“Hello, Lanky Rob, you here?” returned Prentiss. “Don’t butt in. Can you recite anything, Little Nemo?” The boy shook his head again. “Sure?” demanded Hopkins suspiciously. “Yes――sir.” “What can you do, then? Haven’t you any parlor tricks?” The boy considered a moment, painfully anxious to oblige but at a loss what to say. Then, his face lighting up, “I can dance the Highland fling!” he announced eagerly. A howl of amused approval went up. “Go ahead, kid!” “Fling away!” “I thought all along he was a Scotchman!” “I――I usually have music,” said the boy doubtfully. “Sorry, but the bagpipes have just left,” said Hopkins. “Let’s have it without music, kid.” So young Winship danced the Highland fling for them, his face very serious and his long nightgown flopping and writhing about him with ludicrous effect. Some of the fellows began to hum and after that the boy did rather well, for he knew the dance thoroughly and was light and graceful. But it was terribly funny and even Evan had to laugh with the others. Winship ended amidst a howl of approval and much clapping. “You’re all right, kid,” they assured him, and Hopkins let him go to find a place amongst the audience. The next youth was all ready with a song, but he was much too anxious and so Hopkins refused to allow him to sing and made him recite instead. He was a serious youth, and after he had reeled off two verses of “The Launching of the Ship” some one in the background threw a pillow at him and he was allowed to go in peace. The next victim had an extensive repertoire of popular songs and made such a hit that he was kept at it until he ran out of breath. And so it went for almost an hour. A stout youth was made to stand on his head――a feat which he only accomplished after innumerable failures――and then was required to imitate the cries of every animal any one in the audience could think of. His imitations were not successful as imitations but they were funny, notably when he was instructed to make a noise like an eel and whistled through his teeth. There was more dancing and a pale-faced, red-haired boy recited “Casey at the Bat” and won liberal applause. Evan was saved for the last, a fact which caused him some uneasiness. He would have much preferred to have some one other than Hopkins managing affairs. His turn came at last and Hopkins told him to step out. “What’s your name, little boy?” “Evan Kingsford.” “‘Sir!’” “Sir.” “Kingsford, eh? Not――not Kingsford the great quarter-back, of course?” “No――that is, no, sir,” answered Evan, flushing a little in spite of his determination not to let them worry him. “Then you don’t play foot-ball?” “Yes, sir, I do.” “What position?” “Quarter-back,” answered Evan good-naturedly.