AFTER the drudgery of the football season he had a few short weeks of gorgeous idleness, during which he browsed through a novel a day, curled up on his window-seat, rolling tobacco clouds through the fog of smokers in the room. He had won his spurs and the right to lounge, and he looked forward eagerly to the rest of the year as a time for reading and the opening up of the friendships of which he had dreamed.

Old age settled down rapidly upon him, and at eighteen that malady appears in its most virulent form. Perhaps there was a little justification. The test he had gone through had educated him to self-control in its most difficult form. He was not simply the big man of the class, the first to emerge to fame, but the prospective captain of a future Yale eleven. A certain gravity was requisite --- moreover, it was due the University. To have seen the burning letters S-T-O-V-E-R actually vibrating on the front pages of metropolitan papers, to have gazed on his distinguished (though slightly smudged) features, ruined by an unfeeling photographer, but disputing nevertheless the public attention with statesmen and champions of the pugilistic ring --- to have felt these heavenly sensations at the age of eighteen could not be lightly disguised.

So he lay back among welcome cushions, book in hand, and listened with a tolerant ear to the rapid-fire comedy of McNab and Buck Waters. He stayed much in his own room, which became a sort of lounging spot where the air was always blue with smoke and a mandolin or guitar was strumming a low refrain or a group near the fireplace was noisy with the hazards of the national game.

Pretty much every one of importance in the class dropped in on him. The preliminary visiting period of the sophomore societies was nearly over. With the opening of the winter term the hold-offs and elections would begin. He understood that those who were uncertain wished the advantage of being seen in his company --- that his, in fact, was now the "right" crowd.

He intended to call on several men who interested him: Brockhurst, who had made his appearance with a story in the Lit which announced him as a possible future chairman; Gimbel, about whose opinions and sincerity he was in doubt; and, above all, Regan, who genuinely attracted him. But, somehow, having now nothing to do, his afternoons and evenings seemed always filled, and he continually postponed until the morrow what suggested itself during the day. Besides, there was a complacent delight in being his own master again and of looking forward to such a period of independent languor.

The first discordant note to intrude itself upon this ideal was a remark of Le Baron's during one of the evening visits. These embassies were always conducted with punctiliousness and gravity. The inquisitorial sophomores arrived about eight o'clock in groups of three and four. As McCarthy was the object of attention from a different society, Stover, when the former's inspectors arrived, shook hands gravely, and shortly discovered that he had a letter to post at the corner. When the committee on Stover appeared trimly at the door, McCarthy rose at once to return a hypothetical book, after which the conversation began with about as much spontaneity and zest as would be permitted to a board of alienists sitting in judgment on a victim. The sophomores were embarrassed with their own impromptu dignity, and the freshmen at the constraint of their superiors.

On one such occasion, after the committee of four had spent fifteen minutes in the grave discussion of a kindergarten topic, and had filed out with funereal solemnity, Le Baron returned for a more intimate conversation.

Since the night of his introduction to college, Stover had had only occasional glimpses of Le Baron. True, he was generally of the visiting committee that called every other night for perfunctory inspection, but through it all the sophomore had adopted an attitude of almost defensive aloofness and impartiality.

"I want to talk over some of the men in the class," said Le Baron, falling into an arm-chair and picking up a pipe, while his manner changed to naturalness and equality. Stover understood at once that the attitude was a notice served on him of the security of his own position.

"Dink, I want to know your opinion. What do you think of Brockhurst, for instance?"

"Brockhurst? Why, I hardly know him."

"Is he liked?"

"Why, yes."

"Who are his friends?"

Stover thought a moment.

"Why, I think he rather keeps to himself. He strikes me as being --- well, a little undeveloped --- rather shy."

"Do you like him?"

"I do."

"And Schley?"

The question was put abruptly, Le Baron raising his eyes to get his answer from Stover's face.

"Schley?" said Dink, considering a little. "Why, Schley seems to---"

"Regan?" said Le Baron, satisfied.

"One of the best in the class!"

"He seems a rather rough diamond."

"He's proud as Lucifer --- but he has more to him than any one I know."

"It's a question what he'll do."

"I'd back him every time."

"You are quite enthusiastic about him," said Le Baron, looking at him with a little quizzical surprise.

"He's a man," said Stover stoutly.

"Of course, the football captaincy will probably be between you two."

"Regan?" said Stover, amazed.

"Either you or Regan."

Stover had never thought of him as a rival for his dearest ambition. He remained silent, digesting the possibility, aware of Le Baron's searching inquiry.

"Of course, you have nine chances out of ten, but the race is a long one."

"He would make a good captain," Stover said slowly.

"You think so?"

"I hadn't thought of it before," Stover said, with a sudden falling inside, "but he has the stuff in him of a leader all right."

"I wish he weren't quite so set," said Le Baron. "He hasn't made a particularly favorable impression on some of the fellows."

An involuntary smile came to Stover at the thought of Regan's probable reception of a committee of inspection.

"He doesn't perhaps realize the importance of some things," he said carefully.

"He doesn't," said Le Baron, who was not without a sense of humor. "It's a pity, though, for his sake. I wish you'd talk to him a little."

"I will."

Le Baron rose.

"By the way, what are you going out for this spring?"

"This spring?" said Stover, surprised.

"Ever rowed any?"

"Never."

