brown.

When Timberly at last, looking sad, sat down, Symington heard several voices saying "Everybody up." Those on the ground arose, and those in the windows jumped down. Symington got up too, though he did not know why, and took off his cap when he saw the captain do it.

It was late twilight. The campus was becoming dusky. The faces were dim. The ball-throwing had ceased, and the little muckers had left. The elms were sighing softly overhead in a patriarchal sort of way. Symington thought everyone seemed more quiet and solemn than they were before. Perhaps he only imagined it.

Then, with all the seniors on their feet, with their heads uncovered, the leader waved his white baton, and over one hundred voices sang "Tune every heart and every voice, Bid every care withdraw," and the rest of the college hymn.

Many of the audience joined in, and nobody thought it fresh in them; and Symington would have liked to join in too, only he did not know how. He felt very queer for some reason, and forgot who was standing beside him for a moment. The poetry of the scene was getting into him. He didn't know that, of course, but he had a vague feeling that this was living, and that it was good for him to be there.

When the hymn was finished the class cheered for itself and for the college, and for itself again; and the senior singing was over.

From all over the front campus there suddenly broke out in many loud discordant keys, "Hello, Billy Minot" and "Hello, Jimmy Linton" and "hello" Johnnys and Harrys and Reddys and Dicks, and Drunks, and Deans, and Fathers, and Mables and horses and dogs and houses and others. As each found the man he wanted, an arm or two was thrown about a neck or two, and they started off for some other part of the campus or town.

The captain had also helloed for someone. Symington was left alone for a moment. But he was not exactly alone. He listened to the scraps of talk as the fellows moved past. "Pretty good singing this evening.... Get to work now.... At Dohm's.... I told him to come up.... New York to get advertisements.... The Trigonometry.... Trials for the Gun Club.... Princetonian Subscriptions now.... The mandolin to some girls that came to see the game with him.... You damn sour ball." Some of them were humming the last notes of the song. Others were saying nothing.

A loud clear voice beside him called "Hello, Charlie Symington." It was Tucker looking for him in the dusk, and he called him just as they called to college men. Symington was to meet the captain again later on. Tucker put his arm about Charlie's shoulders as they stepped along toward Reunion. Perhaps he did it unconsciously.

"You can amuse yourself with these," said Tucker, tossing into Charlie's lap a copy of the Bric-a-Brac, which he had read long ago at school, and a lot of photographs. "And if you want a nap," he added "just read that." He threw across the room the last number of the Nassau Lit. That's a very old joke.

Tucker then turned to his desk and got to work over something. Symington did not know what it was, and of course did not ask. But it was not fifteen minutes before "Hello-o, Tommy Tucker" came in a loud voice from the quad, below. Tucker frowned and did not look up.

Then it came again, with a sharper accent on the second syllable, "Helloo, Tommy Tucker."

"Hello," Tucker replied, shortly.

"Are you up there?"

"No, I'm down at the 'varsity grounds running around the track."

"You busy?"

"Yes, Ted, I am. Don't come up."

"All right." Then a whistled tune began, and the shuffling of a pair of feet along the walk. Gradually they faded and mingled with other whistling and feet scraping.

While Symington was thinking this over he heard another voice calling for someone else, and when a muffled response came back, the clear, outside voice said, "Stick your head out!" He heard a window lowered and the inside voice say "Well?"

"Stick it in again."

The window slammed and the man below went on down to Dohm's, whistling softly to himself.

Symington, the prep., thought that was very funny and laughed aloud, and hoped he did not disturb his host by so doing.

Presently someone else yelled for Tucker, and when he replied, "Yes, of course, I'm busy," the man below called back, "Too bad," and the entry stairs began to clatter. In a moment a broad smile and a pair of clean duck trousers burst into the room.

"Timberly," said Tucker, smiling in spite of himself, "I thought I told you not to come up here this evening."

"I believe you did. That's so." Timberly was trying to look serious. Then brightening up at the sight of Symington as if remembering something. "But you see," he said, "I wanted to meet the pitcher." Tucker grinned and introduced them.

Timberly shook Symington's hand vigorously and said, "Wasn't that a smooth song I sang on the steps—hey? I'm a good one, only none of 'em appreciate me. Oh, yes, I nearly forgot—I'm up here on business. I'm up here on business, Tommy Tucker," he repeated, and daintily kicked off Tucker's cap and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. Tucker kept on working. Symington wondered what Timberly was doing.

