In freshman year they say, "Are you ready to feed your face?" instead of "Are you going to dinner?" and at the eating clubs they call the milk-pitcher the "cow," and shout "Butter me, please," when they wish the butter handed to them. All their desires and opinions they express in variously bold and vulgar metaphors, which are witty. This is because there is no one to tell them they must not. The boy is a college man now. He is free from the restraint of home or school or both, and he doesn't know quite what to do with his liberty.

Like a young town horse turned loose for the first time in the open green of the country, he sometimes loses his head and frisks and snorts and kicks up his heels to an unbecoming degree. This is a way of saying that every once in a while some little boy (the strictly reared kind, usually), in his eagerness to show his fellows how reckless and devilish he is, goes so far that he never comes quite back. Others dissipate merely to the extent of cutting chapel twice in succession or pretending that they have not poled all night for an examination. In still others it breaks out in a different form, and they persuade themselves that they are naughty cynics or bold, bad agnostics. But that will do for that.

The point is this: Sooner or later, in some form or another, this spirit is bound to get hold of every young man who is worthy of the name, and, like measles or calf-love, it is better to have it sooner. In the very young it is interesting. After that it is not. And the older one is when it comes, the more he reminds the onlookers of the frolicksome antics of some ancient, misguided cow, or of a kittenish summer girl, aged twenty-eight. When seen in a poler it is pathetic.

At his first eating club in freshman year, H. Stacy felt himself snubbed from the start; and when the crowd, which was not slow, became well enough acquainted with one another and with the glorious freedom of college life to pour syrup down their neighbors' backs and to hurl fried eggs and coarse jokes about the table, little Stacy, although he always said, "That was a pretty good shot," and wiped the potato from his ear with a noisy laugh, saw that he was not in his own element, which he should have seen a month before, and got out.

He joined a club of a very different sort of freshmen, who were too busy speculating upon their chances at the approaching Divisional Examinations to invent names for tough beefsteak, or learn what was going on in Trenton at the theatres and other places.

This was his element. He drew in long, full breaths of freedom and sunshine, and told himself that now he knew what was meant by the Joy of College Life.

Here he settled down to the methodical poler habits he was intended for, and when the next catalogue was issued his mother and sister pointed out to the minister's wife the name of "Horatio B. Stacy, New Jersey," in the small group of names called "First Group," and said, "We knew he would do it." In his sophomore year he did it again and won a prize or two besides and became a minor light in the Cliosophic Society, and by this time he held in that Hall an office, the name of which was a secret, and could not be divulged even to his sister Fannie. He studied for high marks and was called a "greasy poler." But he got the high marks.

You must not think he had no friends. He made some firm ones. About these he could write home to his sister Fannie, telling what magnificent characters some of them were. Often of a Saturday night, if he had no essays to write or debates to prepare, he slipped off his eye-shades and pattered across the campus to his friends' rooms and knocked gently and said, "How do?" and conversed for an hour on the difficulty of taking notes when your neighbor is borrowing your knife, or about the elective courses for the next term. And down at the club they had great horse calling each other "Blamed Neo-Platonists" and "Doggoned Transcendentalists." Nor was it all shop. One of them thought himself in love. It was Stacy that used to wink at the others and bob his head and say, "I know some one who got a letter to-day." They had great fun at the club.

By reason of his freshman year's disgust he remained innocent, which was right, and ignorant, which was wrong, of much that he might have experienced, and he bade fair to graduate a typical poler with a bad breath and an eye on Commencement stage and special honors. Sometimes, to be sure, dark questions arose in his mind, strange, shameful yearnings that caused him to read whole pages without taking in a word of it. But then, all polers have wild moments when they feel that they would rather play on the team than win the Stinnecke Scholarship, so Stacy should not have been distressed.

But sometimes it seemed to him that even those classmates whom he knew only slightly and did not understand at all, those fellows who seemed to do nothing but loaf about the campus all day and sing and shout at night, while he was running his hands through his hair and his eyes through Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason," they, it seemed to him, were getting a poetry out of college life that he was missing. "But never mind," he would say to himself. "They will regret it some day. They will wish they had done as I am doing, instead of wasting golden opportunities which come but once and which glide by like ships upon the sea of life." Then he would pull his hair and start at the top of the page again. It is better to have First Group than the Glee Club.

But there were some fellows who could do both. Some fellows stood high in the class and were in with everybody besides. Why could not he be like that? This question came to him quite suddenly in junior year, and he tipped his head to one side and began to think about it. He kept on thinking.

