class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="49"/> steps, and Stacy did the same for his bright new little ones. The door flew open and the brightly lighted interior of the club was before them. Stacy caught a glimpse of an open fire and deep, comfortable places to lounge in beside it, and some etchings on the wall. He heard knives and forks and many voices, all going at once, and laughter and exclamations. He spied a waiter hurrying in with a tray full of dishes. A little nigger boy, with innumerable buttons on his jacket, began to help him off with his overcoat, and just then he heard one voice exclaim emphatically, "Doc., I say they can't do it," and he wondered what it was and who could not do it.

Stehman said, "Come over here a moment—no, this way."

"Oh, this way?" said Stacy. He was led to a large open book with names written on it.

"Will you give us your distinguished signature?" said Stehman, dipping the pen in ink and handing it to him.

"Where shall I write—oh, yes, of course." Stacy wondered how many people would read Horatio B. Stacy, introduced by John Carter Stehman.

Though he had made up his mind to have confidence he felt a little flustered. Perhaps the voices of many diners and the sight of many rooms and various passage-ways and the negro buttons were a little too much for him. Besides his glasses were blurred at coming in from the cold and that always rattled him.

Possibly his host noticed this, for he said, "Boo, I'm cold. Let's warm up before grubbing," and led him to the fire and pushed him into a chair big enough to hold two Horatio B. Stacys.

He was perspiring now, but he held out his hand to the cheerful blaze as if to get all he could of it. He looked at the andirons and the crackling wood and glanced up at the etchings. He thought, "It must be very fine to have all this every day."

"Well, do you feel as though you could eat something?" Stehman lifted him by the coat-collar.

Stacy made answer, in a familiar tone, "I'm ready any time you are, Jack," and then to himself, "Keep cool now."

Stehman, with his hands in his pockets, led the way with his slouching football walk which the freshmen studied on the way to recitations. Stacy followed. He slouched pretty well, but his pockets were at the very top of his trousers, so that his little coat turned up behind.

They entered the bright, noisy dining-room. "Jack, why so late?" some one was calling out, when suddenly there came, "Hello, Stace." "Hello, Kay." "Hello there, Stace." "How do do, Stace." Most all of them seemed glad to see him, and he was quite overcome with answering them all. Jack showed him where to sit.

After the waiter had pushed the chair under him and he had unfolded the napkin there came in a solemn voice from the end of the table, "Horatio, how do you do this evening?"

"Why, Lint, old man, how are you?" he returned quickly in a strong tone. Then he smiled a little because Linton might be guying him. But he was not.

It seemed that many eyes were upon him and he felt embarrassed and strangely lonely because his host had turned to speak about something to someone on the other side. So he gave his glasses an unnecessary rub and took three sips of water in quick succession.

The waiter placed the soup before him, and while he was occupied with it he had time to gather himself together. Some of the fellows, he noticed over his glasses, leaned over or else slipped way down in their chairs in the same purposely reckless manner of under-classmen days. But he held his little shoulders back and used his spoon very daintily. He would show them that he had good table manners.

Stehman now began to chat with him in his easy familiar way. But the big fellow's manner always seemed to indicate that he was mindful of how much higher was Stacy's class rank than his own.

He was more at ease now, only whenever the conversation flagged he could never think up anything to renew it with. He suspected that he was blushing, and there really was no reason for blushing. These were all his own dear classmates, some of whom he knew quite well, and they all seemed kindly disposed toward him and included him in their general remarks and even addressed him sometimes in particular. He made up his mind that he must say something to Dougal Davis across the table.

He took a drink of water and wiped his lips and cleared his throat and spoke. "Dougal, have you poled up Billy's history for the written recitation?" Which was the very sort of thing he meant to avoid. But it was too late now.

"No, but I expect to put a wet towel around my head and hit it up until three o'clock to-night," Dougal answered, sincerely.

And Stacy thought he was joking. He therefore laughed, saying, "Like fun you are."

He never could tell when some of these fellows were in earnest, and Dougal Davis was something awful to him anyway because he stood higher in the class than Stacy himself, and yet had time to be mixed up with half a dozen outside interests of college life and did a comfortable amount of loafing besides.

"I suppose you have it all down fine, Stace?" asked Timberly, agreeably, "and will pound out a first group as usual."

"Naw," boldly replied Stacy, "I've barely looked at it. Don't intend to bother with it." That was the way to talk.

But it was all wasted, for just then Lamason came in with a suit-case in his hand and his town clothes on, and everybody was crying "Yea-a" in loud, shrill tones, and some one began singing "Oh, to-day is the day that he comes from the city," and all joined in, even little Stacy, though he did not know the words and blushed and closed his mouth again when any one looked in his direction.

Meanwhile Lamason, without smiling, or seeming to be aware of the noise, said, "Bring me some dinner, Henry, please," and taking a Princetonian from his pocket began to read an editorial on the lack of lamp-posts on the south campus, and paid no more attention to the remarks about his good-looking clothes than to Timberly, who was painstakingly mussing up his nicely brushed hair. It impressed Stacy. Except that they no longer considered it funny to throw things or to be profane without necessity, the fellows seemed to be as free and jolly as in under-classmen days. He had supposed that there would be some dignity about a great fine elective club with white curtains at the window and a board of governors.

While beginning upon his roast beef the waiter placed a small, narrow glass by his plate. He heard the "pop" of a drawn cork behind him. He had understood that the club constitution forbade alcoholic beverages. The waiter was filling his glass. He heard something hiss and sizzle, but he did not like to look because it would be so obvious. This would be a good opportunity to show these fellows that he was not such a shark as they supposed. Still, after keeping out of temptation so many years, he did not like the idea of running the risk of becoming a drunkard now. But, perhaps, it would not be wrong to taste a little of it.

"Are you fond of Apollinaris, Ray?" asked Stehman, emptying his glass at a gulp. "I'm a disgusting guzzler of it."

"Oh, yes, I'm—I like it very much," said Stacy. Stehman asked him to have another piece of roast just to keep him company, and without giving time for answer, Stacy heard him say, "Two second, Henry—rare." Jack made him drink another bottle of Apollinaris, too, though it pricked his tongue, and he said he did not want it, and he felt that he was imposing upon his friend when he saw him write out another voucher for the amount.

Most of the table had finished by this time. They were smoking with their coffee. Those who