It was nearly half-past eight now, and other fellows began dropping in. Some helloed first and some came unannounced. Tucker looked up to see who they were. Sometimes he said "Hello" and sometimes he did not. Some of them took off their caps. Others did not. Tucker left it to the first ones to introduce Symington to the later ones.

After half an hour's absence Timberly emerged from the room finishing a sentence he had begun before he opened the door. "And Tommy, you must do the rest. You can tie them so nicely too."

"Tommy, look," said the man with the banjo on the sofa.

Timberly was standing up straight, nicely incased in evening clothes and holding two ends of a white tie in his hands. He looked well-groomed and seemed like a different man now. Perhaps he was.

"What are you doing?" said Tucker, in a stern voice.

"I've got to do it. It's two years now, and it's not good form to let a dinner call go more than two years in Princeton. Here, Tommy, fix this."

"Do it yourself."

"These were great friends of my brother's, and he made me promise on the Family Bible, if we have one. Here, tie this. Great Scott, I've done all the rest. They are your own clothes. You ought to at least be willing to fix the tie."

Tucker put his pen between his teeth and tied the knot with Timberly kneeling at his feet like a patient child having his face washed. Tucker was one of the three men in college who could make a decent job of a tie on another man's neck without standing behind him. The others looked on in silence. Timberly looked up and winked at the prep.

As a rule Symington did not like people to wink at him, as though he were a boy, but this was a most peculiar wink. He not only liked it but nearly snorted out with laughter, which would have been a very kiddish thing to do.

Timberly jumped up. "You're a pretty nice fellow, Tommy Tucker, even though you are arrogant," he said, and leaned over and rubbed his chin affectionately across Tucker's nose, then grabbed his cap and started for the door.

"By the way Timber," said Tucker. "I want you to return those clothes some time. Do you hear? I may go out of town next week."

"That sounds reasonable," replied Timberly, reflectively rattling the knob as he glanced about the room at the others.

"And I don't want to chase all over the campus for 'em. Do you hear?"

"Now, Tommy Tucker, you talk as if I were accustomed to keeping things I borrow. What are you fellows laughing at? Besides, you know very well, T. Tucker, that even if I should happen to forget to return your suit, all you would have to do would be to wire down home for mine—or, no, ask me and I'd wire down myself and save you the trouble." He banged the door.

"Now do you suppose," laughed the one with the cigar on the divan as Timberly's feet in Tucker's patent leathers went pattering down the stairs, "that Timber thought he was in earnest in that last brilliant remark of his, or was it meant for horse." You could seldom tell with Timberly.

"I don't believe he knew himself," said the man with his feet on the arms of Symington's chair. "He's on one of his streaks to-day. I saw the symptoms this morning in Ethics. And when he's that way he's as good as crazy."

"Right," said the one with the banjo. "He don't know what he's saying any more than he knows that he has a cap on his head with a dress suit. If he were in his right mind he would not go out calling."

"He'll either make a fool of himself this evening wherever he goes, or else he'll make one of those great tears of his."

But Symington the prep. thought Timberly was about the best fun in the world.

Some of the fellows left and others came in. Symington thought some of them behaved oddly. One man seemed very sour and came in scowling and sat down without saying hello to anybody. He put his feet on the table and pulled his cap down over his eyes. As soon as he finished his pipe and had emptied the ashes on the carpet to keep out the moths he arose and stretched himself and went away again. He had not said a word. And after he had left no one said anything about it.

That happened while the crowd was thickest. When there were only a few fellows in the room some one generally remembered to introduce the incomers to Symington. He rather liked the way they treated him. They did not, as a rule, patronize him because of his being a prep. And they did not take pains to make him feel at ease, which would have rattled him. They treated him more as if he were one of them, and talked to him, if they felt like it, and let him look after himself, if they did not. At least that is the way it seemed to Charlie. And they called him Charlie or Symington, without any Mister, which would have made him feel ridiculous.

And all this time Tucker at his desk kept on working and only looked up occasionally to say, "How are you, Willie, there's the tobacco, come in." The only time he arose from his seat was once when Jack the trainer came in, and looking at the crowd said, "Mister Tucker, can I speak with ye a moment." The busy man said "Certainly" and led the way into his bedroom and closed the door with a bang, and came out again in a few minutes saying, "All right Jack, I appreciate your position. I'll see to it. Good-night," and sat down to work again.