He was still thinking about it one Sunday afternoon in chapel when big Jack Stehman, the tackle, came stalking down the aisles and threw himself down beside Stacy, and the oak creaked. He was fresh and clean and rosy from a long 'cross country tramp, and he said, "Hello, Stace," in a hearty whisper. It was not from policy like the smiling hello of a man a few pews in front, but because he felt like it. Stacy enjoyed being saluted in that way, and if the big fellow grabbed and pinched his thin leg he would beam for the rest of the hour, even though he found a blue spot there at night when he undressed in Edwards Hall.

It was because of his way of saying hello, as much as his great football record, that Stehman was one of the most popular men in college, and nobody worshipped him more than did Stacy, not even the freshman who gazed across the pews and wondered what it would be like to be on familiar terms with a man of that sort. Stacy had at one time feared that there was something sinful in his own admiration; Stehman was a fourth-group man.

He was thinking that his big class-mate looked just as strong and clean and good as during the season. Just then Timberly, in the pew behind, lay hold of Stehman's hair, drew his head back against the rail, and then rubbed his own vigorously against Stehman's. "Little Jackie's had his long locks cut, hasn't he?" he said. His teeth were gritted and there was a sweet caress in his Southern voice, for he loved his good pal Jack Stehman, though he would have called you profane things if you had accused him of it. Stehman smiled, and said, "Let go, Timber, you ass, the organ has stopped."

Little Stacy, watching this out of the corner of his glasses, said, solemnly, "I'd give my first group for that," and then bowed his head in prayer. He thought about it all through the service instead of listening as he should have done to a returned missionary who told how many widows there were in India under thirteen years of age, and other interesting things.

The next day, when he walked with Stehman from a lecture by the Dean on Robert Southey, he tried to catch his friend's tone of hello. Jack said it to about fifty men between Dickinson Hall and Reunion, and it sounded as though he were glad to see everyone of them, and he was. Stacy liked to be seen with the big fellow. But he did not blush and keep silent as in sophomore year when he was first permitted to walk with him. He tried to show everyone that he was used to it.

This time something happened. When they reached the place where the stone walks meet, in front of South Reunion, Stehman put a big hand on his shoulder, and said, "Stace, will you dine with me this evening?—Oh, yes, you can. I have an engagement in Dougal's room now. I'll yell for you on the way to the club. So long." Stacy opened his mouth and gazed after him until out of sight. Then he shut it and started for his room. This was unexpected.

He had often thought about these large swell clubs with their elective membership, and he had walked by the houses when the members were lounging out in front. He had heard snatches of songs and the click of billiard-balls from within, and he wondered what they did and said and how it looked inside. And now he was going to see one of them, the one he admired the most of all.

At his own little eating club, he and the others said that many of the club men were snobs, and declared that they would have nothing to do with them. He wondered if his friends envied them in secret, as he did. At any rate he would not dread answering them the next morning when they asked, "Where were you for dinner?"

When he reached his room he changed his necktie for a more becoming one. At least he thought it was. And he put on his new, heavy, tan shoes, like those Stehman and so many fellows wore. He would show them that he knew things. Then he sat down and wrote to his sister Fannie about it, as he did once before with a trembling hand, when he won that essay prize in Hall and came late to dinner in consequence, and all the fellows cried, "Yea-a, Stacy, Sophomore essay prize!" He had pointed out that club to Fannie when she and his mother came over at Commencement, and he had told her that Stehman was in that one. She knew who Stehman was.

Stacy little imagined that he was of so much consequence, but Stehman, the tackle, had been talking about him on Sunday evening by the club fireplace. Two of the fellows who were younger than juniors ought to be had smiled at what he said.

To them Jack turned with some heat, and observed, "You fellows make me tired. You aren't under-class men now; you're old enough to know better than to size up people by under-class man standards. Just because Stacy has not learned to swear or smoke, and because he worries and fusses and gets pale over what he came to college for, you think you have a right to laugh at him. I respect him, and I wish to the deuce I was more like him. Little Stacy is all right. And he'll be in it all right some of these days, and he'll do a great deal more good in the world than most of us."

This was the longest speech Jack Stehman had ever made, and he was duly applauded and guyed for it. But he was serious. He had a Sunday night sour on. It was junior year for Stehman also, and he too had been coming to some conclusions about his college course. But of a different kind.

