That is what a crowd of noisy, lazy, slouchy-looking fellows, in a circle in front of Reunion were singing to a little, old, dried-up man, with a plaintive face and blue uniform, in the centre of it. John Dagnan, chief of college police and envoy extraordinary to the faculty, cast a sad reproachful glance at two of the number to whom he had borne many a summons to appear at one o'clock, and then relapsed into his characteristic melancholy silence, gazing inscrutably into the distance. Over by the elm in front of the _Princetonian_ Office were four seniors pitching pennies and looking very much in earnest over it. Up and down in front of the shambling old building two or three base-balls were flying back and forth over or against the heads of the loafers and passers-by. Several other groups were merely sitting on the steps or standing on the stone walks, talking or whistling or waiting for nothing. The steps in front of the entry door were so crowded that young Symington, following his friend Tucker, had to tread upon some of the loungers to get inside. But the loungers were used to that and did not stop their conversation. It's easier than arising. Symington would have liked to stop and watch the fellows pitching pennies, and hear more of the song, and see what the little policeman was going to do about it, but he did not say a word. He merely followed Tucker up to his room and wondered why he failed to notice it. Charlie Symington was a well-built prep. boy who had been known to strike out three men with the bases full. He had been invited to spend Sunday in Princeton by some important athletic men in order that he might see how much better their college was than all others in the world. This was because Charles was young and foolish and had shown signs of shifting his youthful affections and his future athletic brilliance to that other college where two of his intimate friends were going, and which had brilliance enough already. These athletic officials thought that this would be narrow-minded in him, and they were giving him a very good time. The way they did it was not by treating him as a distinguished guest or by telling him what a fine fellow he was, which would have turned the little boy's head and have made him think he could do as he pleased. They simply said "Come," and when he came, let him walk around with them. For they were a right conceited lot in regard to their college, and thought that all they had to do was put a boy on the campus, let him use his eyes and breathe the air and get it in his young system, and his good sense would do the rest. If it did not, his sense was not good and they did not want him, thought they. As for the young pitcher, he did not quite understand why these great and awful men whom he had often heard of were so kind to him, and he did not care. He only opened his eyes and ears and shut his mouth, and let his friends do whatever they wanted with him and thought it was very nice in them.