Phillip seated himself beside his companions on the little bench by the jumping standard and stretched his tired legs before him with a sigh of luxurious content. The scene interested and pleased him. The grass was still green, the white clouds floated lazily overhead, the river was blue with queer bronze ripples, and the breeze that stirred the damp hair over his forehead was fresh and invigourating. For a time he divided his attention between the doings of the crimson-stockinged candidates and the conversation of the two beside him. But presently his thoughts wandered off into a series of veritable day-dreams. Very pleasant dreams they were, in which he saw himself successful and popular, and heard the plaudits of the admiring multitude. Just what variety of college fame he had won did not appear; but whatever it was it was extremely satisfying, and Phillip saw himself bowing before the storm of approval with a nice mixture of pride and modesty. They were calling his name wildly, enthusiastically: “Ryerson! Ryerson! Ryer――――!” He opened his eyes and sat up with a start. Chester was shaking him by the neck and laughing. “Wake up, you sleepy cuss, and answer to your name!” “I――I don’t think I was asleep,” murmured Phillip. “Well, you’ve got another think. I was telling Guy that I met the famous John North last night. Laurence took me over to his room in Little’s. I told him about you and he says he’s called on you.” “Called on me?” repeated Phillip. “Did he say when? I reckon I was out. I’m sorry.” “Why, that’s the funny part of it,” answered Chester. “I said I’d met you, and he asked kind of dryly whether I’d found you belligerent. I told him no, and said that you’d spoken of expecting a call from him. He said he had called and that you and he had had a very interesting talk. He looked so darned queer, though, that I thought maybe he was stringing me.” Phillip looked puzzled for an instant; then a great dismay overspread his countenance and he gripped Chester by the arm. “What does he look like?” he cried. “Why, he―――― Say, what is this――melodrama?” “No, no; go on. Tell me!” “‘Give me the chee-ild!’” exclaimed Chester, tragically. Then, observing Phillip’s expression of anxiety, he went on soberly: “He’s about six foot tall, I guess; about three foot broad; he has―――― Why, hang it, there he is, crossing the field――the fellow talking with the head coach; see?” Phillip followed the other’s gaze and his heart sank. “That――that’s not John North!” he faltered. “You’re a liar,” answered Chester sweetly. Phillip groaned. “Why, that’s――that’s――――” Guy leaned over and patted him reassuringly on the back. “Hold hard, old man; don’t give way to it. Give him air, men; stand back everybody!” “You were about to observe?” asked Chester.