Across the quiet reaches of the Common he went slowly, incredibly, toward these strange shapes in brick and stone. The evening mist had settled. They were things undefined and mysterious, things as real as the things of his dreams. He passed on through the portals of Phelps Hall, hearing above his head for the first time the echoes of his own footsteps against the resounding vault. Behind him remained the city, suddenly hushed. He was on the campus, the Brick Row at his left; in the distance the crowded line of the fence, the fence where he later should sit in joyful conclave. Somewhere there in the great protecting embrace of these walls were the friends that should be his, that should pass with him through those wonderful years of happiness and good fellowship that were coming. "And this is it--this is Yale," he said reverently, with a little tightening of the breath. They had begun at last--the happy, care-free years that every one proclaimed. Four glorious years, good times, good fellows, and a free and open fight to be among the leaders and leave a name on the roll of fame. Only four years, and then the world with its perplexities and grinding trials. "Four years," he said softly. "The best, the happiest I'll ever know! Nothing will ever be like them--nothing!" And, carried away with the confident joy of it, he went toward his house, shoulders squared, with the step of a d'Artagnan and a song sounding in his ears. CHAPTER II He found the house in York Street, a low, white-washed frame building, luminous under the black canopy of the overtowering elms. At the door there was a little resistance and a guarded voice cried: "What do you want?" "I want to get in." "What for?" "Because I want to." "Very sorry," said McNab's rather squeaky voice--"most particular sorry; but this house is infected with yellow fever and the rickets, and we wouldn't for the world share it with the sophomore class--oh, no!" A light began to dawn over Stover. "I'm rooming here," he said. "What's your name and general style of beauty?" "Stover, and I've got a twitching foot." "Why didn't you say so?" said McNab, who then admitted him. "Pardon me. The sophomores are getting so fidgety, you know, hopping all up and down. My name's McNab--German extraction. Came up on the train, ahead of you--thought you were a sophomore, you put on such a beautiful side. Here, put on that chain." "Hazing?" "Oh, no, indeed. Just a few members of the weakling class above us might get too fond of us; just must see us--welcome to Yale and all that sort of thing. I hate sentimental exhibitions, don't you?" "Is McCarthy here?" said Stover, laughing. "Your wife is waiting for you most anxiously." "Hello, is that Dink?" called down McCarthy's exuberant voice at this moment.