The man shook his head impatiently. “What prep, I mean.” “None.” He named his private school. With unconcealed effrontery, the man looked him over,--his clothes, his hands, his face. At Quincy’s answer, a change had come over the fellow. It was as if the boy had admitted that he was a pauper or an idiot. He had been in a mood for asking questions; Quincy’s admission that he came unlabeled, unclassified, uncounted, put him in a mood for giving advice. “Well,” said the upperclassman, “you’ll find that your coming in alone will make no difference--” as if his manner had not stultified his words! “This is a democratic place. Every man has as good a chance to make good as another. Prep school prominence wears off by midyears. Don’t let it worry you. Go in for as many activities as you can. You look as if you could run. Can you?” “Yes,” said Quincy. “Fine! Go in for track. Go in for the papers, whether you can write or not. Keep a cool head. You got the odds against you, of course, coming in alone. But if you can sprint or tear off funny stories better than the next fellow, you’ll make good, just the same.” Quincy did not like this man--nor understand him. His words gave him a sense of faintness. He wished to be silent. But his consciousness of the new life made him feel that he must try to understand, even if it did mean a process so painful and disagreeable as the asking of questions. So he nerved himself and spoke: “What exactly do you mean by ‘making good’?” The upperclassman smiled with an air of amiable sufferance. “Getting there, of course,” he said. “Doing something.... You’ll find out soon enough.” This explanation was very vague to Quincy. He thought perhaps he might help him to explain. “Do you mean,” he asked, “being elected to a fraternity?” His neighbor turned upon him with a look of horror in his eyes. He seemed speechless with an inexplicable pain, much as Quincy thought he might be, if some stranger suddenly, gratuitously, should insult his sister. And then, after a pause, the wounded upperclassman spoke. “Look here!” he said, in a solemn monotone that was suffused with deep emotion. “Do you want to get _queered_? Shut up about such things; do you understand? Shut up _tight_!” The boy sat there, ashamed and helpless as if he had been stripped. He could not get away. He could not defend himself. He could not act as if he had done nothing. He could not apologize. So he merely sat there and faced his tormentor with eyes that had in them both pride and humiliation. The upperclassman seemed pleased with the result of his gentle warning. He seemed even a little sorry; and it tickled him, doubtless, to entertain so generous a sentiment toward a freshman. He nodded wisely, shook his head as if conscious of the lavish weakness in so kind an attitude, and then got up. The visitor forward, had gone. As he left for his own seat, he turned back to Quincy and bowed.