Hugh Ordway was a success from the start. Everyone who met him found him interesting and attractive. They didn’t put it in just that way. Nick said: “His Grace, the Duke of Glyndestoke, is a little bit of all-right.” Pop Driver said, “A clever lad, that Ordway. Bring him over some evening, Bert.” Tom Hanrihan said, “Ordway’s got the stuff in him, Coach. He’ll bear watching. Doesn’t know a thing about football, but he’s a regular wonder at doing what he’s told to. Makes some of the others over there look like regular bone-heads.” Mr. Rumford, House Master at Lothrop Hall, confided to Mrs. Rumford at dinner one evening during the first week of school that “Ordway, in 29, is a most interesting boy, my dear. I wish you’d remember to have him in for dinner some Sunday. The fellow actually thinks for himself.” Perhaps of equal importance, however, was Bert’s verdict, since, willy-nilly, the two boys were doomed to daily companionship. Bert’s verdict was delivered to himself three days after Hugh’s advent. “He’s a queer duffer, but I like him,” said Bert. What was doubtless equally fortunate was the fact that Bert’s liking was returned and perhaps with more enthusiasm. Hugh had felt rather strange, and, although he had tried not to show it, a little bit homesick at first, and Bert, more from a sense of duty than from affection at that stage, had taken him under his wing and done everything possible to make things easy for him. As Nick had remarked, entering school in the third year had its difficulties. Your classmates had formed their associations and your position was a good deal like that of a fifth hand at whist. You were not especially needed, and, while welcome enough to look on, there was no place for you at the table. But Bert’s efforts, coupled with Hugh’s personality, had succeeded, to continue the metaphor, in squeezing the newcomer up to the table. If at present Hugh was not actually taking part in the game, at least he was where he could enjoy seeing it. And for this Hugh was grateful.