This was not true--it was all part of Roger Button’s silent agreement with himself to believe in his son’s normality. Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair. He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own age. He was not to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. In return for these concessions he was allowed his first suit of long trousers.... IV Of the life of Benjamin Button between his twelfth and twenty-first year I intend to say little. Suffice to record that they were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he was erect as a man of fifty; he had more hair and it was of a dark gray; his step was firm, his voice had lost its cracked quaver and descended to a healthy baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take examinations for entrance to Yale College. Benjamin passed his examination and became a member of the freshman class. On the third day following his matriculation he received a notification from Mr. Hart, the college registrar, to call at his office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye, but an anxious inspection of his bureau drawer disclosed that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered--he had emptied it the day before and thrown it away. He was in a dilemma. He was due at the registrar’s in five minutes. There seemed to be no help for it--he must go as he was. He did. “Good-morning,” said the registrar politely. “You’ve come to inquire about your son.” “Why, as a matter of fact, my name’s Button----” began Benjamin, but Mr. Hart cut him off. “I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Button. I’m expecting your son here any minute.” “That’s me!” burst out Benjamin. “I’m a freshman.” “What!” “I’m a freshman.” “Surely you’re joking.” “Not at all.” The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him. “Why, I have Mr. Benjamin Button’s age down here as eighteen.” “That’s my age,” asserted Benjamin, flushing slightly. The registrar eyed him wearily. “Now surely, Mr. Button, you don’t expect me to believe that.” Benjamin smiled wearily. “I am eighteen,” he repeated. The registrar pointed sternly to the door. “Get out,” he said. “Get out of college and get out of town. You are a dangerous lunatic.” “I am eighteen.” Mr. Hart opened the door. “The idea!” he shouted. “A man of your age trying to enter here as a freshman. Eighteen years old, are you? Well, I’ll give you eighteen minutes to get out of town.” Benjamin Button walked with dignity from the room, and half a dozen undergraduates, who were waiting in the hall, followed him curiously with their eyes. When he had gone a little way he turned around, faced the infuriated registrar, who was still standing in the door-way, and repeated in a firm voice: “I am eighteen years old.” To a chorus of titters which went up from the group of undergraduates, Benjamin walked away.