"Why not?" "Tom, it's too--too far away!" The two shook hands solemnly and impressively. "Can't hit it--too far away," said Kelly, with the pool-ball clutched tight. "Too far away, eh?" "My dear Tom," said McNab, tearfully breaking the news, "it's too far--entirely too far away. You can't reach it, Tom; believe me, as man to man--you can't, you can never, never hit it." "I know I can't, Dopey," said Kelly, in an equally mournful tone, "I know all that. All that you say is true. But, Dopey, suppose I _should_ hit it, suppose I _should_, just think--think--how my name would go reeling and rocking down to fushure generations! Biff!" They left McNab overcome by the impressiveness of this argument, busily gathering up the pool-balls, resolved that every opportunity should be given Kelly to rank among the immortals. Stover would have liked to stay. For the moment, almost a rebellion swept over him at the drudgery to which he had condemned himself in his ambition. He saw again the low table, through the smoke, and Buck Waters's jovial pagan face leading the crowd in lazy, care-free abandon. He felt that liberty, that zest of life, that wild spirit of youth for which he yearned and of which he had been defrauded by Le Baron's hand, that hand which had ruthlessly torn away the veil. Something leaped up within him--a longing to break the harness, to jump the gate and go heels in the air, cavorting across unfenced meadows. He rebelled against the way that had been marked out for him. He rebelled against the self-imposed discipline, and, most of all, he rebelled against the hundred eyes under whose inspection he must now inevitably walk. Ahead of them to the left, across by Osborne, came the gay, defiant singing of a group of upper classmen returning to the campus: "_For it's always fair weather_ _When good fellows stand together,_ _With a stein on the table_ _And a good song ringing clear._" The echo came to him with a certain grim mockery. There would be very little of that for him. It was to be four years, not of pleasure and inclination, but of seriousness and restraint, if he continued in his decision. For a moment the pagan in him prevailed, and he doubted. Then they passed across High Street, and at their sides the dead shadow of the society tomb suddenly intruded upon them. Which of the group at the end of the long three years would be of the chosen? Which would lead? "Well, fellows, we go this way," said Bain's methodical voice. "Drop around at the rooms soon. Good night." Stover, Hunter, and Bain for the moment found themselves together, each striving for the same social honor, each conscious that, whatever an established system might bring to them, with its enforced comradeship, among them would always be the underlying contending spirit of variant ambitions.