ut his legs, he struggled with knees and elbows, and kept his feet
until the coach called to let him go.

"I'm sorry," George began.

"Yes," Green said, severely, "you've got to learn to get past tacklers.
If you learn to do that consistently I'll guarantee you a place on the
team, provided Mr. Stringham's willing."

"I'm willing," the head coach said with apparent reluctance.

Everyone within hearing laughed, but George couldn't laugh, although he
knew it was expected.

"Mr. Stringham," he said, "I will learn to get past them unless they
come too thick."

The coach patted his shoulder. His voice was satisfied.

"Run along to the showers now."

There may have been something in the sequence of these events, for that
very night Squibs Bailly's face twitched with satisfaction.

"You have a share," he said, "in the agency of the laundry most
generally patronized by our young men. It will pay you enough unless you
long for automobiles and gaiety."

"No," George said, "but, Mr. Bailly, I need clothes. I can afford to buy
some now. Where shall I go? What shall I get?"

Bailly limped about thoughtfully. He named a tailor of the town. He
prescribed an outing suit and a dinner suit.

"Because," he said, "if you're asked about, you want to be able to go,
and a dinner suit will pass for a Freshman nearly anywhere."

"If," George asked himself defiantly as he walked home, "Squibs thinks
my ambition unworthy, why does he go out of his way to boost it? Anyway,
I'm going to do my best to make touchdowns for him and Mrs. Squibs. Is
that Princeton spirit, or Bailly spirit, or am I fooling myself, and am
I going to make touchdowns just for myself and Sylvia Planter?"

VII

The meeting he had desired above all things to avoid took place when he
was, for a moment, off his guard. He was on his way to Dickinson Hall
for his first examination. Perhaps that was why he was too absorbed to
notice the automobile drawn up at the curb just ahead, and facing him.
He had no warning. He nearly collided with Lambert Planter, who walked
out of a shop. George stopped, drew back, and thought of dodging behind
the procession of worried, sombrely clothed Freshmen; but there wasn't
time. Lambert's face showed bewilderment and recognition.

"Certainly it is Mr. Morton," he said in his old mocking fashion.

George glanced at the surprised features which, in a masculine fashion,
were reminiscent of Sylvia; and beyond he saw, in the rear sea