Phil had forgotten the association of that word. All he saw was that the boy wanted him more than he did Mary and it pleased him tremendously. “Then that’s all fixed,” he said. The housemaster was of the hearty pseudo-slangy sort. He said to Junior’s father, “Skinny little cuss, isn’t he? Well, we’ll soon build him up.” “Aleck, I want you to take good care of this fellow,” said Phil. “He’s all I’ve got, you know.” “Oh, I’ll keep a strict eye on him, and if he gets fresh I’ll bat him over the head.” Junior knew that he was supposed to smile at this and did so. He did not feel much like smiling. He discovered that he was to be in the housemaster’s house. He did not believe that he would ever like this Mr. Fielding, but he did in time. As it came nearer and nearer his father’s train time the terrible sinking feeling became worse, and he was afraid that he might cry after all; and that would disgrace his father. They walked down to the station together. They walked slowly. They would not see each other again for a year--maybe two. Both were thinking about it, neither referring to it. “I suppose that’s the golf links over there?” said Junior. “I suppose so,” said Phil. He hadn’t looked. There were a number of fathers and a greater number of mothers saying good-bye. Some of the mothers were crying, all of them were kissing their boys. Even some of the fathers did that. Junior and Phil saw it. They glanced at each other and away again, both wondering whether it would be done by them; each hoping so, yet fearing it wouldn’t be. Phil remembered how when he was a youngster he hated to be kissed before the other boys. He did not want to mortify the manly little fellow; and the boy knew better than to begin such things. (“Don’t bore your father.”) “Well,” said Phil, looking at his watch, “I suppose I might as well get on the train.” Then he laughed as though that were funny. “Good-bye,” he said. “Work hard and you’ll have a good time here. Good-bye, Junior.” The father held out his hand. The son shook it. “Good-bye, Father, I’ll bet you have a great trip in the mountains.” And Junior laughed too. The train pulled out, and the forlorn little boy was alone now. Worse. Surrounded by strangers. “Well, I didn’t mortify him, anyway,” said the father. “Well, I didn’t cry before him, anyway,” said the son. But he was doing it now. The veil between them was not yet lifted. Junior had a roommate named Black. So he was called Blackie. Blackie had a nice mother who used to come to see him frequently. Junior took considerable interest in mothers, observed them closely when even the most observant of them were quite unaware of it. He approved of his roommate’s mother, despite her telling Blackie not to forget his rubbers, dear. Blackie glanced at Junior to see if he was listening. Junior pretended that he wasn’t. “Aren’t mothers queer?” said Blackie after she had gone. “Sure,” said Junior. “Always worrying about you. You know how it is.” “Sure.”