or
next year!"

"All right," said the Tennessee Shad with an approving look. "If you
do us we'll take you into the firm. Tack on to me, and I'll pilot you
to The Roman's."

Following his lanky guide Stover went in the churning, lagging mass
across to Memorial Hall, rubbing elbows with the heroes, who stalked
majestically in their voluminous bulk, with the coveted 'Varsity caps
riding on the backs of their cropped heads, or being jostled by the
freckled imps who ran zigzag, shrieking chases past him.

At the steps they divided, some surging upward and others crowding
into the lower corridor.

"Below for us," said the Tennessee Shad, pushing his way forward.

Dink found himself outside of one of the dozen classrooms in a throng
that waited hopefully, as other classes waited hopefully every hour
of every day in the hopes of an improbable cut.

"The Roman," said the Tennessee Shad wisely, "is the one master you
want to stand in with. Study like the devil the first two weeks; and
say, get up on the gerund and the gerundive--they're his pets."

"I will," said Dink.

"You can't bluff him and you can't beat his system," continued the
Tennessee Shad. "If you guess don't hesitate; jump at it. The only
thing you can do is to wait for his jokes, and then grab the desk and
weep for salvation--it's his one weak spot."

"I will," said Dink.

A cry of dismay went up from the sentinels at the window.

"Oh, rats! Here he comes."

"Oh, peanuts!"

"Oh, melancholy!"

"All in!"

Dink modestly took a seat in the back, at the end of the row of S's
where he must sit. On four sides, like prison walls that no convict
might hope to scale, the slippery blackboards rose up and bound them
in. On a raised stand was the master's pulpit where presently The
Roman would come and sit, like the watcher of the galley slaves in Ben
Hur, with his eagle glance sweeping the desks that, in regimental
file, ran back from him.

Outside, through two open windows, was the warm, forbidden month of
April, and the gateway to syntax-defying dreams. At this moment Dink's
copy of Caesar's Gallic Wars slid on to the floor. He bent down,
laboriously collecting the scattered pages and straightened up. Then
he glanced at the pulpit. Directly in front of him, his eyes on his
eyes, sat the big consular frame of his stage companion of the day
before.

Dink gasped in horror; twice his hand went instinctively toward his
lip, stopped half-way and dropped. Th