"That doesn't make any difference. You learn the stroke quicker --- no bad habits."

"I'm light as mischief."

"Oh, I don't know --- not for the freshman. We want to stimulate the interest in rowing up here. It's a good example for a man like you to come out. Ever done anything in baseball or the track?"

''No."

"Rowing's the stunt for you." He went toward the door, and turned. "Have a little chat with Regan. I admire the fellow, but he needs to rub up a bit with you fellows and get the sharp edges off him. By the, way, when you start rowing I'll get hold of you and give you a little extra coaching."

When McCarthy came grinning through the door, he found Dink, his legs drawn up Turkish fashion, staring rebelliously at the ceiling.

"Hello! In love, or what?" said Tough, stopping short. "Recovering, perhaps, from the brilliant conversation?"

"By George, I'm not going out for anything more!" said Dink, between his teeth.

"Heavens! haven't you slaved enough?"

"You bet I have. I'll be hanged if I'm going through here ---just varsity material. I'm going to be a little while my own master."

"You think so?" said McCarthy, with a short, incredulous laugh. "Every one's doing something." McCarthy was a candidate for the baseball nine.

"Have you heard anything about Regan?" said Stover, between puffs.

"In what way?"

"Have any of the sophomores been around to see him?"

McCarthy exploded into laughter. "Have they? Didn't you hear what happened?"

"No. What?"

They spent half the night locating his diggings, and when they got them the old rhinoceros wouldn't receive them."

"Why not?"

"Hadn't time, he said, to be fooling with them."

"The old chump!"

"Lucky dog," said McCarthy, between his teeth. "I wish I had the nerve to do the same."

"What the deuce?"

"It makes me boil! I can't sit up and have a solemn bunch of fools look me over. I can't be natural."

"It's give and take," said Dink, smiling. "You'll think yourself the lord of the universe next year."

"I'm not so sure," said McCarthy, gloomily.

"Rats!"

"Oh, you --- you've a cinch," said McCarthy.

"They're not picking you to pieces and dissecting you. Half the crowd that come to see me have got some friends in the class they'd rather see in than me. I'm darned uncertain, and I know it."

Stover, who believed the contrary, laughed at him. He rose and went out, determined to find Regan and make him understand conditions.

His walk led him along the dark ways of College Street into the forgotten street where, under the roof of a bakery, Regan had found a breathing-hole for five dollars a month.

For the first time a little feeling of jealousy went through Stover as he swung along. Why should he help build up the man who might snatch from him his ambition? Why the deuce had Le Baron mentioned Regan as a possible captain? No one else thought of such a thing. Compared to him, Regan was a novice in football knowledge and experience. Still, it was true that the man had a stalwart, unflinching way of moving on that impressed. There was a danger there with which he must reckon.

He found Regan in carpet slippers and sweater, bending grimly over the next day's Greek as if it were a rock to be shattered with the weight of his back.

"8-16-6-9-47," said Stover, in a hallo, giving the signal that had sent him through the center.

Regan started up.

"Hello, Dink, old bantam; glad to hear your voice."

Stover entered, with a glance at the room. A cot, a bureau, a washstand reënforced by ropes, a pine table scorched and blistered, and a couple of chairs were the entire equipment. Half the gas globe was left and two-thirds of the yellow-green shade at the window. In the corner was the battle-scarred valise which had brought Regan's whole effects to college.

"Boning out the Greek?" said Stover, placing a straight chair against the wall so that his feet could find the ledge of the window.

"Wrestling with it."

"Don't you use a trot?" said Stover in some surprise, perceiving the absence of the handy, literal short-cut to recitation.

"Can't afford to."

"Why not?" said Stover, wondering if Regan was a gospel shark, after all.

"I've got too much to learn," said Regan, leaning back and elevating his legs in the national position. "You know something; I don't. You can bluff; I'm a rotten bluffer. I've got to train my whole mind, lick it into shape and make it work for me, if I'm going to do what I want."

"Tom, what are you aiming for?"

"You'd never guess."

"Well, what?"

"Politics."

"Politics?" said Stover, opening his mouth.

"Exactly," said Regan, puffing at his corncob pipe. "I want to go back out West and get in the fight. It's a glorious fight out there. A real fight. You don't know the West, Stover."

"No,"

"We believe in something out there, and we get up and fight for it --- independence, new ideas, clean government, hard fighters."

"I hadn't 'thought of you that way," said Stover, more and more surprised.

"That's the only thing I care about," said Regan frankly. "I've come from nothing, and I believe in that nothing. But to do anything I've got to get absolute hold of myself."

"Tom, you ought to get in with the fellows more. You ought to know all kinds," said Stover, feeling an opening.

"I will, when I get the right," said Regan, nodding.

"Why the devil don't you let the University help you a while? You can pay it back," said Stover angrily.

"Never! I know it could be done, but not for me," said Regan, shaking his head. "What I need is the hardest things to come up against, and I'm not going to dodge them."

"Still, you ought to be with us; you ought to make friends."

"I'm going to do that," said Regan, nodding. "I'm going to get in at South Middle after Christmas and perhaps get some work in the Coop." He took up a sheet of paper jotted over with figures. "I'm about fifty dollars to the good; a couple of weeks' work at Christmas will bring that up about twenty more. If I can make a hundred and fifty this summer I'll have a good start. I want to do it, because I want to play football. It's bully! I like the fight in it!"

