Everything was wrong and strangely uncomfortable. His derby hat was too small--as it was--and must look ridiculous; his trousers were short and his arms seemed to rush from his sleeves. He tried desperately to thrust back the cuff that had broken loose and stooped for his bag. It would have been wiser to have embraced it bodily, but he breathed a prayer and grasped the handle. Then he started up the walk; half way, the handle tore out and the bag went down with a crash. He dove at it desperately, poking back the threatened avalanche of linen, and clutching it in his arms as a bachelor carries a baby, started blindly for the house. A roar of laughter had gone up at his discomfiture, succeeded by a sudden, solemn silence. Then the White Mountain Canary pillowed against the knees of Cheyenne Baxter, spoke: "No old clothes, Moses; nothing to sell to-day." At this Butsey White's lathery face suddenly appeared at the second-story window. "He doesn't want to buy--he wants to sell us something," he said. "Patent underwear and all that sort of thing." Stover, red to the ears, advanced to the steps and stopped. "Well?" said the Coffee-colored Angel as the guardian of the steps. "I'm the new boy," said Stover in a gentle voice. "The what?" "The new boy." "Impossible!" "He's not!" "New boys always say 'sir,' and take off their hats politely." The White Mountain Canary looked at Tough McCarty, who solemnly interrogated the Coffee-colored Angel, who shook his head in utter disbelief and said: "I don't believe it. It's a blind. I wouldn't let him in the house." "Please, sir," said Stover hastily, doffing his derby, "I am." "Prove it," said a voice behind him. "Say, I'm not as green as all that." Stover smiled a sickly smile, shifted from foot to foot and glanced hopefully at his fellow-imps to surprise a look of amusement. But as every face remained blank, serious and extremely critical, the smile disappeared in a twinkling and his glance went abruptly to his toes. "He certainly should prove it," said the Coffee-colored Angel anxiously. "Can you prove it?" Stover gingerly placed the gaping valise on the top step and fumbled in his pockets. "Please, sir, I have a letter from--from the Doctor," he blurted out, finally extracting a crumpled envelope and tendering it to the Coffee-colored Angel, who looked it over with well-simulated surprise and solemnly announced: "My goodness gracious! Why, it is the new boy!" Instantly there was a change. "Freshman, what's your name?" said little Susie Satterly in his deepest tones. "Stover." "Sir." "Sir." "What's your full name?" "John Humperdink Stover, sir." "Humper--what?" "Dink." "Say it again." "Humperdink." "Say it for me," said the Coffee-colored Angel, with his hand to his ear. "Humperdink." "Accent the last syllable." "Humper--DINK!" "Are you trying to bluff us, Freshman?" said Cheyenne Baxter severely. "No, sir; that's my real name." "Humperdink?" "Yes, sir."