Andrews shook hands with him and actually remembered his name instead of calling him "Freshman Bean-pole"--it was great to be a Soph.! "Report in the Gym. at three," said Andrews, "you'd better live at the house this season; fix him up with a room, Charley." He turned and went on talking with McClurg, something about officials for the Fordham game. Bixby reached over and picked up a paper from the welter on his desk, "Top-floor, Crittenden, you'll find a lot of cots in the front room; take any one that's loose." "I haven't any clothes with me," explained Neale. It had never occurred to him that he would be accepted into the very center of things this way. "Never mind, bring 'em to-morrow; but you'd better beat it up and stake out your claim to a cot now...." The telephone rang and Bixby snatched it up, "Columbia football house, yes, this is Bixby speaking. No, that _won't_ do! Those shoes were promised for this afternoon. Yes, yes, you can make it if you send them right away. See here, there are lots of sporting-goods firms who want our trade...." Neale went upstairs and found a room, with six cots made up. Four of them had suit-cases or books on them to show occupancy. Over by the window he saw Billings, last year's full-back, sitting at a table with a thin, slight upper classman. Neale thought he recognized him,--Grant his name was--one of the college leaders, debating team, Spec. Managing Board, Phi Beta Kappa; that sort of chap. Billings' big body was hunched miserably forward over a book, his forehead wrinkled. As Neale looked at them, Grant reached forward, shut up the book and pulled it towards him. "No use, Billings. It'd only ball you up to keep on with that math. Not a chance! Don't try the exam. Anyway they can't keep you off the team with only one condition. But, God, how _did_ you manage to flunk Comp. Lit.? Any child of three ought to pass Comp. Lit. But don't you worry! We'll get you through. Have you learned those pieces I gave you?" Billings straightened up and recited in a stumbling sing-song, "As Shelley beautifully says, 'I could lie down like a sick child and weep ... and weep ... and weep!...'" "'Away this life of woe,'" prompted Grant. "And it's like a 'tired child.'... No, don't change it! It'll look less as if you were copying a crib if you don't get it quite right. All right for that. Now, let's have the other ones."