"What sort of work will you do?" said Stover curiously.

"I may go in the surface cars down in New York."

"Driving?"

"Sure. They get good pay. I could get work in the mines --- I've done that --- but it's pretty tough."

"But, Tom, what the deuce do you pick out the hardest grind for? Make friends with fellows who only want to know you and like you, and you'll get a dozen openings where you'll make twice what you get at manual labor!'

"Well, there's this to it," said Regan ruminatively, "It's an opportunity I won't always have."

"What the deuce do you mean?"

"The opportunity to meet the fellow who gets the grind of life---to understand what he thinks of himself, and especially what he thinks of those above him. I won't have many more chances to see him on the ground floor, and some day I've got to know him well enough to convince him. See? By the way, it would be a good college course for a lot of you fellows if you got in touch with the real thing also."

"Are you a socialist?" said Stover, who vaguely associated the term with dynamite and destruction.

" I may be, but I don't know it."

"I say, Tom, do you go in for debating and all that sort of thing?"

"You bet I do; but it comes hard as hen's teeth."

Stover, who had waited for an opportunity to volunteer advice, finding no opening, resolved to take the dilemma by the horns.

"Tom, I think you're wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

"Holding aloof so much."

"Particularly what?"

"I'm thinking about sophomore societies, for one thing. Why the deuce don't you give the fellows a chance to help you?"

"Oh, you mean the dinky little bunch that came around to call on me," said Regan thoughtfully.

"Yes. Now, why turn them out?"

"Why, they bored me, and, besides, I haven't time for anything like that. There are too many big things here."

"They can help you like the mischief, now and afterward."

"Thanks; I'll help myself. Besides, I don't want to get their point of view."

"Why not?"

"Too limited."

"Have you been talking to Gimbel?" said Stover, wondering.

"Gimbel? No; why?"

"Because he is organizing the class against them."

"That doesn't interest me, either."

"What do you make of Gimbel?"

"Gimbel's all right; a good politician."

"Is he sincere?"

"Every one's sincere."

"You mean every one's convinced of his own sincerity."

"Sure; easiest person in the world to convince."

Stover laughed a little consciously, wondering for a brief moment if the remark could be directed at him. Curiously enough, the more the blunt antagonism, of Regan impressed him, the more he was reassured that the man was too radical ever to challenge his leadership. He rose to go, his conscience satisfied by the half-hearted appeal he had made.

"I say, Dink," said Regan, laying his huge paw on his shoulder, "don't get your head turned by this social business."

"Heavens, no!"

"'Cause there's some real stuff in you, boy, and some day it's coming out. Thanks, by the way, for wanting to make me a society favorite."

Dink left with a curious mixture of emotions. Regan always had an ascendency over him he could not explain. It irritated him that he could not shake it off, and yet he was genuinely chained to the man.

"Why the deuce did Le Baron put that in my head?" he said to himself, for the tenth time. "If Regan beats me out for captain it'll only be because he's older and has got a certain way about him. Well,--- I suppose if I'm to be captain I've got to close up more; I can't go cutting up like a kid. I've got to be older."

He resolved to be more dignified, more melancholy, shorter of speech, and consistent in gravity. For the first time he felt what it meant to calculate his chances. Before, everything had come to him easily. He had missed the struggle and the heartburnings. Now, suddenly, a shadow had fallen across the open road, the shadow of one whom he had regarded as a sort of protégé. He had thoughts of which he was ashamed, for at the bottom he was glad that Regan would not be of a sophomore society --- that that advantage would be denied him; and, a little guiltily, he wondered if he had tried as hard as he might have to show him the opportunity.

"If they ever know him as I do," he said, with a generous revulsion, "he'll be the biggest thing in the class." York Street and the busy windows of Pierson Hall came into his vision. A group of sophomores, ending their tour of visits, passed him, saluting him cordially. He thought all at once, with a sharp rebellion, how much freer Regan was, with his own set purpose, than he under the tutelage of Le Baron.

"I wonder what I'd do if no darn sophomore societies existed;" he said to himself thoughtfully. And then, going up the stairs to his room, he said to McCarthy as he entered: "I guess, after all, I’ll get out and slave again this spring---might as well heel the crew. I'm just varsity material --- that's all!"

THE first weeks of the competition for the crew were not exacting, and consisted mostly of eliminating processes. Stover had consequently still enough leisure to gravitate naturally into that necessity of running into debt which comes to every youth who has just won the privilege of a yearly allowance; the, same being solemnly understood to cover all the secret and hidden needs of the flesh as well as those that are outwardly exposed to the admiration of the multitude.

Now, the lure of personal adornment and the charm of violent neckties and outrageous vests had come to him naturally, as such things come, shortly after the measles, under the educating influence of a hopeless passion which had passed but had left its handiwork.

About a week after the opening of the term, Stover was drifting down Chapel Street in the company of Hungerford and McCarthy, when, in the window of the most predatory haberdasher's, he suddenly was fascinated by the most beautiful thing he had ever seen adorning a window. A tinge of masculine modesty prevented his remaining in struck admiration before it, especially in the presence of McCarthy and Hungerford, whose souls could rest content in jerseys and sweaters; but half an hour later, slipping away, he returned, fascinated. Chance had been kind to him. It was still there, the most beautiful green shirt he had ever beheld---not the diluted green of ordinary pistache ice-cream, but the deep, royal hue of a glorious emerald!