It was nearly half after six when Stacy heard his friend's big voice echo across the campus. As he pattered down the stairs in his stiff, new Bluchers, he could not help wishing that Stehman had come a little earlier. Not that he was hungry, but the campus would then have been more crowded, while Stehman called, "Hello, Ray Stace."

As they passed under the lamp-post and Jack said "Hello" to somebody going in the other direction, Stacy remembered how that once he would not have believed that he should ever be walking as he was now with Stehman's big, strong arm upon his shoulder, the same arm that had brought down many a canvas jacket. But that was long ago.

When they reached the club, Stehman kicked the mud from his big, heavy shoes on the porch steps, and Stacy did the same for his bright new little ones. The door flew open and the brightly lighted interior of the club was before them. Stacy caught a glimpse of an open fire and deep, comfortable places to lounge in beside it, and some etchings on the wall. He heard knives and forks and many voices, all going at once, and laughter and exclamations. He spied a waiter hurrying in with a tray full of dishes. A little nigger boy, with innumerable buttons on his jacket, began to help him off with his overcoat, and just then he heard one voice exclaim emphatically, "Doc., I say they can't do it," and he wondered what it was and who could not do it.

Stehman said, "Come over here a moment—no, this way."

"Oh, this way?" said Stacy. He was led to a large open book with names written on it.

"Will you give us your distinguished signature?" said Stehman, dipping the pen in ink and handing it to him.

"Where shall I write—oh, yes, of course." Stacy wondered how many people would read Horatio B. Stacy, introduced by John Carter Stehman.

Though he had made up his mind to have confidence he felt a little flustered. Perhaps the voices of many diners and the sight of many rooms and various passage-ways and the negro buttons were a little too much for him. Besides his glasses were blurred at coming in from the cold and that always rattled him.

Possibly his host noticed this, for he said, "Boo, I'm cold. Let's warm up before grubbing," and led him to the fire and pushed him into a chair big enough to hold two Horatio B. Stacys.

He was perspiring now, but he held out his hand to the cheerful blaze as if to get all he could of it. He looked at the andirons and the crackling wood and glanced up at the etchings. He thought, "It must be very fine to have all this every day."

"Well, do you feel as though you could eat something?" Stehman lifted him by the coat-collar.

Stacy made answer, in a familiar tone, "I'm ready any time you are, Jack," and then to himself, "Keep cool now."

Stehman, with his hands in his pockets, led the way with his slouching football walk which the freshmen studied on the way to recitations. Stacy followed. He slouched pretty well, but his pockets were at the very top of his trousers, so that his little coat turned up behind.

They entered the bright, noisy dining-room. "Jack, why so late?" some one was calling out, when suddenly there came, "Hello, Stace." "Hello, Kay." "Hello there, Stace." "How do do, Stace." Most all of them seemed glad to see him, and he was quite overcome with answering them all. Jack showed him where to sit.

After the waiter had pushed the chair under him and he had unfolded the napkin there came in a solemn voice from the end of the table, "Horatio, how do you do this evening?"

"Why, Lint, old man, how are you?" he returned quickly in a strong tone. Then he smiled a little because Linton might be guying him. But he was not.

It seemed that many eyes were upon him and he felt embarrassed and strangely lonely because his host had turned to speak about something to someone on the other side. So he gave his glasses an unnecessary rub and took three sips of water in quick succession.

The waiter placed the soup before him, and while he was occupied with it he had time to gather himself together. Some of the fellows, he noticed over his glasses, leaned over or else slipped way down in their chairs in the same purposely reckless manner of under-classmen days. But he held his little shoulders back and used his spoon very daintily. He would show them that he had good table manners.

Stehman now began to chat with him in his easy familiar way. But the big fellow's manner always seemed to indicate that he was mindful of how much higher was Stacy's class rank than his own.

He was more at ease now, only whenever the conversation flagged he could never think up anything to renew it with. He suspected that he was blushing, and there really was no reason for blushing. These were all his own dear classmates, some of whom he knew quite well, and they all seemed kindly disposed toward him and included him in their general remarks and even addressed him sometimes in particular. He made up his mind that he must say something to Dougal Davis across the table.

He took a drink of water and wiped his lips and cleared his throat and spoke. "Dougal, have you poled up Billy's history for the written recitation?" Which was the very sort of thing he meant to avoid. But it was too late now.

"No, but I expect to put a wet towel around my head and hit it up until three o'clock to-night," Dougal answered, sincerely.

And Stacy thought he was joking. He therefore laughed, saying, "Like fun you are."

