“Why, that’s the funny part of it,” answered Chester. “I said I’d met you, and he asked kind of dryly whether I’d found you belligerent. I told him no, and said that you’d spoken of expecting a call from him. He said he had called and that you and he had had a very interesting talk. He looked so darned queer, though, that I thought maybe he was stringing me.”
Phillip looked puzzled for an instant; then a great dismay overspread his countenance and he gripped Chester by the arm.
“What does he look like?” he cried.
“Why, he—— Say, what is this—melodrama?”
“No, no; go on. Tell me!”
“ ‘Give me the chee-ild!’ ” exclaimed Chester, tragically. Then, observing Phillip’s expression of anxiety, he went on soberly: “He’s about six foot tall, I guess; about three foot broad; he has—— Why, hang it, there he is, crossing the field—the fellow talking with the head coach; see?”
Phillip followed the other’s gaze and his heart sank.
“That—that’s not John North!” he faltered.
“You’re a liar,” answered Chester sweetly. Phillip groaned.
“Why, that’s—that’s——”
Guy leaned over and patted him reassuringly on the back.
“Hold hard, old man; don’t give way to it. Give him air, men; stand back everybody!”
“You were about to observe?” asked Chester.
“Nothing.” Phillip sat with flushed cheeks and watched the approach of his caller of Wednesday, praying that the latter would not come near enough to see him. But John, in earnest conversation with the head coach, came straight on toward the bench and only paused when the edge of the running track was reached. Phillip sank back and tried to make himself smaller. Chester observed him with interest and curiosity. John talked for a minute, his back toward the three, and then, apparently in explanation of the subject under discussion, took the head coach by the shoulders and swung him slowly to the left. The head coach nodded and John glanced up and caught sight of the trio on the bench. His gaze swept over them and he nodded smilingly, his eyes upon Chester.
“How are you?” responded that youth.
Phillip, his cheeks on fire, wondered miserably whether the senior had recognized him as the “very fresh little boy” who had ordered him out of the room. He shot quick glances to left and right with the half-formulated idea of sneaking out of sight. What, he asked himself, must North think of him?
“Come over and I’ll introduce you,” said Chester, starting up. But Phillip dragged him back onto the seat.
“No, please! Not now!” he begged.
“Why not?”
“Because—— There, he’s going!” North and the head coach turned and strode off to a group of players. “I reckon I’ll go back now,” said Phillip.
“Well, I guess it’s time,” answered Chester. “The mosquitoes are getting plaguey familiar with my neck. Coming, Guy?”
When they reached the bridge the river had changed its hue. It was the colour of steel now, shot with ripples of lemon yellow. Across the stream and to the left the windows of the University Press were aflame with the rays of the sinking sun, and the lights along Charles River Road were pale yellow pin-points. The sound of oarlocks caught their ears and they paused and leaned over the rail. A crew was swinging its way up stream, the eight backs rising and falling in unison. The shell shot under the bridge, followed an instant later by the launch. At the bow of the latter the coach knelt on one knee, crimson megaphone at mouth, shouting unintelligible things. In the wake the waves lapped the shingle softly. Off the university boathouse the rowers ceased and let the shell run, turning widely through the darkening water, followed by the puffing launch. Phillip drew a long breath. He wanted to quote poetry but could think of nothing.
Guy hummed softly.
Chester lighted a cigarette.
“That was Laurence at Four,” he said.
Farther on Phillip turned and remarked in the manner of one who has reached a conclusion after long deliberation:
“I think I should like to row.”
Chester laughed; Guy, however, nodded approvingly.
“Your ambition does you credit,” he said gravely. “ ‘Aim high and fall soft’ is an excellent motto.”
Phillip wondered what he meant.
Among John North’s mail the next morning was a letter which he read twice and then handed to David. It was signed Phillip Scott Ryerson, and had occasioned the writer much thought, many sheets of paper and some two hours to compose. It was as follows:
“Dear Mr. North:
“I hardly know how to approach the subject upon which I wish to address you. Please believe that the whole thing was a most unfortunate mistake. I allude to the call you were so kind as to pay me on Wednesday afternoon last. I did not know who you were. You will say that that was no one’s fault but my own, and you are right. And even as it was, not knowing who you were and believing you to be a proctor, I had no right to act in such an impolite” (the word was erased) “ungentlemanly manner. The only excuse I have to offer is that I was much out of temper when you called owing to a dispute, part of which you witnessed, with an expressman who wanted to overcharge me for bringing my baggage from the city and placing it in my rooms.
“I had looked forward with great pleasure to meeting you, especially since my mother and Mr. Corliss had hoped so much of my being acquainted with you during my freshman year, and cannot tell you how sorry I am that I should have received you so rudely, even though, as I do hope you will believe, I did not know who you were when you called. I hope you will accept my apology and, if you can, forgive my rudeness. I have no right to ask you to call again, but if you can forget what happened on Wednesday last I wish you would allow me to see you. I only know two fellows here and have thought of you as a friend all along, hearing Mr. Corliss speak of you, and my mother having been so pleased at the idea of my meeting you, and hope you will overlook my discourtesy of last Wednesday.
“Hoping to have a reply from you, and with earnest apologies,
“Respectfully,
“Phillip Scott Ryerson.”
David handed back the letter with a grunt and looked up at John.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well?” echoed John.
“Oh, if you ask me, I think you’d better forgive and forget.”
“That of course,” replied the other. “The fact is, Davy, I made up my mind yesterday to look him up again. After all, it wasn’t altogether the boy’s fault. And the weather Wednesday was beastly. But what do you think of the epistle?”
“Why, it sounds sincere, Johnnie, in spite of a certain—er—involution.”
“Yes; I believe the boy’s the right sort after all, Davy. Who knows but what we’ll be able to do something with him yet?”
“We!”
“I meant to say I.”
“I wish,” growled David severely, “that you would break yourself, Johnnie, of the growing habit of seeking to involve me in your kindergarten duties and difficulties. I have troubles of my own.”
“Well, anyhow,” remarked John, as he picked up a book and pulled his cap on, “I’m glad that I’d decided to try him again before the letter came. It eases my conscience.”
“Your what?” gasped David.
“Conscience.