His candidacy for the class crew kept him in strict training, though he ranked no better than third substitute. His afternoons thus employed and his evenings occupied with consultations, he found his life as narrowed as it had been in the season of football. Every one knew him, and he had learned the trick of a smile and an enthusiastic bob of the head to every one. He was a popular man even among the outsiders now more and more openly opposed to the sophomore society system. He was perhaps, at this period, the most popular man in his class; and yet, he had made scarcely a friend, nor did he understand quite what was the longing in him. With the end of May and the coming of society week for the first time the full intensity and seriousness of the social ambition was brought before him. The last elections in his own crowd were given out, Regan and Brockhurst failing to be chosen. In McCarthy's society the last place narrowed down to three men; and Stone, who had made the _News_, won the choice. Stover was sitting alone with McCarthy on the critical night, when the door opened and Stone entered. One look at his face told McCarthy what had happened. "I'm sorry, Tough," said Stone, a little over-tense. "They gave me the pledge. It's hard luck." "Bully for you!" There wasn't a break in McCarthy's voice. "I knew you'd get it all along." "I came up to let you know right away," said Stone, looking down at the floor. "Of course, I wanted it myself, but I'm sorry--deuced sorry." "Nonsense. You've made the _News_. You ought to have it." McCarthy, calm and smiling, held out his hand. "Bully for you! Shake on it!" Stone went almost immediately and the room-mates were left alone. McCarthy came back whistling, and irrelevantly went to his bureau, parting his hair with methodical strokes of the brush. "That was real white of Stone to come up and tell me," he said quietly. "Yes." "Well, we'll go on with that geometry now." He came back and sat down at the desk quite calmly, as if a whole outlook had not been suddenly closed to him. Stover, cut to the heart, watched him with a genuine thrill. He rose, drew a long breath, walked to the window, and, coming back, laid his hand on his room-mate's shoulder. McCarthy looked up quickly, with a little flush. "Good grit, old man," said Dink, "darned good grit." "Thank you." "It won't make any difference, Tough." "Of course not." McCarthy gave a little laugh and said: "Don't say any more, Dink." Stover took his place opposite, saying: "I won't, only this. You take it better than I could do. I'm proud of you." "You remember what the old man said to you fellows after that Princeton slaughter?" said Tough solemnly. "'Take your medicine.' Well, Dink, I'm going to swallow it without a wink, and I rather guess, from what I've seen, that's the biggest thing they have to teach us up here." "It'll make no difference," said Dink obstinately. "Of course not."