need a coach. Bailly's a good one. I'm going there now to be told
for two hours I'm an utter ass. Maybe I am, but what's the use rubbing
it in? I don't know that he's got any open time, but you might come
along and see."

George, his excitement increasing, walked beside his new acquaintance.

"What's your name?" the bored youth asked all at once.

"Morton. George Morton."

"I'm Godfrey Rogers. Lawrenceville. What prep are you?"

"What what?"

"I mean, what school you come from?"

George experienced a sharp discomfort, facing the first of his
unforeseen embarrassments. Evidently his simple will to crush the past
wouldn't be sufficient.

"I went to a public school off and on," he muttered.

Rogers' eyes widened. George had a feeling that the boy had receded. It
wasn't until later, when he had learned the customs of the place, that
he could give that alteration its logical value. It made no difference.
He had a guide. Straightway he would find a man who could help him get
in; but he noticed that Rogers abandoned personalities, chatting only of
the difficulties of entrance papers, and the apparent mad desire of
certain professors to keep good men from matriculating.

They came to a small frame house on Dickinson Street. Rogers left George
in the hall while he entered the study. The door did not quite close,
and phrases slipped out in Rogers' glib voice, and, more frequently, in
a shrill, querulous one.

"Don't know a thing about him. Just met him on the street looking for a
coach. No prep."

"Haven't the time. I've enough blockheads as it is. He'd better go to
Corse's school."

"You won't see him?"

"Oh, send him in," George heard Bailly say irritably. "You, Rogers,
would sacrifice me or the entire universe to spare your brain five
minutes' useful work. I'll find out what he knows, and pack him off to
Corse. Wait in the hall."

Rogers came out, shaking his head.

"Guess there's nothing doing, but he'll pump you."

George entered and closed the door. Behind a table desk lounged a long,
painfully thin figure. The head was nearly bald, but the face carried a
luxuriant, carelessly trimmed Van Dyke beard. Above it cheeks and
forehead were intricately wrinkled, and the tweed suit, apparently,
strove to put itself in harmony. It was difficult to guess how old
Squibs Bailly was; probably very ancient, yet in his eyes George caught
a flashing spirit of youth.

The room was forcefully out of key with its occu