He had once, in the school days when he was blossoming into a man of fashion, experienced a similar sensation before a cravat of pigeon-blood red. He peered through the window to see if any one he knew was present, and glanced up the street to assure himself that a mob was not going to collect. Then he entered nonchalantly. The clerk, who recognized him, greeted him with ingratiating unction.

"Glad to see you here, Mr. Stover. What can I do for you?"

"1 thought I'd look at some shirts," he said, in what he believed a masterly haphazard manner.

"White lawn ---in something with a thin stripe?"

"Well, something in a color ---solid color."

He waited patiently, considering solicitously twenty inconsequential styles, until the spruce clerk, casually producing the one thing, said:

"Would that appeal to you?"

"It's rather nice," he said, gazing at it. Entranced, he stared on. Then a new difficulty arose. People didn't enter a shop just to purchase one shirt, and, besides, he was known. So he selected three other shirts and added the beautiful green thing to them in an unostentatious manner, saying:

"Send around these four shirts, will you? What's the tax?'

"Very pleased to have you open an account, Mr. Stover',", said the clerk. "Pay when you like."

Stover took this as a personal tribute to his public reputation. Likewise, it opened up to him startling possibilities, so he said in a bored way:

"I suppose I might--- just as well."

"Thank you, Mr. Stover --- thank you very much! Anything more? Some rather tasty neckties here for conservative dressers. Collars? Something like this would be very becoming to you. We've just got in a very smart line of silk socks. All the latest bonton styles. Look them over ---you don't need to buy anything."

When Stover finally was shown to the door, he had clandestinely and with great astuteness acquired the green shirt on the following terms:

By the time he had made this mental calculation he was half way up the block. Then, his extravagance overwhelming him, he virtuously determined to send back the Gladstone collars, to show the clerk that, while be was a man of fashion, he still had a will of his own.

Refreshed then by this firm conscientious resolve, he went down York Street, where he was hailed by Hungerford from an upper story, and went in to find a small group sitting in inspection of several bundles of tailoring goods which were being displayed in the center of the room by a little bow-legged Yankee with an open appealing countenance.

"I say, Dink, you ought to get in on this," said Hungerford at his entrance.

"What's the game?"

"Here's a wonderful chance. Little bright-eyes here has. got a lot of goods dirt cheap and he's giving us the first chance. You see it's this way: he travels for a firm and the end of the season he gets all the samples for himself, so he can let them go dirt cheap."

"Half price," said the salesman nodding. "Half price on everything."

"I've bought a bundle," said Troutman. "It's wonderful goods."

"How much?" said Stover, considering.

"Only twenty dollars for enough to make up a suit. Twenty's right, isn't it, Skenk?"

"Twenty for this ---twenty-two for that. You remember I said twenty-two."

"Let me see the stuff," said Stover, as though he had been the mainstay of custom tailors all his life.

Now the crowd was a New York one, a little better groomed than their companions, affecting the same predilections for indiscreet vests and modish styles that would make them appreciative of the supremacy of green in the haberdashery arts.

"This is rather good style," he said, with a glance at Troutman's genteel trousers. "What sort of goods do you call it?"

"Imported Scotch cheviot," said the salesman in a confidential whisper.

Stover looked again at Troutman, who tried discreetly, without being seen by the unsuspecting Yankee, to convey to him in a look the fact that it was a crime to acquire the goods at such a price.

Thus tipped off, Dink bought a roll that had in it a distinct reminiscent tinge of green, and saw it carried to the house, for fear the salesman should suddenly repent of the sacrifice.

At half past eight that night, as he and Tough McCarthy were painfully excavating a bit of Greek prose for the morrow, McNab came rushing in.

"Get out, Dopey, we're boning," said McCarthy, reaching for a tennis racket.

"Boys, the greatest bargain you ever heard," said McNab excitedly, "come in before it's too late!"

"Bargain?" said Stover, frowning, for the word was beginning to cloy.

McNab, with a show of pantomime, squinted behind the window curtains and opened the closet door.

"Look here, Dopey, you get out," said Tough, wrathfully, "you're faking."

"I'm looking for customs officers," said McNab mysteriously.

"What! I say, what's this game?"

"Boys, we've got a couple of Cuba Libre dagos rounded up and dancing on a string."

"For the love of Mike, Dopey, be intelligible."

"It's cigars," said McNab at last.

"Don't want them!"

"But it's smuggled cigars!"

"Oh!"

"Wonderful, pure Havanas, priceless, out of a museum."

"You don't say so."

"And all for the cause of Cuba Libre. You're for Cuba Libre, aren't you?"

"Sure we are."

"Well, these men are patriots."

"Who found them?"

"Buck Waters. They were just going into Pierson Hall to let the sophs have all the candy. Buck sidetracked them and started them down our row. Hungerford bought twenty-five dollars' worth."

"Twenty-five? Holy cats!"

"For the cause of Cuba Libre! Joe is very patriotic. All the boys came up handsomely."

"Are they good cigars?" said Dink who, since his purchases of the day, was not exactly moved to tears by the financial needs of an alien though struggling nation.

"My boy, immense! Wait till you smoke one!"

At this moment there came a gentle scratching at the door, and a chocolate pair appeared, with Buck Waters in the background.

