“I think I’d like to play football,” said Phillip.
“I daresay,” laughed Baker. “So’d I. I’d like to play quarter on the ’Varsity, but I don’t think I shall.”
“Why, is it hard to get on the team?”
“It’s like pulling teeth unless you’re an A 1 player. I’m going to try for the Freshman Eleven; you’d better, too. Then, if you make that and get on all right, you’ll stand a show for the ’Varsity next fall. Have you played much?”
“No, I’ve never played at all.”
“Oh; well, you’ll find it hard at first,” said Baker. “Candidates for the Freshman team are called for to-morrow afternoon. If you like, Guy and I’ll call for you on our way over to the field.”
“Thank you; I wish you would,” replied Phillip. “What must I wear?”
“Oh, any old sweater and a pair of moleskins.”
“I’ll have to get some, I reckon.”
“You can get them at the Coöperative Society, if you don’t want to go into town. What courses are you taking?”
For the next quarter of an hour the talk ranged over the subject of studies, and Phillip discovered, on the authority of his host, that he had made several frightful mistakes in his choice of courses, and was quite cast down until Baker assured him that it didn’t matter anyhow, because no one studied much in his freshman year. Phillip expressed surprise, and Baker explained that a fellow had too much to do to find time for grinding.
“Of course,” he allowed, “you have to keep up with things after a fashion, for there are the mid-years; but you’ll soon find out just how much work is necessary. Lots of fellows loaf until just before the exams and then turn to and grind and take seminars, but I’ve made up my mind to do a little every day, you know, and keep up with the course of events, as it were. Besides, it costs like the very deuce to be coached. Why, there are some coaches ask twenty and even twenty-five dollars for a seminar, and get it, too! Laurence says he was broke for six months after the mid-years last winter.”
“I couldn’t afford that,” said Phillip, thoughtfully. “But I reckon I’ll follow your plan and keep up with things. I suppose I’m going to have hard work, for I had an awful time passing the exams.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t cut much ice,” answered Baker. “It’s hard to get into this old place, but fairly easy to get along afterward. Now, some of the other colleges let you in easy, they say, and you’re tickled to death and think you’ve got nothing to do but look pretty. But you find that you’ve got to study like the deuce to stay there, and you wish exams hadn’t been so soft and that you’d learned a lot more before you came. Do you like theatres?”
“Yes, immensely; although I’ve never been a great deal.”
“No more have I—that is, not such a lot. I’ve seen pretty much everything good, but there’s a lot of jolly nonsense I’ve missed. I’m going to change that. I love melodrama. Did you ever see ‘The Great Northwest’? or ‘The Convict’s Daughter’? or ‘The Great White Diamond’?”
Phillip shook his head apologetically. Somehow, he felt rather small and unimportant in the presence of the easy-mannered, laughing-eyed youth before him.
“And there are usually some jolly good burlesque shows in town. And I’m going to see ‘Florodora’ and ‘San Toy’ and ‘Miss Simplicity’ when they come. Guy and I and two or three other dubs are going in to the Museum Friday night; want to come along? We’d be glad to have you.”
“Thanks,” answered Phillip, doubtfully. “I don’t believe——”
“Oh, poppycock, of course you’ll come. I’ll get a seat for you, anyhow. That reminds me, I must do it to-day. You get them at Thurston’s and have them charged and they cost about a thousand dollars apiece. It’s very convenient.”
“Well, I’ll go then,” laughed Phillip. “I only hesitated because I haven’t been going around to things much lately. You see, my father died only last winter. But I should like to go if you’re sure your friends won’t mind.”
“They’ll be tickled into convulsions,” declared Baker. “Well, I guess we’ll have to go and try another stunt. It’s five minutes of.”
They passed out together and parted company in front of University.
“Come and see me often,” commanded Baker. “Let’s set things humming. And we’ll stop for you at your joint to-morrow afternoon about three-thirty.”
He waved a note-book and hurried off, whistling at the top of his lungs. Phillip fished a schedule from his pocket, learned where his ten o’clock recitation was held, tried to remember where that particular hall was located, consulted a pocket directory filled with boarding-house advertisements, and finally strode on. And as he went he reflected ruefully that if he was going to keep pace with Chester Baker and the unknown Guy Bassett and their companions, his already sadly diminished capital, originally designed to last him until the Christmas recess, would very soon be only a memory. But after three days in Cambridge without acquaintances, the new friendship between Baker and himself was such a pleasant thing that the contemplation of it drove all disquieting thoughts out of his mind.
“After all,” he told himself when, at noon, he climbed into one of the revolving stools at the dairy lunch counter and demanded sandwiches and pudding and milk, “I reckon the first expense is always bigger than you look for. And after Christmas I’ll settle down and economize.”
CHAPTER IV
Phillip couldn’t help thinking, when, attired in his new football togs, he faced his reflection in the mirror, that he was doing himself and perhaps the college an injustice in trying for the freshman team instead of the ’varsity. He grew quite uneasy about it and wondered for a moment whether Chester Baker’s sudden friendship was not part of a deeply laid plan to secure his services for the minor eleven. But he kept his misgivings to himself when, at half-past three the next afternoon, he found himself being conducted over to Soldiers’ Field by Chester Baker and Guy Bassett.
The latter youth looked to be a year or so older than Chester, and was tall and distinguished-appearing even in the well-worn canvas trousers and faded sweater. He had what Phillip was sure were “chiseled features,” with very steady brown eyes set far apart and brown hair that was parted in the middle and which was as smooth and glossy as though newly ironed. Phillip thought his manners wonderful; he had shaken hands with a degree of empressement which in most would have been unpleasant but which in his case seemed absolutely natural. He said strange things in a grave voice and with a perfectly serious countenance, and during the first few weeks of their acquaintance Phillip never knew for certain when the other was in earnest. Sometimes he took his cue from Chester and echoed that youth’s laughter, but more often he made use of a happy compromise and smiled wisely, as one to whom sad experience had taught the futility of either laughter or seriousness. And Guy, perceiving the other’s predicament, excelled himself in the utterance of extravagances.
Phillip had acknowledged cheerfully his ignorance of all save the rudiments of football, and Guy had nodded commendingly.
“I think you’ll make a success at it,” he said gravely. “I only wish I had your ignorance of the game.”
“Why,” exclaimed Phillip, “I should think that ignorance was something of a drawback to a fellow.”
“Yes, that’s the popular impression, but, like most popular impressions, it’s quite erroneous.