"Think so?" "I say, what do you know about this society game?" "Look out." "What's matter?" "You chump, you never know who's around you." As he spoke, Schley sent an uneasy glance back toward Stover, and, dropping his voice, continued: "You don't talk about such things." "Well, I'm not shouting it out," said McNab, who looked at his more sophisticated companion with a little growing antagonism. "What are you scared about?" "It's the class ahead of you that counts," said Schley hurriedly, "the sophomore and senior societies; the junior fraternities don't count; if you're in a sophomore you always go into them." "Never heard of the sophomore societies," said McNab, in a maliciously higher tone. "Elucidate somewhat." "There are three: Hé Boulé, Eta Phi, and Kappa Psi," said Schley, with another uneasy, squirming glance back at Stover. "They're secret as the deuce; seventeen men in each--make one and you're in line for a senior." "How the deuce did you get on to all this?" "Oh, I've been coached up." Something in the nascent sophistication of Schley displeased Stover. He ceased to listen, occupying himself with an interested examination of the figures who passed from time to time in the aisle, in search of returning friends. The type was clearly defined; alert, clean-cut, self-confident, dressed on certain general divisions, affecting the same style of correct hat and collar, with, as distinguishing features, a certain boyish exuberance and a distinct nervous energy. At this moment an abrupt resonant voice said at his side: "Got a bit of room left beside you?" Stover shifted his coat, saying: "Certainly; come on in." He saw a man of twenty-two or -three, with the head and shoulders of a bison, sandy hair, with a clear, blue, steady glance, heavy hands, and a face already set in the mold of stern purpose. He stood a moment, holding a decrepit handbag stuffed to the danger point, hesitating whether to stow it in the rack above, and then said: "Guess I won't risk it. That's my trunk. I'll tuck it in here." He settled in the vacant seat, saying: "What are you--an upper classman?" Something like a spasm passed over the well-ironed shoulders of Schley in front. "No, I'm not," said Stover, and, extending his hand, he said: "I guess we're classmates. My name's Stover." "My name's Regan--Tom Regan. Glad to know you. I'm sorry you're not an upper classman, though." "Why so?" said Stover. "I wanted to get a few pointers," said Regan, in a matter-of-fact way. "I'm working my way through and I want to know the ropes." "I wish I knew," said Stover, with instinctive liking for the blunt elemental force beside him. "What are you going to try?" "Anything--waiting, to start in with." He gave him a quick glance. "That's not your trouble, is it?" "No."