There came others of his set: Jackson, the coxswain of the crew, known as “Little Billee,” a wizened up and drolly cynical personage; also Bates, his room-mate, who was called “Tubby,” and was hard put to it when the ladies asked him why, because he could not explain that he was “a tub of guts.” The vats declared that he weighed two hundred and twenty when he was in training for the fat man’s race; he had been elected the official funny man of his class, and whenever he made a joke he led off with a queer little cackle of high-pitched laughter, which never failed to carry the company with him. There came Arlow Bynner, the famous quarter-back, and Tom, his twin brother, so much like him that when he had first come to college the Sophomores had dyed his hair. There came Shackleford, millionaire man of fashion, who had been picked for president of the new Senior Class, and who looked so immaculate that Sylvia thought of magazine advertisements of leisure-class brands of tobacco. There were six men in the room, and only two women—of which one was Aunt Varina, the chaperone. You can imagine that it was an ordeal for the other woman! It is easy enough for a girl to make out when she is looking at memorial inscriptions and historic elm trees, at smoking outfits and rowing sculls; but it’s another matter to be cornered by six fastidious upper-classmen, their looks saying plainer than words: “We’ve been hearing about you, but we’re from Missouri—now bring out your bag of tricks!” Poor Sylvia—she began, as usual, by having a fright. She could think of nothing to say to all these men. She chose this moment to recollect some warnings which had been given by Harriet, before she left home, as to the exactingness and blaséness of Northern college men; also some half-ventured hints of her cousin, that possibly her arrows might be too light in the shaft for the social heavyweights of this intellectual center. She gazed from one to another in agony; she bit her tongue until she tasted blood, scolding and exhorting herself like a football coach driving a “scrub” team. It was “Bob” Harmon whose coming saved her. The very sight of him brought her inspiration. She had managed him, had she not? Where was the man she had ever failed to manage? She recollected how she had looked at him, and what she had said to him in the auto; there came suddenly the trumpet-call in her soul, in the far deeps of her the trampling and trembling, the fluttering of banners and murmuring of voices—signs of the arrival of that rescuing host which came to her always in emergencies, and constituted the miracle of Sylvia. Her friend Harriet Atkinson, herself no dullard in company, would sit by and watch the phenomenon in awe. “Sunny,” she would say, “I can see it coming! I can see it beginning to bubble! The light comes into your eyes, and I whisper to myself, ‘Now, now! She’s going to make a killing!’”