The Land of Joy. Ralph Henry Barbour

business, Ryerson, but it had to come; at least, that’s what my father says,” he added smilingly. “By the way, ‘Ryerson’s’ a bit formal, and I think I’ll call you Phillip if you don’t mind.”

      “I’d rather you called me Phil; most everybody does.”

      “All right. And my name’s John, but never Jack. I’ve always detested ‘Jack’ for some reason or other. And if you can manage to leave out the ‘sir’ I’d like it better.”

      “I’ll try,” laughed Phillip. “It’s a way we have in the South, you know; we always say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am.’ If I’d ever addressed father without the ‘sir’ I reckon he’d have worn me out.”

      “I see. The objection I make to it,” answered John, “is that it makes me feel like a grandfather. Now if you know anything of Lowell’s, here’s your chance,” he added, as they halted at the old fence surrounding Elmwood. But Phillip refused to recite any more, and after viewing the tree-embowered house they turned their steps homeward, followed by Maid with hanging tongue. On the walk back the conversation turned on more practical matters. John advised Phillip as to a boarding-place and in other affairs which had puzzled the freshman.

      “I think one ought to have an athletic interest of some kind,” said Phillip. “What would you advise?”

      “How about football?” asked John, running his eye over the other’s wiry frame. But Phillip shook his head dolefully.

      “I’ve tried that, but I’m no good. I went out for the freshman team and yesterday after practice they told me I was in Squad E, and Chester Baker says I might as well be in the river.”

      “That’s not promising,” said John. “You’d better join one of the scrub teams and get used to the game that way. Then next year you’ll stand more of a chance. And if I were you I’d go over to the gym pretty regularly and use the chest weights; you look as though you’d stand rather more development in the upper part of the body than you’ve got. Have you ever tried running?”

      Phillip shook his head.

      “You might go in for that; any fellow that can show speed and staying power has a good chance to distinguish himself.”

      “I think I’d like to row,” hazarded Phillip.

      “You’ll have to develop your muscles a bit first. Join a class, Phil, and keep at it; it will do you a lot of good even if it doesn’t get you a place in a boat. But there’s no hurry about athletics; you’ve got four years ahead of you; you’ll find what you’re looking for after a bit.”

      “And there’s another thing,” said Phillip. “Chester and Guy Bassett and all the fellows I’ve met belong to clubs.”

      “Well, join the Union; that’s enough for awhile. Later you had better get into the Southern Club. The fact is, Phil, clubs are expensive things, and unless you really feel the need of them you’d much better save your money. As for the best ones, the ones that count, there’s no way of breaking into them; you’ve got to qualify, as it were; they come to you if they want you.”

      “And—and one more thing,” said Phillip, after a moment of hesitation.

      “Fire away,” replied John cheerfully.

      “Thank you. Last night I went into a theatre with Chester Baker and Guy Bassett and two other fellows. Well, Chester asked if I wanted to go and I said yes, and he said he’d get a ticket for me; and he did. Now, what I want to know is, did he mean that I was to pay for my ticket or was it his treat?”

      “Well,” laughed John, “I’m hanged if I know. But a pretty good rule to follow is, pay your own way.”

      “And if Chester really meant that I was his guest would he be offended if I offered to pay him for the ticket?” asked Phillip anxiously.

      John’s face showed a glimmer of amusement as he answered soberly: “I don’t think he would, Phil. On the whole, I believe I’d make the offer.”

      “Thank you. I will,” he answered simply. They had turned into Garden Street, and now John pointed dramatically to a decrepit elm tree that stood, shorn of most of its branches, within a little iron-fenced enclosure.

      “ ‘Under this tree Washington took command—’ ”

      But Phillip had already left him and was reading the inscription on the stone tablet with devoted eyes. Then he looked upward at the once sturdy monarch and about him as though impressing the scene upon his memory.

      “I want to write Margey about it,” he explained as John joined him.

      “I see.” John’s eyes followed Phillip’s, and the scene, to his surprise, took on new values. He began to wonder how, if he were going to write Margey, he would describe it. Really, it was an interesting old stump when you came to think about it. He wondered if Phillip would tell his sister of the walk they had taken and whether his name would be mentioned; and if it was, what sort of a person Margey would imagine him to be. He recalled the features in the photograph on Phil’s mantel and hoped that that youngster’s account of him would be the least bit flattering.

      It was almost five when they reached the church opposite the college and John turned to Phillip with:

      “I say, come on over to my room and meet Davy. He’s probably asleep, but we can wake him up. And then I’ll take you to dinner and you can see how you like the place.”

      That programme was duly followed—even to the merciless waking of David—and Phillip only parted from his new friends when a clock in a nearby tower tolled nine. Then he walked through Boylston Street to his room feeling very happy, Maid, now a quiet and sedate old lady, following close at his heels.