"Emanuel Garcia and Henry Clay!" said McNab irreverently.

"They smuggled the cigars right through the Spanish lines," said Waters who, from constant recital, had caught the spirit of unconquerable revolution.

"How do you know?" said McCarthy suspiciously, watching the unstrapping of the cigar boxes.

"I speak French," said Waters with pride, and turning to his protégés he continued fluently, "Vous êtes patriots, vous avez battlez, soldats n'est-ce-pas! You see, they have had a whole family chopped up for the cause. The Cuban junta has sent them over to raise money --very good family."

"Let's see the cigars," said Stover. "How much a box?"

Curiously enough this seemed to be a phrase of English which could be understood without difficulty.

"Fourteen dollar."

"That's for a box of a hundred," said McNab, who screwed up the far side of his face, to indicate bargaining was in order.

"Of course," said Buck Waters, "everything you give goes to the cause. Remember that."

"Try one," said McNab.

The smaller Cuban with an fable smile held up a bundle.

"Nice white teeth he's got," said Buck Waters encouragingly.

"Don't let him shove one over on you," said McCarthy warningly.

Waters and McNab were indignant.

"Oh, I say fellows, come on. They are patriots."

If they could understand you they would go right up in the air."

"Nevertheless and notwithstanding," said McCarthy, indicating with his finger, "I'll take this one; it appeals to me."

'I'll worry this one," said Dink with equal astuteness.

They took several puffs, watched by the enthusiastic spectators.

"Well?" said McNab.

Stover looked wisely at McCarthy, flirting the cigar between his careless fingers.

"Not bad."

"Rather good bouquet," said McCarthy, who knew no more than Stover.

"Let's begin at eight dollars and stick at ten," said Dink.

At that latter price, despite the openly expressed scorn of the American allies of the struggle for Cuban independence, Stover received a box of one hundred finest Havana cigars --- fit for a museum, as McNab repeated ---and saw the advance guard of the liberators disppear.

"Dink, it's a shame," said McCarthy gleefully. "Finest cigars I ever smoked."

They shook hands and Stover, overcome by the look of pain he had seen in the eyes of the patriots on their final surrender at ten dollars, said, with a patriotic remorse:

"Poor devils I Think what they're fighting for! If I hadn't been so lavish to-day, I'd have given them the full price."

I feel sort of bad about it myself."

About ten o'clock they rose by a common impulse and, seeking out the cigars with caressing fingers, indulged in another smoke.

"Dink, this is certainly living," said McCarthy, reclining in that position which his favorite magazine artist ascribed to men of the world when indulging in extravagant desires.

"Pretty high rolling, old geezer."

"I like this better than the first one."

Of course with a well-seasoned rare old cigar you don't get all the beauty of it right at first."

"By George, if those chocolate patriots would come around again I'd give 'em the four plunks."

"I should feel like it," said Dink, who made a distinction.

The next morning being Sunday, they lolled deliciously in bed, and rose with difficulty at ten.

"Of course I don't believe in smoking before breakfast, as a general rule," said McCarthy in striped red and blue pajamas, "but I have such a fond feeling for Cuba."

"I can hardly believe it's true," said Dink, emerging from the covers like an impressionistic dawn. "Smoke up."

"How is it this morning?"

"Wonderful."

"Better and better."

"I could dream away my life on it."

"We ought to have bought.

"Too bad."

After chapel, while pursuing their studies in comparative literature in the Sunday newspapers, they smoked again.

"Well?" said Stover anxiously.

"Well?"

"Marvellous, isn't it?"

"Exquisite."

Only ten cents apiece!"

"It's the way to buy cigars."

"Trouble is, Dink, old highroller, it's going to be an awful wrench getting down to earth again. We'll hate anything ordinary, anything cheap."

"Yes, Tough, we are ruining our future happiness."

"And how good one of the little beauties will taste after that brutalizing Sunday dinner."

"I can hardly wait. By the way, I blew myself to a few glad rags," said Dink, bringing out his purchases, "I rather fancy them. How do they strike you?"

McCarthy emitted a languishing whistle and then his eyes fell on the cause of all the trouble.

"Keeroogalum! Where did you get the pea-soup?"

The expression did not please. However, Stover had still in the matter of his sentimental inclinations a certain bashfulness. So he said dishonestly:

"I had 'em throw it in for a lark."

"Why, the cows would leave the farm."

"Rats. Wait and see," said Dink, who seized the excuse to don the green shirt.

When Stover's blond locks were seen struggling through the collar McCarthy exploded:

"It looks like you were coming out of a tree. What the deuce has happened to you? Are you going out for class beauty? Holy cats! the socks, the socks!"

"The socks, you Reuben, should match the shirt," said Stover, completing his toilet under a diplomatic assumption of persiflage.

"Well, you are a lovely thing," said McCarthy, when the new collar and the selected necktie had transformed

Stover. "Lovely! lovely! you should go out and have the girls fondle you."

At this moment Bob Story arrived, as fate would have it, with an invitation to dinner at his home.

"Sis is back with a few charmers from Farmington and they're crazy to meet you."

"Oh, I say," said Stover in sudden alarm. "I'm the limit on the fussing question."

"Yes, he is," said McCarthy maliciously. "Why, they fall down before him and beg him to step on them."

"You shut up," said Stover, with wrath in his eye.

