“You have five prescribed courses in this term, of a total of eighteen hours, Bingham, as I presume you know. I include Hygiene, two hours, and I mention it because formerly one didn’t get it until Second Class year.” His pen moved rapidly and certainly. “There are two other courses open to you, either of which you may elect if you care to. They’re both ‘snap’ courses, you know, Bingham, and won’t strain you any. But if I were you I’d leave them alone this year; at least until the next term. I find that you chaps have plenty of work if you do it right. All right. Now about athletics.” Mr. McKnight laid his pen down, pushed the gray card aside and folded his hands. “Anything in that line appeal to you?” “I’m going out for football, sir,” said Clif. “Good. You understand that regular participation in some recognized sport is demanded, and that in any case you are required to attend gymnasium classes unless excused by the Physical Instructor, Mr. Babcock. If you are taken permanently on to one of the football squads you won’t have to bother with gym stuff for a while. See Mr. Babcock to-morrow, by the way. You’ll find him in his office in the gymnasium from nine to twelve. Or you can get him at his study in East Hall, probably. Better look this over and then put it somewhere where you can refer to it until you’ve got your hours memorized.” He indicated the schedule and Clif picked it up and, after a somewhat vague examination, placed it in a pocket. Mr. McKnight asked about his roommate, about his football experience and about himself, and Clif gradually sank back against the chair and felt more at ease. Mr. McKnight leaned back, too, and listened and watched. Clif told about Providence and high school and his father and, before he realized it, how he had decided on Wyndham School. Mr. McKnight chuckled then, but it was a genial, understanding sort of chuckle, and Clif smiled in response, and after that the instructor didn’t seem so awe-inspiring. “That,” said Mr. McKnight, “reminds me of the story of the boy whose father and mother wanted him to go to college but who wasn’t keen on it himself. His father wanted Jack to go to Princeton and his mother wanted him to go to Harvard. (You can swap the names around to suit yourself, Bingham. I’m a Princeton man, and I’m telling it the Princeton way.) Jack didn’t care where he went, you understand, and so, after his parents had argued the matter for weeks, he said, ‘Tell you what, Dad. I’ll toss a coin. If it comes down heads, you win and I go to Princeton. If it comes down tails, Ma wins and I go to Harvard.’ So they agreed and Jack tossed up a quarter and when it fell and stopped rolling, there it was leaning up against the leg of a chair, straight on edge! Jack took a look at it and kicked it down the register. ‘It’s a “dud.” I’ve got to go to Yale!’”