He never could tell when some of these fellows were in earnest, and Dougal Davis was something awful to him anyway because he stood higher in the class than Stacy himself, and yet had time to be mixed up with half a dozen outside interests of college life and did a comfortable amount of loafing besides.

"I suppose you have it all down fine, Stace?" asked Timberly, agreeably, "and will pound out a first group as usual."

"Naw," boldly replied Stacy, "I've barely looked at it. Don't intend to bother with it." That was the way to talk.

But it was all wasted, for just then Lamason came in with a suit-case in his hand and his town clothes on, and everybody was crying "Yea-a" in loud, shrill tones, and some one began singing "Oh, to-day is the day that he comes from the city," and all joined in, even little Stacy, though he did not know the words and blushed and closed his mouth again when any one looked in his direction.

Meanwhile Lamason, without smiling, or seeming to be aware of the noise, said, "Bring me some dinner, Henry, please," and taking a Princetonian from his pocket began to read an editorial on the lack of lamp-posts on the south campus, and paid no more attention to the remarks about his good-looking clothes than to Timberly, who was painstakingly mussing up his nicely brushed hair. It impressed Stacy. Except that they no longer considered it funny to throw things or to be profane without necessity, the fellows seemed to be as free and jolly as in under-classmen days. He had supposed that there would be some dignity about a great fine elective club with white curtains at the window and a board of governors.

While beginning upon his roast beef the waiter placed a small, narrow glass by his plate. He heard the "pop" of a drawn cork behind him. He had understood that the club constitution forbade alcoholic beverages. The waiter was filling his glass. He heard something hiss and sizzle, but he did not like to look because it would be so obvious. This would be a good opportunity to show these fellows that he was not such a shark as they supposed. Still, after keeping out of temptation so many years, he did not like the idea of running the risk of becoming a drunkard now. But, perhaps, it would not be wrong to taste a little of it.

"Are you fond of Apollinaris, Ray?" asked Stehman, emptying his glass at a gulp. "I'm a disgusting guzzler of it."

"Oh, yes, I'm—I like it very much," said Stacy. Stehman asked him to have another piece of roast just to keep him company, and without giving time for answer, Stacy heard him say, "Two second, Henry—rare." Jack made him drink another bottle of Apollinaris, too, though it pricked his tongue, and he said he did not want it, and he felt that he was imposing upon his friend when he saw him write out another voucher for the amount.

Most of the table had finished by this time. They were smoking with their coffee. Those who could afford it were smoking cigars and those who had used up their credit with the Cigar Committee were solacing themselves with pipes. Some there were who did not smoke at all.

"Our crowd," Jack explained, "makes it a matter of principle never to leave the table for a half hour or so. It's good for the digestion."

Three or four of the fellows were leaning back with their heads on the backs of chairs or on one another's shoulders. One was slouching with his elbow on the table and with his other hand he played with the salt-cellars. And some looked perfectly contented and happy, and some looked grave or sour, and all were beautifully and completely indolent, and everything seemed comfortable and happy and Bohemian to Stacy, and he thought it fine to eat his dessert with the smoke floating about it.

Dougal Davis opposite was blowing fat, well-formed rings aimed at the top of Stacy's Apollinaris bottle, while Linton, without looking up, was informing him, in picturesque, though hardly complimentary language, that he had a mouth splendidly adapted to ring-blowing. Davis kept on sending rings across the table, and paid no attention. Stacy wondered whether they were on bad terms with one another. Perhaps it was rude in him to listen. They seemed so much in earnest.

It was difficult to understand these fellows. Some of them he knew to be as hard students as himself, and yet they seemed to be as much in with the crowd as the others. Someone would say something in a most impressive, sober way, and nobody seemed to notice it, or else everyone laughed. Of course he knew that what they were saying during dinner about their extreme poverty was meant humorously, even by those of the fellows who tutored or wrote for the papers to help themselves along. But what troubled him was that he could not catch the drift and join in and be like the rest of them. Once, when everybody laughed heartily, and Pope bowed his head and said, "I acknowledge that I am sat upon," Stacy laughed, too, and said "Pretty good," though he did not know what it was, and hoped that no one knew he was bluffing.

From another part of the house came the pounding of billiard-cues and a few emphatic remarks, varied at intervals with a yell or a loud laugh. In another room three or four voices were singing, perhaps unconsciously, and the strong final notes reached the dining-room. Upstairs someone was exclaiming, "I had next on that!" From the lounging room came the notes of a piano, and Stacy said, "That 'Pilgrim's Chorus' is a beautiful thing, isn't it, Jack?" for Stacy knew.

He had enjoyed his dinner, and was perfectly self-possessed. He could look about the room at everyone without flinching. Henry brought the coffee in very pretty cups, with the club design on them. The buttons came in at Stehman's ringing. "Jackson, get me a —— Ray, you don't smoke, do you?"

"Oh, yes, I do," Stacy replied.

"Oh, I beg your pardon—bring some Perfectos, Jackson—please pardon me, I forgot entirely that you smoked. I must have mixed you up with someone else. I thought sure you did not smoke."

He seemed so cut up about it and his voice so pathetically apologetic that Stacy felt sorry for him, and had to say, "That's all right, Jack. You see I have just begun. That is, I haven't been smoking very long, you know, on account of my eyes." But he hoped the others did not hear.

"Will you have a cigarette first?" Stehman asked.

"No, I prefer a cigar," said Stacy, in a fine, deep voice. Stehman lighted a cigarette.

Horatio had never smoked but one cigar before, and he was not certain about how much of the end to bite off. But it seemed to draw all right when the buttons held a match for him. It did not make him feel the least bit sick. He thought he held it between his first and second fingers rather well.

His host began to talk about the Dean's English again, and Stacy changed the subject. Of course Jack meant it out of consideration for him, but Stacy could talk about other things than his studies. Presently Jack began again. "What collateral reading are you doing in the Public Law course, Ray—— What's that you're saying, Timber?"

"Oh, nothing," said Timberly, smiling satirically. "We are just amused a little bit at your posing as a heavy poler. That's all."

But Jack only frowned, and turned again to Stacy, who knew the others were paying attention, and so made answer, "Don't intend to read anything. I've quit taking notes on the lectures, too. A syllabus at the end of the term will have to do me." That ought to show them.

Nobody said anything for a moment, and when he looked up he could not tell from their faces what they thought of his remark, though Linton seemed to wear a quizzical smile. But then that fellow always seemed to be sneering or else looking oblivious.

Then Smith, who was a track athlete, went on with his conversation with Pope. He was venturing the opinion that Princeton's prospects for the spring were poor. He was a young man who thought he had a dignity, and he liked to have people pay attention to what he said. He had reason to suppose that his opinions on athletics amounted to something. So he was rather astonished, as were Stehman and the rest of the table, when Stacy's high voice burst in with, "No, now, you don't mean it, Smithie. You are joking, aren't you?" There was no reason why he should not be familiar and play horse like the rest.

At first there was such a pause that he felt himself blush, and he feared he had offended Smith, who had stopped talking and was blushing a little, too. Then suddenly Timberly burst out with a snorting laugh, and then Davis and then the whole crowd, even Linton, and Stacy himself, because he had made such a hit, laughed modestly, though still blushing, at which they all laughed still more. He did not know it was so funny as all that. That was not half as witty as he could be, as he would show them.

But just then Stehman interrupted and claimed attention. "Timber," he called down the table, "I heard a new one to-day on Jimmie McCosh." Stehman then told a story about the Doctor's falling on the slippery stones on McCosh walk, and what he said when he could not get up. Like most imitations of dear old Jimmie's Scotch, Stehman's sounded like a poor Irish brogue. It was not a very good story, but the fellows imagined how it would sound if told well, and then laughed because it was good old Jack Stehman. Stacy thought he could do better than that.

Everything was quiet. Now was the time. He cleared his throat. "Say, fellows, this is the way the president talks in chapel." His voice was high and unnecessarily loud. He arose and took hold of the lapels of his little coat and raised his brows and compressed his lips and looked side wise through his glasses and repeated very quickly in a strange voice, "The seven Arabic numerals do not form a sufficient basis for crystallization about which the cardinal virtues may cluster." Then he promptly sat down and began to puff vigorously upon his big cigar.

The fellows smiled surprisedly and looked at each other. Then they laughed. They stopped a moment; then one by one they began to laugh again, as if the thing were growing on them. Finally they roared and kept on roaring.

At home they always applauded when he got that off, although his mother thought it wrong in him, but they did not pound on the table and scream and slap each other on the back, as these fellows were doing now. It must have been because this audience was more familiar with the original. But he hardly heard them.

"Say, fellows, I'll tell you the story of the little boy who stole the jam!" he exclaimed, excitedly. Before Stehman and one or two others of this same crowd he had tried once in freshman year to tell this same story, and failed for lack of courage. He was not the least bit frightened this time.