At a little before eleven the prep. began to feel the force of training habits. He was gritting his teeth hard to keep from yawning. Tucker, who had not looked up for nearly an hour, whisked his papers and things to one side, slammed two drawers, turned a lock, and suddenly jumped up from his chair. He ran across the room with a yell which startled the prep. and made the chandelier ring. Then he threw himself upon two fellows on the divan and began calling them names. His teeth were set and his face so fierce that the prep. found it difficult to keep from believing him angry. And then the two on the divan arose in their might and cast him upon the floor, exclaiming, victoriously, "There, be Gosh." Tucker was through his work for the week and was feeling glad about it. That was his way of expressing it.

"Now, Charlie," he said in a loud, careless manner, "we go out and have some fun now. Here's a cap. Don't wear that ugly stiff hat any more. See?"

Symington had no idea where he was going, but he arose and said good-by to the three others in the room. They did not seem to feel badly in the least over their rude treatment on the part of their host. One of them, sitting on a table with one foot on a chair and the other on the floor, was reading a book of verses and did not look up when Tucker said, "So long." The other two, who had been talking about the baseball prospects and including Symington in their conversation, remained flat on their backs talking about the baseball prospects without Symington.

It was a beautiful evening. In other words it was spring term and the night was clear. There were still groups of fellows seated on the doorsteps or stretched out under the trees. The gleam of their flannels could be seen in the dark. They were up in the balconies also. One of them knocked the ashes from his pipe and Symington saw the sparks float down. He heard a low laugh come from one of the wide open windows. Up from Witherspoon came the tinkle of mandolin music. They were playing to some visiting girls on those broad balconies in front.

"This is West," said Tucker; "Jack Stehman lives in that room up there and Harry Lawrence in the one below——"

"Oh, Stehman the tackle?" asked the prep.

"Yes. Have you met him?"

"No."

"You will to-night."

The prep.'s heart gave a bound. He was to meet Stehman.

They passed down by Clio Hall and dingy Edwards and turned toward a long gray building a little to the left.

"This is Dod Hall," Tucker said, and opened one of the big doors.

They went up two or three flights of stairs and turned down the hall, and Tucker kicked a door at the end of it. Something clicked and the door opened of itself. Four or five voices shouted, "Come in."

Mingled bits of conversation and tobacco smoke and the odor of lemon-peel met them in the little hall-way as they entered it. But Symington the prep. looked behind the door and made up his mind that his door would have an electric apparatus like that when he came to college.

A fellow stuck his head out of one of the bedroom doors and pointing across the hall-way to the main room with a long, bright deer-knife, said, "Come in, Tom, I'll be there in a moment." He rubbed perspiration from his brow with the back of the hand which held a lemon and disappeared into the bedroom.

"Yea-a-a!" cried several voices as Tucker pushed back the portiÈre and stood in the door-way. "Come in, Tommy," they said. "Come in, Symington," said one of the fellows that knew the prep.

"Fellows, this is my friend Symington, the prep.'" said Tucker; "Symington, this is de gang." Tucker tossed his cap and Symington's gracefully into the scrap-basket and pushed Charlie into a seat on the sofa. A fellow with spectacles began asking him what he thought of the afternoon's game. The prep. did not know the man's name, but that did not matter.

There were about a dozen fellows scattered about the room, but the thing that attracted Symington's attention was in the centre of it.

Two square-topped desks had been placed end to end. On these lay a table-cloth, or rather some sheets, and on them was stacked a pile of things good to look at and better to eat. The only reason the food did not immediately become part of the dozen fellows was because they were waiting with watering mouths for something to wash it down with. And this was being prepared as rapidly as Randolph and Ashley in the bedroom could do it. Perhaps they were trying to do it too rapidly, for Symington heard a voice exclaim, "Aw, look out, you ass, you're spilling it all over my bed."

While they were waiting, Dougal Davis and Reddy Armstrong and Harry Lawrence and Jim Linton and others came in. When the lounge, window-seat, chairs, tables, and coal-scuttle became crowded, the new-comers sat on the floor.

