Little Smeed stood apart, in the obscure shelter of the station, waiting to take his place on the stage which would carry him to the great new boarding-school. He was frail and undersized, with a long, pointed nose and vacant eyes that stupidly assisted the wide mouth to make up a famished face. The scarred bag in his hand hung from one clasp, the premature trousers were at half-mast, while pink polka-dots blazed from the cuffs of his nervous sleeves. By the wheels of the stage "Fire Crackers" Glendenning and "Jock" Hasbrouck, veterans of the Kennedy House, sporting the 'varsity initials on their sweaters and caps, were busily engaged in cross-examining the new boys who clambered timidly to their places on top. Presently, Fire Crackers, perceiving Smeed, hailed him. "Hello, over there--what's your name?" "Smeed, sir." "Smeed what?" "Johnnie Smeed." The questioner looked him over with disfavour and said aggressively: "You're not for the Kennedy?" "No, sir." "What house?" "The Dickinson, sir." "The Dickinson, eh? That's a good one," said Fire Crackers, with a laugh, and, turning to his companion, he added, "Say, Jock, won't Hickey and the old Turkey be wild when they get this one?" Little Smeed, uncomprehending of the judgment that had been passed, stowed his bag inside and clambered up to a place on the top. Jimmy, at the reins, gave a warning shout. The horses, stirred by the whip, churned obediently through the sideways of Trenton. Lounging on the stage were half a dozen newcomers, six well-assorted types, from the well-groomed stripling of the city to the aggressive, big-limbed animal from the West, all profoundly under the sway of the two old boys who sat on the box with Jimmy and rattled on with quiet superiority. The coach left the outskirts of the city and rolled into the white highway that leads to Lawrenceville. The known world departed for Smeed. He gazed fearfully ahead, waiting the first glimpse of the new continent. Suddenly Fire Crackers turned and, scanning the embarrassed group, singled out the strong Westerner with an approving glance. "You're for the Kennedy?" The boy, stirring uneasily, blurted out: "Yes, sir." "What's your name?" "Tom Walsh." "How old are you?" "Eighteen." "What do you weigh?" "One hundred and seventy." "Stripped?" "What? Oh, no, sir--regular way." "You've played a good deal of football?" "Yes, sir." Hasbrouck took up the questioning with a critical appreciation. "What position?" "Guard and tackle." "You know Bill Stevens?" "Yes, sir." "He spoke about you; said you played on the Military Academy. You'll try for the 'varsity?" "I guess so." Hasbrouck turned to Fire Crackers in solemn conclave. "He ought to stand up against Turkey if he knows anything about the game. If we get a good end we ought to give that Dickinson crowd the fight of their lives."