He leaned back in his chair and imitated the boy's voice and blew smoke between sentences and gesticulated with the cigar in his hand; and when he had finished everyone pounded and screamed and applauded as before, while he only shut his lips tight and tried to look serious, as all good raconteurs should. Would not this be fine to write to Fannie about?

"Good! Good!" they were shouting to him. "Give us another, Stace. You're a good one. Do the Dr. Patton act again. These fellows haven't seen it."

"No, we haven't seen it. Let her go."

Stacy raised his eyes from the table-cloth. Those of the juniors that had left and some of the seniors, hearing the racket, had come in to see what was up. The piano had ceased. Fellows were pushing into the room with cues in their hands and their coats off. Some of them were sitting on the table. Some had their arms about one another's shoulders. Leaning against the door-post, with a pipe in his mouth and a merry twinkle in his eye, stood a senior named Bangs, whom Stacy, in freshman year, feared more than anything on earth. He had never, until this moment, forgiven him.

Before Bangs and over half the active membership of the club did little Stacy, who used to cross the street to avoid being looked at, jump up on a chair and with greater gusto than ever, with his funny little mouth twisted up, with his voice strained to produce a peculiar resonance, repeat part of a sermon once preached by the president of the college. And when he had finished, his hearers were doubled up on the floor with laughter.

Throughout all this Stehman alone seemed unappreciative. He laughed in a nervous way. Once he said, "Let's go sit by the fire." Could it be possible that his good friend Jack, who was accustomed to being the most popular, was—no, he would not think that of him.

"Do something else," they were crying. "Go on. Go on. Please!"

If he wanted to he could double them up once more, this time with an imitation of Jimmie Johnson's stuttering, but he absolutely declined. He knew that brevity was the soul of wit. "Stacy, you ought to go on the stage!" one of the seniors exclaimed.

But he only answered, "Naw. That don't amount to anything. Shoot." And then they all began laughing once more at the mere remembrance of it.

Jack arose to go. Stacy picked up the huge cigar, which had gone out, and jamming it firmly between his teeth, strode after his host. He walked past the fellows, who were still laughing, as modestly and with as unconscious an expression as Jack Stehman himself wore on the football field when running back to his place after making a touch-down and the crowd was cheering.

In the hall he said, "I think I'll have to go now, Jack." His voice was joyously nervous. He could not hold in much longer.

"Must you go, Ray?"

"Yes. I must finish a letter. Good-night, Jack, old man. I've had a bully time."

The buttons was helping him on with his coat, and he repeated, "Good-night, Jack, old man. I've had a bully time." His voice nearly broke.

Then the door closed, and Stehman, who was angry, turned toward the convulsing crowd by the fire and said, in a calm voice, "I greatly admire what you fellows have done this evening. You are indeed typical Princeton men. Oh, you have the true spirit."

"Fine poler, your quiet, inoffensive, young friend," some one rejoined with a chuckle.

"Not ashamed—as you were reminding us the other night—not ashamed of being a poler either," said the fellow Stehman had jumped on for being a kid.

"Wow!" cried Bangs, with a groan of laughter. "I haven't had so much horse since sophomore year."

Then Linton spoke. "Jackie, dear, don't look that way. It's not nice. And do not chew a rag because your little poler did not develop as you wanted him to. You must learn to part with your ideals——"

"And, Jack, you must admit," interrupted Davis, "that it was absurdly comical. It was mean to laugh, but how could we help it? His standing up there and kicking up his poler antics, like an old cow, and thinking all the time that he was——"

The rest was cut short by Stehman's bringing his big fist down upon a table by the window. "But, Dougal," he thundered, "that doesn't make any difference. He was my guest. Because he tried to bring himself down to our tone you fellows let him make a fool of himself, and sat there and laughed at him, like a set of snobs. Jackson, get my coat."

"You needn't talk so loud," growled a sarcastic-faced post-graduate. "The people across the street don't care to hear about it."

"Don't go away with your back up, Jack," Linton shouted after him good-naturedly. "And you need not worry about little Stacy. The best time he ever had in college was with us snobs here to-night, and he's probably chuckling to himself now on his way across the campus about the big tear he made."

But little Stacy was not doing anything of the sort. One of his new Blucher shoes had come untied when he had jumped up on the chair to do the president act, and he stopped to tie it by the light of the club window. And it was wide open.