While they were preparing for bed that night John took David into his confidence, in a measure, and asked his advice. He made no mention of the letter. David’s views were not encouraging.

“What you want to do,” he said, “is to retire into the extreme distance and rest upon your haunches. Every fellow has the inalienable right to get rid of his money as he bloody well pleases, and even a foster-mother has no business dictating, Johnnie. If I were Phil and you tried it with me I’d punch your old head for you.”

“But Phil hasn’t the right to spend money he hasn’t got,” answered John. “And that’s what it amounts to. Of course, it’s mostly his family’s fault. They’ve no business letting him think that there’s plenty of money when there isn’t——”

“Different from most fellows’ families,” growled David.

“Well, it’s my duty to interfere.”

“It’s your duty to mind your own affairs. Look[132] here, has Phil owned up to you that he’s been losing his tin?”

“Not exactly. He acknowledges that he’s broke, but he hasn’t mentioned cards.”

“Then how are you going to speak to him about it? If you go to him and say ‘Look here, some one—I can’t tell you who—tells me that you’ve lost more money than is good for you at cards,’ he’ll simply get mightily insulted and won’t speak to you again until you apologize.”

“Yes, I think he would,” mused John.

“Well, there you are!”

“And so I shan’t say a word to him about it. You see, I hadn’t intended to,” said John sweetly.

“Then what’s all this jabbering for?”

“It’s always a pleasure, an intellectual treat, to hear your opinions, Davy. Good-night.”

What John did the next morning was entirely characteristic of him. He went to Guy Bassett’s room, introduced himself, and told his mission in less than two dozen words. If Guy experienced either surprise or amusement he was too courteous to show it. Instead, he expressed much pleasure at meeting John, listened politely to what he had to say and then proffered his cigarette case.

[133]

“We did play rather high one night,” he said, “and Ryerson lost about sixty dollars, I believe. Since then we have confined ourselves to ten-cent limit and I’m certain he hasn’t dropped more than a two-dollar bill. Of course, if I’d known what I do now I wouldn’t have played with him. I supposed he had plenty of money, and the charming promptitude with which he paid his debts confirmed the supposition. I like Phil; he’s refreshingly simple and human; and he’s plucky, too; and so I’ll see that he doesn’t lose any more of his money here, North. For that matter, though, I guess he’s learned his lesson. I’m awfully much obliged to you for coming and telling me about it; and very glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you. Good-morning.”

In the afternoon John went to the union and, establishing himself at a corner desk in the writing-room, picked holes in the nice clean crimson blotter for fully twenty minutes before he set pen to paper. When he did he wrote steadily for three pages. Then he read what he had written, smiled as though well pleased with it, chewed the end of his penholder for awhile, and then slowly and regretfully tore his letter into minute fragments. In its stead[134] he filled a page with his small, heavy writing and subscribed himself, “Faithfully, John North.” He addressed the envelope to “Miss Ryerson, Elaine, Melville Court House, Virginia,” and dropped it into the box in the hall with elaborate carelessness lest Phillip should be looking on and should in some wonderful manner guess its destination. Then, whistling contentedly, he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and strode off to the field and practice.

The date of the Yale game was but some two weeks distant and confidence in a victory for the Crimson was steadily increasing throughout the college. The prophets were working overtime and, as is their wont, were writing more and saying less each day. It was nearing the time to send in applications for tickets, a fact of which Phil was reminded that evening. Everett Kingsford walked down the avenue with him after dinner and guided him into Leavitt’s for a game of billiards, a game for which Phillip had the highest admiration and at which he invariably lost. A counter was littered with blank applications and the two helped themselves.

“You’re an H. A. A. ticket-holder, aren’t you?” Kingsford asked.

[135]

“Yes.”

“Well, look here, then. I’ve got to take some of my folks to the game. There’ll be the mater and my sister and a friend; that means four seats, counting my own. I can only apply for two, of course. Are you going to take any one?”

“No, I reckon not. I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Well, will you put in your application with mine? I’ve got another fellow who is going to. That will give us six seats together, you see. Of course I’ll pay you for the second ticket. If you don’t want to be bothered talking to women folks you can have the end seat, but I want you to meet the mater. I think you’d like her.”

