For half a minute Deering stood with his hand on the desk, waiting for the din to subside. Roger fixed his eyes upon him, and in an intense stare drank in an impression of the man. He was quietly dressed, his necktie subdued, his trousers—Dunn might perhaps have noticed—not absolutely fresh from the tailor’s goose. But Deering was one for whom clothes could do little. Such bigness, honesty, cleanness, determination, and withal such fresh unconquerable strength of youth, no smart costume could adorn. In some manner he suggested Talbot—Talbot as he might be four years hence, when his body had reached its growth and the maturing influences of college life had tamed his explosive violence. Deering’s speech was addressed to the first class. When the boys before him reached college, he said, they would find certain men doing all sorts of things that they’d better not be doing, wasting their money and time and strength, and thinking that they were cutting a great figure. There were plenty of such fellows hanging round the college, who were of no use to the college or to themselves. They make a great mistake. No one cares anything about them, and they don’t make good. The fellow who has principles and tries to live up to them, who is willing to work hard and keep faced in the right direction, is the man who is respected, whether he makes a name for himself or not. “You’ve got to mean right and work right,” he said in closing. “You can’t mean right unless you have principles to follow, and the only way to work right is to work hard. Here in school is the place to make a good start. I don’t need to say anything about your studies, for your teachers will see to that, but in your athletics, unless there’s been a big change since my day, there’s room for improvement. You want to play fair and play like gentlemen, but play hard. Give the best of yourselves to your practice as well as to your matches. Don’t fool, and don’t shirk, and don’t quit. And when you come to college, don’t let any one persuade you that the ideals and moral standards you’ve learned here will have to be changed.” Had the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric from across the Charles been present in the Westcott schoolroom that morning, he would have listened patronizingly and given the speaker a passing grade in consideration of his earnestness and good intentions. Had the professor spoken in Deering’s place, the boys would have closed their ears to his careful sentences and mentally marked him F—flat failure. They voted Deering A, and after their reserved fashion, assented to his maxims and treasured up his words. Even Dunn had visions of a time coming—in the dim future, of course—when he should throw off his indolence and self-indulgence, be a “good boy” and a grind, work like a Trojan in school and out, and win back the ground that he had lost. When it came to baseball, he could show them a few things!