Presently the introductory strains of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" came from the bedroom, followed by Randy and Dad Ashley and two assistants bearing aloft two basins, which seemed to be heavy. They strode in, swinging their feet far out in front in a stagey manner to the tune of the "Wedding March" which they shouted with their heads thrown back.

Hunter Ramsay jumped up and marched behind them. The rest thought this a good idea and did likewise, and all sang loud and stamped hard and made the poler growl in the room below, which did no good. Then after marching twice around the table they carefully set the bowls down at either end of it with the ice tinkling against the sides. One of the bowl-bearers remarked, "Maybe you don't think those things are heavy."

"Now then!" said Stehman the tackle, approaching the table. "Ah!" said Symington's friend Tucker. The others may have said things also. If they did not they looked them.

No one waited to be asked. Everyone was supposed to know without being told what was the object of white breasts of cold chicken with russet-brown skin, and rich Virginia ham with spices sticking in the golden-brown outside fat, and little, thin, home-made sandwiches and olives and jellies, Virginia jellies, you know, and beaten biscuit and chocolate cake and fruit cake, or black cake, as they call it in the South. As a matter of fact they all did seem to know, and this included Symington, who held his own with the others very well for a little prep. boy in training. He had forgotten to be sleepy now.

Thus began one of the greatest evenings in the life of Charlie Symington, and it lasted until two o'clock. It was an old-fashioned spread. There was no caterer with a gas-stove in the bedroom, or a table set with a bank of flowers down the centre, or properly attired waiters opening wine behind the chairs. Randolph's mother had sent up a lot of deliciously cooked stuff from the old place in Virginia. Randolph had said to some of the fellows, "I've got a box of grub. Can you come 'round this evening?" And by the looks of things most of them had found that they could as well as not.

Symington had the best time of them all, and, besides, he learned much. He noticed that quite as many fellows took lemonade as drank punch, and this was a matter of surprise to the prep. For his ideas of college men were largely drawn from would-be sportive young freshmen that drove through prep. school towns waving beer-bottles overhead and beating their horses into a gallop.

Nobody got drunk. Everyone became livelier and brighter and better, but that is the object of such gatherings, and those who confined their attentions to the lemonade end of the table were as noisy as the others. No one was urged to take the red fluid rather than the yellow. In fact no one observed which fellows visited which punch-bowl. No one but Symington. And he had been under the impression that at college a fellow's jaws were pried open with a baseball bat and rum was poured down his throat, while three other men held his legs and arms.

The room had now become beautifully hazy with smoke. Some of the fellows tipped their chairs back and put their feet up. The window-seat was full to overflowing. One man rested his head on another fellow's shoulder and asked him to muss his hair. The legs of the one having his hair mussed stretched out over the legs of two other fellows and intertwined with those of a third. Two men were sitting beside the oranges on the table. Some were on the floor with their backs against the wall. All had full stomachs and light jovial spirits. Symington was watching Dougal Davis blow rings.

Harry Lawrence started up "The Orange and the Black." They sang all the stanzas. Then they sang more songs, old songs which are still popular and new songs which were then popular and are now quite forgotten, probably. Everyone sang, whether he knew how or not. Symington sang too. The one he liked the best was a funny song beginning, "Oh, to-day is the day that he comes from the city." They sang that one over and over again. Then they sang it once more. They were all having a good time.

After a while the room became quiet and someone turned down the lights and they told ghost stories, which frightened the prep.

They wound up the evening by trooping downstairs in the dark, for the lights were turned out long ago, and marching up to the front campus, singing as they went. And there they danced about the cannon and sang and whooped and yelled until Bill Leggett came over with his lantern and said, in his gruff voice and good-natured manner, "Boys, it's nearly Sunday morning."

"All right, Bill," they answered. Then all said good-night and went to bed.

Tucker had a roommate some place, but Symington had his bedroom that night.

"If you want anything, just yell for me, Charlie. My room is right next, you know. Goodnight." Tucker was half undressed.

"I sha'n't want anything. Wait a minute, Tucker, please. I'm not sure about something, and it bothers me."

"Well?"

"Princeton won the football championship in '78, didn't we?"

"Say that again."

"Didn't we win in '78?"

"Yes, Charlie, we did."

Symington thought his friend Tucker was smiling at his ignorance. But that wasn't it.