"Because we've been counting you fellows in with us. We've got a corking crowd, about twenty, and a nice, quiet place." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully: "I think you'll find the crowd congenial." "When do you start in?" said Stover. "To-morrow. Are you with us?" "Glad to come." "Bully!" He made a movement to start, and then added suddenly: "I say, fellows, of course you're not on to a good many games here, but don't get roped into any politics. It'll queer you quicker than anything else. You don't mind my giving you a tip?" "Not at all," said Stover, smiling a little as he wondered what distinction Saunders made to himself between politics and politics. "Ta-ta, then--perfectly bully you're with us. I'm off on this infernal _News_ game--half a year's grind from twelve to ten at night--lovely, eh, when the snow and slush come?" He sped on, and they went up to the rooms. "I thought we'd better change," said Stover. "This place is loaded up with wires--live wires," said McCarthy, scratching his head. "Well, go ahead, if you want to." "Well, you see--we're all in the same house; it's more sociable." "Oh, of course." "And then, it'll be quieter." "Yes, it'll be quieter." A little constraint came to them. They went to their rooms silently, each aware that something had come into their comradeship which sooner or later would have to be met with frankness. CHAPTER IV Stover had never been on the Yale field except through the multitudinous paths of his imagination. Huddled in the car crowded with candidates, he waited the first glimpse as Columbus questioned the sky or De Soto sought the sea. Three cars, filled with veterans and upper classmen, were ahead of him. He was among a score of sophomores, members of third and fourth squads, and a few of his own class with prep school reputations who sat silently, nervously overhauling their suits, adjusting buckles and shoe-laces, swollen to grotesque proportions under knotted sweaters and padded jerseys. The trolley swung over a short bridge, and, climbing a hill, came to a slow stop. In an instant he was out, sweeping on at a dog-trot in the midst of the undulating, brawny pack. In front--a thing of air and wood--rose the climbing network of empty stands. Then, as they swept underneath, the field lay waiting, and at the end two thin, straight lines and a cross-bar. No longer were the stands empty or the breeze devoid of song and cheers. The goal was his--the goal of Yale--and, underfoot at last, the field more real to him than Waterloo or Gettysburg!