"Why, Bob, look at him, isn't he gotten up just to charm and delight? You'll have to put a fence around him to keep them off."

"In an hour," said Story, making for the door. "Hunter and Hungerford are coming."

"Hold up."

"Delighted you're coming."

"I say---"

"There's a Miss Sparkes --- just crazy about you. You're in luck. Remember the name ---Miss Sparkes."

"Story --- Bob, come back here!"

"Au reservoir!"

"I can't go --- I won't ---" But here Dink, leaning over the banister, heard a gleeful laugh float up and the sudden banging of the door.

He rushed back frantically to the room and craned out the window, to see Bob Story sliding around the corner with his fingers spread in a gesture that is never anything but insulting. He closed the window violently and returned to the center of the room.

"Damn!"

"Pooh!" said McCarthy, chuckling with delight.

"Petticoats!"

"Alas!"

"A lot of silly, yapping, gushing, fluffy, giggling, tee-heeing, tittering, languishing, vapid, useless ---"

"My boy, immense! Go on!"

"Confound Bob Story, why the deuce did he rope me into this? I loathe females."

"And one just dotes on you," said McCarthy, with the expression of a Cheshire cat.

"I won't go," said Stover loudly.

"Are you going in that green symphony?"

"Why not?"

In the midst of this quarrel, Joe Hungerford entered, with a solemn face.

"You're going to this massacre at Story's?"

"Don't I look like it?" said Dink crossly.

"We'll go over together then," said Hungerford, with a sigh of relief.

"I say, help yourself to a cigar, Joe," said McCarthy, with the air of a Maecenas.

"Cuba Libre!" said Hungerford, approaching the box.

"And à bas Spain!"

Hungerford examined the cigars with a certain amount of caution which was not lost on the room-mates.

"How many of these have you smoked?" he asked, turning to them with interest.

"Oh, about three apiece."

"How do you like 'em?"

"Wonderful!" said Dink loudly.

"Wonderful!" said McCarthy.

The three lit up simultaneously.

"What did you pay for yours?" said Hungerford, with a sort of inward concentration on the flavor.

"Ten bright silver ones."

"I paid twenty-five for two. How do they taste?"

"Wonderful!"

"Troutman only paid seven-fifty for his box."

"What!"

"And Hunter only five."

"Five dollars?" said McCarthy, with a foreboding.

"But what I can't understand is this ---"

"What?"

"Dopey McNab got a box at two-fifty."

A sudden silence fell on the room, while, reflectively, each puffed forth quick, questioning volumes of smoke.

"How do they smoke?" said Hungerford again.

"Wonderful!" said McCarthy, hoping against hope.

"They're not!" said Dink firmly.

He rose, went to the window, and cast forth the malodorous thing. Hungerford followed suit. McCarthy, proud as the Old Guard, sat smoking on; only one leg was drawn up under the other in a tense, convulsive way.

"They were wonderful last night," he said obstinately. "They certainly were."

"And they were wonderful this morning."

"Not quite so wonderful."

"I like 'em still."

"And Dopey McNab bought a hundred at two-fifty." This was too much for McCarthy. He surrendered. Dopey McNab, at this favorable conjunction, sidled into the room with his box under his arm and the face of a boy soprano on duty.

"I say, fellows, I've got a little proposition to make." A sort of dull, rolling murmur went around the room which he did not notice.

"I find I've been cracking my bank account---the fact is, I'm strapped as a mule and have got to raise enough to pay my wash bill."

"Wash bill, Dopey?" said McCarthy softly.

"We must wash," said Dopey firmly. " To resume. As I detest, abhor, and likewise shrink from borrowing from friends---"

"Repeat that," said Joe Hungerford.

"I will not. But for all of which reasons, I have a little bargain to propose. Here is a box of the finest cigars ever struck the place."

"A full box?"

"Only three cigars out."

"Three! " said Hungerford with a significant look at Stover.

"I could sell them on the campus for twenty, easy."

"But you love your friends," said Stover, moving a little, so as to shut off the retreat.

"Who will give me seven-fifty for it?" said McNab, with the air of one filling a beggar with ecstasy.

"Seven-fifty. You'll let it go at seven-fifty, Dopey?" said McCarthy faintly, paralyzed at such duplicity.

"I will."

"Dopey," said Dink, with a signal to the others, "what is the exact figure of that wash bill of yours?"

"Two dollars and sixty-two cents."

"Will you take two dollars and sixty-two cents for it?"

"You're fooling."

"I am very, very serious."

McNab struck a pose, while over his face was seen the conflict of duty and avarice.

"Take it," he said at last, in a glow of virtue.

"I didn't say I wanted it."

"You didn't!"

"I only wanted to know what you'd really take"

"What's this mean?" said McNab indignantly.

"Dopey, would you sacrifice it at just a little less?" said Hungerford.

But here McNab, suddenly smelling danger in the air, made a spring backwards. Hungerford, who was on guard, caught him.

"Put him in the chair and tie him," said Stover, savagely.

Which was done.

"I say, look here, what are you going to do with me?" said McNab, fiercely.

"You're going to sit there and smoke a couple of those museum cigars, for our delectation and amusement."

"Assassins!"

"Two cigars."

"Never! I'll starve to death first!"

"All right. Keep on sitting there."

"But this is a crime! Police!"

"There are other crimes, Dopey."

