“Here is Duncan Peck, another of my friends. He rooms on the same floor with me.” “I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” said Duncan, who, slow though he might be in the classroom, was always ready with a polite phrase. “You came to see your son play, I suppose.” But Mr. Lindsay was not to be taken in. “I am happy to meet any of your friends, Wolcott,” he said, “but this young gentleman hardly needs a second introduction. Poole brought him up a moment ago.” “Oh, no, sir,” replied the smiling Duncan, promptly. “You must have mixed me up with some one else. I am sure that you have never seen me before.” Mr. Lindsay stared blankly at the glib youth, wondering what could be the object of this evident falsehood. “This is Duncan,” explained Wolcott. “It was another copy of him named Donald, that Poole introduced. You really must see them together. They’re the pride of the menagerie.” At this moment Poole brought up the fugitive again, and standing him beside his brother, asked Mr. Lindsay to tell which he had first met. And while Mr. Lindsay stood in puzzled amusement, there was a scream from a near-by locomotive, and the cheer leaders began shouting through their megaphones again: “KEEP OFF THE TRACK! THIS IS NOT OUR TRAIN! THIS IS THE TRAIN FOR BOSTON! KEEP OFF THE TRACK!” “That’s my train,” said Mr. Lindsay. “Come back with us and see the celebration!” cried Wolcott. For a moment Mr. Lindsay felt tempted, not by the celebration, of course, but by a desire to linger in the society of these friendly lads among whom he felt the full charm of vigorous, light-hearted, unsoured youth. Second thoughts came quickly. “I think I have had about all the celebration that is good for me; I am as tired now as if I had played the game.” The train crept cautiously in. Mr. Lindsay said good-by, and, jostled by other passengers eager for seats, climbed the steps of the platform. The circle of boys at his back cried good-by again and waved their hands. Behind them still others roguishly took up the shout, and violently swung their arms, until the whole platform seemed to be waving salutes and shouting adieus. And Mr. Lindsay, squeezed by the crowd and deafened by the shouts, dropped into a seat exhausted, thankful for the comparative quiet of the rumbling train. After all it seemed hardly as dangerous for a boy to play football as for his father to attend the game. The happy throng left behind by the departing train waited, patient though by no means silent, for its own long line of cars. “I say, Wolcott,” said Tompkins, sidling up for the fifth time with congratulations; “this isn’t much like our funeral here last June, is it? That was a terribly sour-looking bunch! There wasn’t a man in it who didn’t look like a yaller dog born with a tin can tied to his tail.”