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jigger before ease descended upon him. After a cursory inspection of the pillow-cases, leather pennants, and Gibson Girls that lined the walls, he left, and continued along Nassau Street with his hands in his pockets. Gradually he was learning to distinguish between upper classmen and entering men, even though the freshman cap would not appear until the following Monday. Those who were too obviously, too nervously at home were freshmen, for as each train brought a new contingent it was immediately absorbed into the hatless, white-shod, book-laden throng, whose function seemed to be to drift endlessly up and down the street, emitting great clouds of smoke from brand-new pipes. By afternoon Amory realized that now the newest arrivals were taking him for an upper classman, and he tried conscientiously to look both pleasantly blasé and casually critical, which was as near as he could analyze the prevalent facial expression.

      At five o’clock he felt the need of hearing his own voice, so he retreated to his house to see if any one else had arrived. Having climbed the rickety stairs he scrutinized his room resignedly, concluding that it was hopeless to attempt any more inspired decoration than class banners and tiger pictures. There was a tap at the door.

      “Come in!”

      A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway.

      “Got a hammer?”

      “No—sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one.”

      The stranger advanced into the room.

      “You an inmate of this asylum?”

      Amory nodded.

      “Awful barn for the rent we pay.”

      Amory had to agree that it was.

      “I thought of the campus,” he said, “but they say there’s so few freshmen that they’re lost. Have to sit around and study for something to do.”

      The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself.

      “My name’s Holiday.”

      “Blaine’s my name.”

      They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned.

      “Where’d you prep?”

      “Andover—where did you?”

      “St. Regis’s.”

      “Oh, did you? I had a cousin there.”

      They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he was to meet his brother for dinner at six.

      “Come along and have a bite with us.”

      “All right.”

      At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday—he of the gray eyes was Kerry—and during a limpid meal of thin soup and anæmic vegetables they stared at the other freshmen, who sat either in small groups looking very ill at ease, or in large groups seeming very much at home.

      “I hear Commons is pretty bad,” said Amory.

      “That’s the rumor. But you’ve got to eat there—or pay anyways.”

      “Crime!”

      “Imposition!”

      “Oh, at Princeton you’ve got to swallow everything the first year. It’s like a damned prep school.”

      Amory agreed.

      “Lot of pep, though,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t have gone to Yale for a million.”

      “Me either.”

      “You going out for anything?” inquired Amory of the elder brother.

      “Not me—Burne here is going out for the Prince—the Daily Princetonian, you know.”

      “Yes, I know.”

      “You going out for anything?”

      “Why—yes. I’m going to take a whack at freshman football.”

      “Play at St. Regis’s?”

      “Some,” admitted Amory depreciatingly, “but I’m getting so damned thin.”

      “You’re not thin.”

      “Well, I used to be stocky last fall.”

      “Oh!”

      After supper they attended the movies, where Amory was fascinated by the glib comments of a man in front of him, as well as by the wild yelling and shouting.

      “Yoho!”

      “Oh, honey-baby—you’re so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!”

      “Clinch!”

      “Oh, Clinch!”

      “Kiss her, kiss ‘at lady, quick!”

      “Oh-h-h——!”

      A group began whistling “By the Sea,” and the audience took it up noisily. This was followed by an indistinguishable song that included much stamping and then by an endless, incoherent dirge.

      “Oh-h-h-h-h

      She works in a Jam Factoree

      And—that-may-be-all-right

      But you can’t-fool-me

      For I know—DAMN—WELL

      That she DON’T-make-jam-all-night!

      Oh-h-h-h!”

      As they pushed out, giving and receiving curious impersonal glances, Amory decided that he liked the movies, wanted to enjoy them as the row of upper classmen in front had enjoyed them, with their arms along the backs of the seats, their comments Gaelic and caustic, their attitude a mixture of critical wit and tolerant amusement.

      “Want a sundae—I mean a jigger?” asked Kerry.

      “Sure.”

      They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to 12.

      “Wonderful night.”

      “It’s a whiz.”

      “You men going to unpack?”

      “Guess so. Come on, Burne.”

      Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade them good night.

      The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches with pale blue, and, weaving over the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon, swept a song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, infinitely transient, infinitely regretful.

      He remembered that an alumnus of the nineties had told him of one of Booth Tarkington’s amusements: standing in mid-campus in the small hours and singing tenor songs to the stars, arousing mingled emotions in the couched undergraduates according to the sentiment of their moods.

      Now, far down the shadowy line of University Place a white-clad phalanx broke the gloom, and marching figures, white-shirted, white-trousered, swung rhythmically up the street, with linked arms and heads thrown back:

      “Going back—going back,

      Going—back—to—Nas-sau—Hall,

      Going back—going back—

      To the—Best—Old—Place—of—All.

      Going back—going back,

      From all—this—earth-ly—ball,

      We’ll—clear—the—track—as—we—go—back—

      Going—back—to—Nas-sau—Hall!”

      Amory closed his eyes as the ghostly procession

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