Symington was glad to hear that he was to dine at the Athletic Club this evening. He had read all about this affair, and had seen pictures of it in _Harper's Weekly_. But he listened attentively to all Tucker had to say on the way down. His friend opened the heavy oaken door with a small flat key, explaining that it was necessary to keep the doors locked because the mob would otherwise make themselves at home in there. "You see, Charlie," he said, "although this is the training-quarters it is a private club, and not a public affair like the field-house we were in this afternoon. But the membership is open to every one for competition. When you come to college, if you make the team, you will be a member as long as you are training with it. If you become a captain or get any of the Athletic offices you'll be a life member." But Symington the prep. was not listening to that. When the door opened he caught a glimpse of a big brick fireplace with tiling over it, on which was inscribed "Oranje Boven," and higher up were footballs hung in clusters with scores painted upon them, and all about the wainscoted walls of the hallway were baseball and football and lacrosse championship banners with gilt lettering. That's what he was paying attention to. "Yes, leave your cap there, any place. Now I want to see what you're good for in this line. We'll go over the house afterward." Tucker led the way toward the sound of knives and forks. Now it should be understood that Symington, the head man of the school, was not afraid of anything on earth, and if he were dining at Prospect with the President of the University, it would not have mattered. But to walk straight into a room and be introduced to the captain of the team was a little too much. It took his appetite away at first, and he thought he could eat none of that famous training food of which he had heard. However, the shock soon passed. He was presented to all the members of the nine, and to the subs and to the trainer, and also to two professional pitchers from the Brooklyn League team, who were down to coach the players, and who were just now eating with their knives a huge meal at a little side-table. Symington was given a seat next to Jack, the trainer, who was cordial and kind to him, and said, "Oh, me boy, you must eat more than that." The meal seemed to be a very business-like affair. The men were brown from their exercise in the sun, and ruddy and glowing from their recent rub down, and hungry from both causes, and they devoured great sections of rare beef as though they knew it was their duty to get strong for Old Nassau. The conversation was quite shoppy. When he had finished, the captain pushed back his chair from the table and said, "Fellows, you played a pretty good game to-day. But we've got to brace up in team work. When a man's on a base we must simply push him the rest of the way around."