He wondered why he had decided on Wyndham, when there were so many schools near home which he could have attended as a day student. Well, that was just the reason, wasn’t it? They had both thought it would be better if he went far enough away so that he would get the benefit of school life. “You pick the place yourself, son,” Mr. Bingham had said. “I don’t care what the price is, only see that you get your money’s worth.” And so, after months of indecision during which he had perused a veritable library of prospectuses and catalogues, Clif had chosen the John Wyatt Wyndham Preparatory School for Boys for no better reason than that while looking through the program of last year’s Brown and Dartmouth game he had paused at a half-tone picture of a clean, earnest looking youth in football togs and idly read the lines beneath it: “E. W. Langley, Jr., End. Class of 1923, age 21, weight 169, height 5 ft. 11 in. Cooperstown, N. Y. Prepared at Wyndham School.” Clif had watched “Wuzzy” Langley play football, and “Wuzzy” had become very close to hero size in Clif’s estimation, and it seemed to him that a school that could turn out fellows like “Wuzzy,” fellows who played wonderful football and whose names were synonymous with all that was clean and healthy and manly, was exactly the school he was looking for. That evening he told his father that he had decided on a school, and Mr. Bingham, after learning his reason for choosing Wyndham, gravely agreed that he had undoubtedly made a wise selection. If Mr. Bingham was secretly amused he didn’t show it. So Clif wrote for literature and studied it interestedly. Even if the description and pictures sent to him had been disappointing he would still have gone to Wyndham, but they weren’t. On the contrary, what he read increased his enthusiasm, and after that, until he received assurance from “J. Coles, Secretary,” that he had been admitted, he was on tenterhooks. It wasn’t until close to the time for departure that the thought of being separated from his father began to dampen his pleasure of anticipation. There were days, toward the last, when he would have backed down had Mr. Bingham given him the slightest encouragement. Keeping on at high school seemed plenty good enough then. But Mr. Bingham kept on smiling cheerfully and the fatal day grew nearer and nearer and――then one September morning they were speeding off in the car, Clif’s trunk in the tonneau, and the die was cast.