"Hold up," said McNab, frantically, as he perceived the cigar being prepared. "I've got to dine over at the Story's at one o'clock."

"So have we," said Hungerford, "but McCarthy will watch you for us."

"I will," said McCarthy, licking his chops.

"I've got to be there," said McNab, wriggling in a frenzy.

"Smoke right up, then. You can smoke them in twenty minutes."

"Police!"

"I say, Dink," said Hungerford, as McNab's head whipped from side to side like a recalcitrant child's. "Perhaps we'd better get in all the crowd who fell for the cigars---round 'em up."

"I'll smoke it," said McNab instantly.

"I thought you would."

They sat around, unfeelingly, grinning, while McNab, strapped in like a papoose, rebelliously, with much sputtering and coughing, smoked the cigar that Dink fed him like a trained nurse.

"Fellows, I've got to get to that dinner."

"We know that, Dopey -but there's one thing you won't do there---tell the story of the Cuba Libre cigar."

"Say, let me off and I'll put you on to a great stunt."

"We can't be bought."

"I'll tell you, I'll trust you! We're going to have a cop-killing over in Freshman row. We've got a whole depot of Roman candles. Let me off this second cigar and I'll work you in."

"We'll be there!"

"You bandits, I'll get even with you."

"You probably will, Dopey, but you'll never rob us of this memory."

"Curse you, feed it to me quickly."

The cigar consumed to the last rebellious puff, McNab was released in a terrific humor, and departed hastily to dress, after remarking in a deadly manner:

"I'll get you yet --- you brutal kidnappers."

"I think it's a rather low trick of Bob Story's," said Stover, considering surreptitiously in the mirror the effect of his new color scheme.

"Ditto here," said Hungerford.

Now Stover was in a quandary. He was divided between two emotions. He firmly thought that he had never looked so transcendingly the perfect man of fashion, but he had numerous busy doubts as to whether the exquisite costume was as appropriate at a quiet Sunday dinner as it undoubtedly would have been in a sporting audience. Still, to make a change now, under the malicious inspection of Tough McCarthy, would be to invite a storm of joyful ridicule, so he said hopefully:

"Think it all right to go in this?"

"Why not?"

As this put the burden of the proof on him, Stover remained silent, but compromised a little by exchanging a rather forward vest for one of calmer aspect.

"Well," he said, at last, with something between a gulp and a sigh, "I suppose we'd better push along."

"I suppose so," said Hungerford, who brought a strangle hold to bear on his necktie and shot a last look down at the slightly wavering line of his trousers.

At the door, the vision of McNab, like a visiting English duke, bore down upon them.

"Where in the thunder did you get the boutonnière?" said Stover, examining him critically.

"Why, Dopey, you're a dude!" said Hungerford disapprovingly.

"Everything is correct --- brilliant, but correct," said McNab with a flip of his fingers. "Come on now --we're late."

Half way there, when the conversation had completely fizzled out, McNab said cheerily:

"How d'ye feel? Getting a little nervous, eh? Getting cold feelings up and down your back? Fingers twitching --- what?"

"Don't be an ass," said Hungerford huskily.

"Chump," said Stover, feeling all at once the tightness of his vest.

"Course you know, boys, you're dressed all wrongin shocking taste. You know that, don't you? Thought I'd better tell you before the girls begin giggling at you."

"Huh!"

"Joe's bad enough in a liver-colored sack, but Dink's unspeakable!"

"I am! What's wrong?"

"Fancy wearing a colored shirt --- and such a color! You're gotten up for a boating party ---not for a formal lunch. You're unspeakable, Dink, unspeakable! Look at me. I'm a delight --- black and white, immaculate, impressive, and absolutely correct."

By this time they had reached the steps.

"Now, don't try to shine your shoes on your trousers. It always shows. Don't stumble or trip when you go in. Don't bump against the furniture. Don't stutter. Don't hold on to your hostess to keep from falling over. And don't, don't shoot your cuffs."

McNab's malicious advice reduced Hungerford to a panic, while only the consciousness of his public importance prevented Stover from bolting as he saw McNab press the button.

"Stand up straight and keep your hands out of your pockets."

"Dopey, I'll wring your neck if you don't stop!"

"Ditto."

"Say something interesting to every girl," continued McNab, in a solemn whisper. "Talk about art or literature."

The door opened, and they stumbled into the anteroom, from which escape was impossible.

"Dink," said McNab in a last whisper.

"What?"

"Don't ask twice for soup, and stop shooting that cuff."

The next moment Stover, who had been thrust forward by the other two, found himself crossing the perilous track of slippery rugs on slippery floors, and suddenly the cynosure of at least a hundred eyes.

Judge Story had him by the hand, patting him on the back, smiling up at him with a smile he never forgot ---a little lithe man bristling with good humor and the genius of good cheer.

"Stover, I'm glad to shake your hand. We did all we could for you in those last rushes. We rooted hard. My wife assaulted a clergyman in front of her, and my daughter was found afterward weeping with her arms around the man next to her. I certainly am proud to shake your hand. I won't shake it too long, because "---here he looked up in a confidential whisper-- -" because the girls have been fidgeting at the window for an hour. Look them over and tell me which one you want to sit next to you, and I'll fix it."

"Dad, aren't you awful?" said a voice in only laughing disapproval.

