WESTCOTT’S was in some ways a bit old-fashioned. Holidays were grudgingly given, visitors were not suffered to intrude on recitations, and every school day was made a working day, with enforced privileges on Saturdays if the week’s work was not satisfactorily done. Scholastic flummery, the advertising quackery of shows and visitors’ days and special programmes, found no favor with the authorities. If any exception is to be made to this general rule, it must apply to the day on which school closed for the Christmas holidays, when for half an hour at the close of recitations the boys themselves took charge of the schoolroom, and celebrated in their own way their approaching liberty and their loyalty to the school. Even here the programme was very simple. When the twelve o’clock gong sounded, the whole school assembled in the big room. Old Westcottites from college poured in, thronging the wide doorway of the library, and circling the end of the schoolroom in a long line. A representative of the first class came forward, and in a little speech, delivered usually with a flushed face and in a faint, agitated voice, presented to the school a gift which should be a permanent reminder of the affection and esteem of the outgoing class. Mr. Westcott then made a response, which was followed sometimes by a few words from some teacher. After this various boys chosen from the managing class stepped forward and led cheers for the school, for the individual teachers, and for the athletic teams. Then old boys, if any were bold enough, or unable to resist the pressure put upon them, took their turn, and exhorted the school or praised it, as inspiration (or their confusion) led them. No boy who was present on the day when three captains of Harvard teams and two class-day marshals—all old Westcottites—followed each other to the platform, will soon forget the impression made by those stalwart figures, intelligent faces, and sincere if inartistic speeches. Not the bishop nor the learned professor nor the governor himself could so stir the hearts of the school. These college men were authorities, men who had achieved, heroes within the range of every boy’s admiration. This year, only one of these representatives from the upper world was booked to address the school, but as he was no less a personage than captain of the Varsity crew, he counted in general estimation tenfold. Roger Hardie, being in the second class, played spectator and common soldier in the cheering battalion. Mr. Westcott’s speech and Mr. Cary’s left him rather cold; he had heard these gentlemen many times before in various forms of discourse from cautious praise to unreserved condemnation. But when Deering was demanded, and in response a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, bronzed young man emerged from the library and pushed forward through a tumult of welcome, Roger’s heart leaped to greet him.