“Because I want to find out what I really think about Harvard,” the man had answered, laughing. It wasn’t exactly necessary for Haydock to go to Italy in order to think; but when, in August, he found himself loafing with Wolcott through a chain of dead little towns that some one had strewn along the hills and forgotten, he was able to discuss with himself,--and occasionally with his companion,--as he never had been before, more than one aspect of life in another little town that, had he known it, is quite as dead in August as any mediæval hamlet of the Apennines. The discussions were intensely serious, unsatisfactory, and in no way markworthy, except that they concerned themselves with Ernest McGaw in particular, and a background of shadowy strugglers Haydock and Wolcott didn’t know much about, that they referred to conveniently as “McGaws in general.” They were unable to dismiss the tutor from their minds; and when college opened again, McGaw was dazed one fine morning in November on seeing his own name on the first page of the “Crimson” among six other names--some of them well known--that, together with his, the “Crimson” announced, composed the Second Seven of the Signet. It had been Wolcott’s suggestion entirely. He wasn’t a Signet man himself; but Haydock was, “which is practically the same thing,” as Wolcott said when he asked him to do what he could for McGaw. The plan of electing McGaw to the Signet had been such a simple matter for Haydock to carry out, that he couldn’t scare up a suspicion of the smug satisfaction he had always believed was the reward of having gone out of one’s way to do some one a good turn. Even when Wolcott came to him with the “Crimson” in one hand, and patted him on the head with the other, saying: “You--are--a--good--boy,” he didn’t have any of the nice priggish sensations he had been looking forward to investigating. “No, I’m not,” he said to Wolcott. “It was too easy.” “How did you manage it?”