“I’d like to,” answered Phillip, “and the friend, too.”

“Oh, the friend!” laughed Kingsford. “Well, I can’t allow that, Phil. I’ll let you sit between Betty and the mater, but the friend’s barred.”

“Who’s Betty? Your sister?”

“She has that honour.”

“Is she—is she intellectual?”

“Terribly; a regular blue-stocking. But I’ll tell her to be easy on you. Besides, the mater’ll see[136] fair play. You make out your application to-morrow and we’ll get them in. Your shot.”

Phillip, after long and careful aim, missed a simple carrom, and Kingsford, lounging negligently about the table, made a run of fourteen, while his adversary looked on enviously from the seat.

One chill and cloudy afternoon Phillip and Chester marched in a procession composed of some six hundred patriotic and enthusiastic fellows from the union out to Soldiers’ Field, taking in the Yard en route and gathering recruits from halls and dormitories. At the head strode a band. Then came a diligent junior with a big crimson megaphone, and behind him the classes marshaled according to seniority, and each preceded by a flapping banner bearing the class numerals. Phillip and his friends were at the tag end, but it was all very inspiriting and impressive, and he was glad he belonged. And it was rather good fun, too, for it was the proper thing to walk on the heels of the fellows in front whenever possible and apologize profusely when they showed displeasure. The cheering and singing were incessant, and they crossed the square, where the sidewalks were lined with town folk and shopkeepers, the feminine[137] element largely predominating, chanting the jovial strains of “Up the Street” with might and main:
“Look where the Crimson banners fly! Hark to the sound of tramping feet! There is a host approaching nigh— Harvard is marching up the street! Onward to victory again! Marching with drum-beat and with song— Hear the refrain! As it thunders along—as it thunders along!
Behold! they come in view! Who wear the Crimson hue— Whose arms are strong, whose hearts are true! Ever to Harvard! ever to Harvard!”

From the band far up at the head of the line came the shrilling of the piccolos for a little space and with it the steady tramp, tramp of many feet. And then the drums crashed again and the voices took up the song once more, grandly, confidently:
“And Harvard’s glory shall be our aim, And through the ages the sound shall roll, When all together we cheer her name— When we cheer her with heart and soul!”

Out Boylston Street they went, cheering by classes, across the little drawbridge which creaked complainingly beneath them, into the field by the big gate and past the monument. Outside the gridiron they came to a halt. The entrances were draped with canvas and secret practice was not yet over. So the indefatigable junior with the megaphone[138] mounted a pile of lumber and called for more cheers; cheers for the players separately and collectively, for the coaches one by one and for the trainer, and finally for the college. And overhead the workmen leaned down from the big, many-trussed stand they were erecting and grinned sympathy and approval.

At last the canvas was drawn aside and the band and the followers marched into the amphitheatre. On the gridiron players and coaches paused for a moment to watch as the procession passed them and made its way around the field to the farther stand, and it is scarcely conceivable, despite the disinterested expression of their faces, that they were unmoved by the hearty cheers that arose to the bleak, wind-swept sky.

On the south stand the audience gathered itself into a group that looked very small against the long expanse of empty seats, and the players were lined up for an open practice game. But the audience paid for what was shown it. The songs that were to be sung at the big game were gone over with again and again, and the cheering was practised until throats grew dry and voices hoarse. During the five minutes’ intermission John North and[139] several other coaches got together and joined their voices to the mighty chorus that swept across the field:
“Hard luck for poor old Eli! Tough on the blue! Now, all together, Smash them and break through! ’Gainst the line of Crimson They can’t prevail. Three cheers for Harvard! And down with Yale!”

“If we could only win the game by cheering,” said the head coach, “I think I’d be quite satisfied with things.”

“We can come pretty near doing it that way,” answered John. “That sort of thing is worth at least two scores.”

Later the procession formed again and marched back the way it had come, still singing, still cheering, the fellows dancing arm in arm from side to side across the dusty road. But the freshman contingent, or the greater part of it, didn’t return to the square then, but veered off, swayi............