n the looks that
followed him as he went over to chapel, in the nodded recognition of
Fifth Formers, who had never before noticed him, in The Roman himself,
who flunked him without satire or aggravation. And not yet knowing
himself, his impulses or the strange things that lay dormant beneath
the surface of his everyday life, Stover was a little ashamed, as
though he did not deserve it all.

That afternoon as Dink was donning his football togs, preparing for
practice, a knock came at the door which opened on a very much
embarrassed delegation from the Woodhull--the Coffee-colored Angel,
Cheyenne Baxter and Tough McCarty.

"I say, is that you, Dink?" said the Coffee-colored Angel.

"It is," said Stover, with as much dignity as the state of his
wardrobe would permit.

"I say, we've come over from the Woodhull, you know," continued the
Coffee-colored Angel, who stopped after this bit of illuminating news.

"Well, what do you want?"

"I say, that's not just it; we're sent by the Woodhull I meant to say,
and we want to say, we want you to know--how white we think it was of
you!"

"Old man," said Cheyenne Baxter, "we want to thank you. What we want
to tell you is how white we think it was of you."

"You needn't thank me," said Stover gruffly, pulling his leg through
the football trousers. "I didn't want to do it."

The delegation stood confused, wondering how to end the painful scene.

"It was awful white!" said the Coffee-colored Angel, tying knots in
his sweater.

"It certainly was," said Cheyenne.

As this brought them no further along the Coffee-colored Angel
exclaimed in alarm:

"I say, Dink, will you shake hands?"

Stover gravely extended his right.

Cheyenne next clung to it, blurting out:

"Say, Dink, I wish I could make you understand--just--just how white
we think it was!"

The two rushed away leaving Tough McCarty to have his say. Both stood
awkwardly, frightened before the possibility of a display of
sentiment.

"Look here," said Tough firmly, and then stopped, drew a long breath
and continued: "Say, you and I have sort of formed up a sort of
vendetta and all that sort of thing, haven't we?"

"We have."

"Now, I'm not going to call that off. I don't suppose you'd want it,
either."

"No, I wouldn't!"

"We've got to have a good, old, slam-bang fight sooner or later and
then, perhaps, it'll be different. I'm not coming around asking you to
be friends, or anything like that sort of rot,