“Anyhow,” said Chester, when they had reached Phillip’s room and had subsided, weary and panting, onto the couch and had been duly licked by Maid, “that evens up things with Guy. I move that we forgive him for introducing us to the Christian Association chap.” “Seconded,” cried Phillip. “Moved and carried,” cried Chester. “He is forgave!” Then came one dismal and dripping morning when Phillip cut two recitations to stand in line in the little stuffy post-office and await his turn to receive Yale game tickets, which were distributed by registered mail. Kingsford had promised to come at half past ten and relieve him, but he evidently thought better of it, for that hour passed without his appearance. The line began at the last window and then wound and rewound about the room, flanked on either side by pools of water from wet umbrellas. The crowd, which was good-naturedly impatient, broke into cheers on the slightest provocation――such as the advent of some fellow of prominence in college or the advance of the line after a long delay occasioned by the temporary disappearance of some one’s envelope. Whenever an envelope revealed the obnoxious green tickets of the west stand groans of sympathy nerved the recipient to a show of fortitude. All sorts of awful tales illustrating the depravity of the committee in charge of the distribution were told, while a small junior with a head for figures proved conclusively that the 34,000 seats would be gone long before the season ticket holders were reached. He did this by covering a ground-glass window with numerals and breaking the point of his fountain pen. Phillip had digested a wealth of information regarding the pernicious habits of the gypsy moth and the methods of extermination, and was two-thirds of the way down the list of advertised letters when Guy Bassett appeared. “I’ll match you to see whether I take your place and get your tickets or whether you keep your place and get mine,” he said. They matched and Phillip won. Guy took his place with a sigh. “If I don’t show up by to-morrow night,” he said, “write to my folks and tell them I perished nobly in performance of my duty. How long have you been circulating around this picturesque and well-ventilated salon?” “About an hour and a quarter,” answered Phillip. “Seems to me it’s a mighty poor arrangement. Why can’t they give out the tickets at the Union or somewhere? I’ve heard lots of fellows kicking about it.” “Really?” asked Guy. “And――speak lower!――did you by any possibility overhear any one suggest writing to the _Crimson_ about it? Don’t be afraid to answer; I’m discretion itself.” “Why, yes, I heard several. Why?”