"My daughter," said the judge, passing joyfully on to Hungerford.

"Indeed, I'm very glad to meet you."

He shook hands, a trifle embarrassed, with a young lady of quiet self-possession, gentle in voice and action, with somewhat of the thoughtful reserve of her brother.

He followed her, only half conscious of a certain floating grace and the pleasure of following her movements, bowing with cataleptic bobs of his head as the introductions ran on:

"Miss Sparkes."

"Miss Green."

"Miss Woostelle."

"Miss Raymond."

Then he straightened and allowl his chin to right itself over the brink of his mounting collar, smiling, but without hearing the outburst that went up from the equally agitated sex:

"Isn't the judge perfectly terrible!"

"You mustn't believe a word he says."

"Don't you think he's lovely, though?"

"We really were so excited at the game."

"Oh, dear, I almost cried my eyes out."

"We thought you were perfectly splendid."

"We did want you to score so."

"I just hated those Princeton men, they were so much bigger."

Hungerford and McNab coming up for presentation, he found himself a little to leeward, clinging to a chair, and, opening his eyes, perceived for the first time Hunter, with whom he shook hands with the convulsiveness of a death grip.

Miss Sparkes, a rather fluttering brunette with dimples and enthusiastic eyes, cut off his retreat and isolated him in a corner, where he was forced to listen to a disquisition on the theory of football, supremely conscious that the unforgiving McNab was making him a subject of conversation with the young lady to whom he was rapidly succumbing.

The entrance of Mrs. Story and Bob, and the welcome descent on the dining-room, for a moment made him forget the awful fact that he had perceived, on his entrance, that the green shirt was, in fact, nothing short of a social outrage.

"Every one sitting next to the person they want," said the judge roguishly, his glance rolling around the table. "By George, if that body-snatcher of a Miss Sparkes hasn't bagged Stover ---well, I never! Seems to me a certain party named Hungerford has done very well indeed. McNab, I perceive, is going to set the fashions for the class, but I certainly do like Stover's green shirt."

At this a shout went up, and Stover's ears began to boil.

"I don't see what you're ha-ha-ing about, Mr. McNab," continued the judge, diverting the attack, "descending upon us, a quiet, respectable back-woods family, with a boutonnière! I think that's putting on a good deal of airs, don't you? Now, boys, don't let these young society ladies from Farmington pretend they're too delicate to eat. You ought to see the breakfast they devoured. Everybody happy all right."

In five minutes all were at ease, chattering away like so many magpies. Stover, finding that his breath came easier, recovered himself and listened with a tolerant sense of pleasure while Miss Sparkes rushed on.

"The girls up at Farmington will be so excited when they hear I've actually sat next to you at the table. You know, we're all just crazy about football. Oh, it gets me so excited! Dudley's the new captain, isn't he? I met him last summer at a dance down at Long Island. I admire him tremendously, don't you? He has such a strong character."

He nodded from time to time, replied in dignified monosyllables, and became pleasurably aware that Miss Raymond, opposite, in disloyalty to her companion, had one ear trained to catch his slightest word, while Miss Green and Miss Woostelle, farther away, watched him covertly over the foliage of the celery. He was a lion among ladies for the first time --- a sensation he had sworn to loathe and detest; and yet there was in him a sort of warm growing feeling that he could not explain but that was quite far from unpleasant.

"If Miss Sparkes, Mr. Stover, will stop whispering in your ear for just a moment," said the judge, on mischief bent, "you can help Mrs. Story with the beef."

"You'll get accustomed to him soon," said his hostess, smiling. "There, if you'll steady the platter I think we two can manage it. I am so glad to have you here. Bob has spoken of you so often. I hope you'll be good friends."

There was something leonine and yet very feminine in her face, a quiet and restfulness that drew him irresistibly to her and gave him the secret of the reserve and charm that was in her children.

Of all the delegation from school, Jean Story alone had not seemed aware of his imposing stature. She was sitting between Hungerford and Hunter, whom she called by his first name, and her way of speaking, unlike the impulsiveness o her companions, was measured and thoughtful. She had a quantity of ash-colored hair which, like her dress, seemed to be floating about her. Her forehead was clear, a little serious, and her eyes, while devoid of coquetry, held him with their directness and simplicity.

He found himself only half hearing the conversation that Miss Sparkes rolled into his ear, watching the movements of other hands, feeling a little antagonism to Hunter and wondering how long they had known each other.

Dinner over, he forgot his shyness, and went up to her with the quick direction which was impulsive in him when he was strongly interested.

"I want to talk to you," he said.

"Yes?"

She looked at him, a little surprised at the bluntness of his introduction, but not displeased.

"You are very like your brother," he said. She seemed younger than he had thought.

"I am glad of that," she answered, with a genuine smile. "Bob and I are old friends."

"I hope you'll be my friend," he said.

She turned, and then, seeing in his face only sincerity, nodded her head slightly and said:

"Thank you."

He said very little more, ill at ease, a feeling that also seemed to have gained possession of her.

Miss Raymond and Miss Woostelle came up, and he found himself restored to the role of a hero, a little piqued at Miss Story's different attitude, always aware of her movements, hearing her low voice through all the chatter of the room.

He went home very thoughtful, keeping out of the laughing discussion that went on, watching from the corner of his eye Hunter, and wondering with a little unexplained resentment just how well he knew the Storys.