Each night the dining-room of the Upper was cleared, and the extraordinary spectacle was seen of boys of all sizes in sweaters and jerseys, clasping each other desperately around the waist, spinning and bumping their way about the reeling room to the chorus of: "Get off my feet!" "Reverse, you lubber!" "Now, _one_, two, three----" "A fine lady you are!" "Do you expect me to carry you around the room?" "Darn you, fatty!" [Illustration: "Trousers that were limp and discouraged, grew smooth"] "Hold tight!" "Let 'er rip now!" From the end of the room the cynics and misogynists, roosting on the piled-up tables and chairs, croaked forth their contempt: "Oh, you fussers!" "You lady-killers!" "Dance, my darling, dance!" "Squeeze her tight, Bill!" "That's the way!" "Look at Skinny!" "Keep a-hoppin', Skinny!" "Look at him spin!" "For heaven's sake, someone stop Skinny!" Of evenings certain of the boys would wander in pairs to the edge of the woods and confide to each other the secret attachments and dark, forlorn hopes that were wasting them away. Turkey and the Kid, who were going as stags, opened their hearts to each other and spoke of the girl, the one distant girl, whose image not all the fair faces that would come could for a moment dim. "Kid," said Turkey, in solemn conclusion, speaking from the experience of eighteen years, "I am going to make that little girl--my wife." "Turkey, old man, God bless you!" answered the confidant, with nice regard for old precedents. Then he added, a little choked, "Turkey, I, too--I----" "I understand, Kid," said Turkey, gravely clapping his shoulder; "I've known it all along." "Dear old boy!" They walked in silence. "What's her name?" asked Turkey, slowly. "Lucille. And hers?" "Marie Louise." Another silence. "Kid, is it all right?" The romanticist considered a moment, and then shook his head. "No, Turk." "Dear old boy, you'll win out." "I must. And you, Turk, does she care?" A heavy sigh was the answer. They walked back arm in arm, each fully believing in the other's sorrow, and almost convinced of his own. At the esplanade of the Upper they stopped and listened to the thumping of the piano and the systematic beat from the dancers. "I wish it were all over," said Turkey, gloomily. "This can mean nothing to me." "Nor to me," said the Kid, staring at the melancholy moon. * * * * * On the fateful day the school arose, so to speak, as one boy, shaved, and put on a clean collar. Every boot was blacked, every pair of trousers creased to a cutting edge. The array of neckties that suddenly appeared in gigantic puffs or fluttering wings was like the turn of autumn in a single night.