“Lovey” went to the piano and played something that sounded extremely difficult, and horribly mixed-up. Clif enjoyed watching his hands, though. Evidently Mr. McKnight could play well, but Clif was relieved when he broke into a popular song and, setting the example in a good baritone, persuaded most of the company to sing. There were three or four vocal selections rendered, and then “Lovey” moved a small table into the center of the big, soft rug, and served refreshments of sandwiches and cake, and lemonade. Eating appeared to loosen the tongues of the “intellectuals,” and soon at least four debates were under way. Baldwin, half a sandwich poised in his right hand, a glass of lemonade in the other, stood before the empty grate and deplored the lack of opportunity for self-expression at Wyndham. Neither Clif nor Tom could hear him very well, but Tom stared fascinatedly at his throat, and murmured, “There it goes! Look at it! Up! Down! Up! Heck, he’s swallowed it!” But he hadn’t. Mr. McKnight sat down by Clif and talked football a while. He seemed to know a great deal about it, and presently Tom was weaned from his absorbed occupation of watching Baldwin, and took part in the talk. “Lovey” told them he hoped the Scrub would be as good this year as it had been last. “Babcock’s a clever coach, fellows. He’s taken some mighty unpromising material before this and turned out an excellent team.” Noting Tom’s grin, the instructor hastily amended. “I didn’t mean to say it just that way, Kemble,” he laughed. “From what I’ve heard and seen of his material this fall he’s rather better off than usual. To my thinking Babcock would make a fine First Team coach in case Mr. Otis failed us. Of course, though, he couldn’t give the time to it. Even now he’s pretty hard pressed to coach you chaps.” “He’s an awfully good coach, I think,” agreed Clif. “He gets you to do things without telling you to, somehow. I mean, you want to please him, you know, and so you――you sort of just do things without waiting to be told!”