"I say, you want to get into the Kennedy next year; we've got the A No. 1 crowd there. I'm there, the Tennessee Shad, the Gutter Pup--he's the president of the Sporting Club, you know; prize-fights and all that sort of thing--and King Lentz and the Waladoo Bird, the finest guards Lawrenceville ever had. And say, you'n I and the Tennessee Shad could strike up a combine and get out a rip-snorting, muzzle-off, all-the-news, sporting-expert, battle-cry-of-freedom newspaper that would put the _Lawrence_ out of biz. I say, you must get in the Kennedy." "I'm not coming back." "What!" "I guess my par-ticular style of talent isn't suited around here." "What's wrong?" "Well, everything." "I say, Dink, confide in me!" Stover, at that moment, in his loneliness, would have confided in any one, especially the first human being who had given him a thrill of conscious pride. "It's just this, youngster," he said, wondering how to begin: "they don't like me." "You like the school, don't you?" said Finnegan in alarm. Dink had never had the question put to him before. He was silent and his look went swiftly over to the coveted House of Lords. He drew a long breath. "You bet I do. I love it!" "What then?" "I started wrong; didn't understand the game, I guess. They've put me in Coventry." "You must have been pretty fresh." "What!" "Oh, don't mind me," said Dennis cheerfully. "I'm fresher than you ever thought of being. I was the freshest bit of verdure, as the poet says, that ever greened the place. I'm the freshest still. But I'm different. I'm under six inches--that's the cinch of it." "Yes, I was fresh," said Dink, intensely relieved. "You're always fresh if you're any good, the first term," said Finnegan. "Don't mind that. Next year you'll be an old boy, and then they'll follow you around for sugar." "I hadn't thought of that," said Dink slowly. "Keep a-thinking. I'm off now. Ta-ta! Got to slink in Fatty Harris' room before The Roman makes his rounds. Proud to have met you. Au revoir!" Dink sat a long while thinking, and a lighter mood was on him. After all, he was not a blank. Some one had recognized him; some one had taken his hand in admiration. He rose and slowly made his way toward the singers on the Esplanade, and by the edge of the road camped under the shadows of an apple tree and leaned his back against the trunk. The groups of the Esplanade stood out in cut outlines against the warm windows of the Reading-room. Above, the open windows were tenanted by boys who pillowed their heads on one another and sent their treble or bass notes down to swell the volume below. Led by a tenor voice that soared clear and true above the rest came the melody to Stover huddled under the apple tree: