He sprang into the front seat, and they started off in the young, tingling air. Troutman, at the reins, was decidedly unfamiliar with their uses, and, at a fervent plea from Schley, Stover assumed control. Since freshman year the three had been seldom thrown together. He remembered Troutman then as a rather overgrown puppy type, and Schley as a nuisance and a hanger-on. He scanned them now, pleasantly surprised at their transformation. They had come into a clean-cut type, affable, alert, and if there was small mark of character, there was an abundance of good-humor, liveliness, and sociability. "Well, Dink, old chap," said Troutman, as he passed along quieter ways, "the fatal day approaches." "It does." "A lot of seniors are out buying nice brand-new derbies to wear for our benefit." "I'll bet they're scrapping like cats and dogs," said Schley. "They say last year the Bones list wasn't agreed upon until five minutes before five." "The Bones crowd always fight," said Schley, from the point of view of the opposite camp. "I say, Dink, did you ever think of heeling Keys?" "No, I'm not a good enough jollier up for that crowd." "They say this year Keys is going to shut down on the sporting life and swipe some of the Bones type." "Really?" said Stover, in disbelief. "Sure thing; Tommy Bain has switched." "I heard he was packer," said Stover, not particularly depressed. In the college the rumor had always been that the Keys crowd had what was termed a packer in the junior class, who helped them to pledge some of their selections before Tap Day. "Sure he is," said Troutman, with conviction. "Wish he'd stuck to Bones," said Schley. "Yours truly would feel more hopeful." "Why, you fellows are sure," said Stover to be polite. "The deuce we are!" Schley, tiring of the conversation, was amusing himself from the back seat by well-simulated starts of surprise and a sudden snatching off of his hat to different passers-by, exclaiming: "Why, how _do_ you do. I remember meeting you before." He did it well, communicated his good spirits to the pedestrians, who took his banter good-naturedly. All at once his mischievous eye perceived two girls of a rather noticeable type. Instantly he was on his feet, with an exaggerated sweep of his hat, exclaiming: "Ladies, accept my carriage, my prancing horses, my groom and my footman." The girls, bursting into laughter, waved to him. "Yes, it's a lovely day," continued Schley, in imitation of McNab. "Mother's gone to the country, aunty's visiting us now, Uncle John's coming to-morrow--he'll be sober then. Too bad, girls, you're going the other way, and such lovely weather. Won't you take a ride? What? Oh, do now. Here, I say, Dink--whoa there! They're coming." "Rats," said Troutman, glancing uneasily up the street. "Sure they are. Whoa! Hold up. We'll give 'em a little ride, just for a lark. What's the diff?" He was down, hat off, with exaggerated Chesterfield politeness, going to their coming.