"They caught Flanders down York Street and made him roll a peanut up to Billy's."
"Yes, and the darned fool hadn't sense enough to grin and bear it."
"So they gave him a beer shampoo."
"A what?"
"A beer shampoo."
"Did you hear about Regan?"
"Who's Regan?"
"He's a thundering big coal-heaver from out the woolly West."
"Oh, the fellow that started to scrap."
"That's the man."
"Give us the story, Buck."
"They had me up, doing some of my foolish stunts," said a fellow with a great moon of a face, little twinkling eyes, and a grotesque nose that sprang forth like a jagged promontory, "when, all at once, this elephant of a Regan saunters in coolly to see what's doing."
"Didn't know any better, eh?"
"Didn't know a thing. Well, no sooner did the sophs spot him than they set up a yell:
"'Who are you?'
"'Tom Regan.'
"'What's your class?'
"'Freshman.'
"'What in the blankety-blank are you doing here?'
"'Lookin' on.'
"With that, of course, they began just leaping up and down for joy, hugging one another; and a couple of them started in to tackle the old locomotive. The fellow, who's as strong as an ox, just gives a cough and a sneeze, scatters a few little sophs on the floor, and in a twinkling is in the corner, barricaded behind a table, looking as big as a house.
"'Tom, look out; they're going to shampoo you,' says I.
"'Is it all right?' he says, with a grin.
"'It's etiquette,' says I.
"'Come on, then,' says he very affably, and he strips off his coat and tosses it across the room, saying, 'It's my only one; look out for it.'
"Well, when the sophs saw him standing there, licking his chops, arms as big as hams, they sort of stopped and scratched their heads."
"I bet they did!" cried a couple.
"They didn't particularly like the prospect; but they were game, especially a little bantam of a rooster called Waring, who'd been putting us through our stunts.
"'I'm going in after that bug myself,' said he, with a yelp. 'Come on!'"
"Well, what happened, Buck?"
"Did they give it to him?"
"About fifteen minutes after the bouncers had swept us into the street with the rest of the débris, as the French say," said the speaker, with a far-off, reflective look, "one dozen of the happiest-looking sophs you ever saw went reeling back to the campus. They were torn and scratched, pummeled, bruised and bleeding, soaked from head to foot, shot to pieces, smeared with paint, not a button left or a necktie—but they were happy!"
"Why happy?"
"They had given Regan the shampoo."
Stover and McCarthy rose and made their way out past the group where Buck Waters, enthroned already as a natural leader, was tuning up the crowd.
"I came up in the train with Regan," said Stover, thrilling a little at the recital. "Cracky! I wish I'd seen the scrap."
"We'll call him out to-night for the wrestling," said McCarthy.
"He's a queer, plunging sort of animal," said Stover reflectively. "I wonder if he'll ever do anything up here?"
Saunders, riding past on a bicycle, pad protruding from his pocket, slowed up with a cordial hail:
"Howdy! I'm heeling the News. If you get any stories, pass them on to me. Thought you fellows were down at our joint. Where the deuce are you fellows grubbing?"
"We dropped into a place one of your Andover crowd's runnin'."
"Who's that?"
"Fellow called Gimbel."
Saunders rode on a bit, wheeled, came slowly back, resting his hand on Stover's shoulder.
"Look here," he said, frowning a little. "Gimbel's a good sort, clever and all that; but look here—you're not decided, are you?"
"No."
"Because we've been counting you fellows in with us. We've got a corking crowd, about twenty, and a nice, quiet place." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully: "I think you'll find the crowd congenial."
"When do you start in?" said Stover.
"To-morrow. Are you with us?"
"Glad to come."
"Bully!" He made a movement to start, and then added suddenly: "I say, fellows, of course you're not on to a good many games here, but don't get roped into any politics. It'll queer you quicker than anything else. You don't mind my giving you a tip?"
"Not at all," said Stover, smiling a little as he wondered what distinction Saunders made to himself between politics and politics.
"Ta-ta, then—perfectly bully you're with us. I'm off on this infernal News game—half a year's grind from twelve to ten at night—lovely, eh, when the snow and slush come?"
He sped on, and they went up to the rooms.
"I thought we'd better change," said Stover.
"This place is loaded up with wires—live wires," said McCarthy, scratching his head. "Well, go ahead, if you want to."
"Well, you see—we're all in the same house; it's more sociable."
"Oh, of course."
"And then, it'll be quieter."
"Yes, it'll be quieter."
A little constraint came to them. They went to their rooms silently, each aware that something had come into their comradeship which sooner or later would have to be met with frankness.
CHAPTER IV
Stover had never been on the Yale field except through the multitudinous paths of his imagination. Huddled in the car crowded with candidates, he waited the first glimpse as Columbus questioned the sky or De Soto sought the sea. Three cars, filled with veterans and upper classmen, were ahead of him. He was among a score of sophomores, members of third and fourth squads, and a few of his own class with prep school reputations who sat silently, nervously overhauling their suits, adjusting buckles and shoe-laces, swollen to grotesque proportions under knotted sweaters and padded jerseys.
The trolley swung over a short bridge, and, climbing a hill, came to a slow stop. In an instant he was out, sweeping on at a dog-trot in the midst of the undulating, brawny pack. In front—a thing of air and wood—rose the climbing network of empty stands. Then, as they swept underneath, the field lay waiting, and at the end two thin, straight lines and a cross-bar. No longer were the stands empty or the breeze devoid of song and cheers. The goal was his—the goal of Yale—and, underfoot at last, the field more real to him than