“This is Norman Dalrymple, one of the best tackles we ever had at Harvard. He’s as sound as a dollar and stronger than a bridge. He’ll come down—” “I’m sorry; but there’s nothing we can do. Regulations, you know.” “Sure!” The man at the scales was speaking. “Two eighty-five isn’t a weight; it’s a telephone number.” Dalrymple inquired, blankly: “Do you mean to say I can’t get in? Why, that’s too absurd! I _must_ get in! Can’t you fix it somehow?” “You’re holding up the others. Won’t you please step aside?” Shipp drew the giant out of line and said, quietly: “Don’t argue. Get into your duds and wait for me. It will be all right. We know everybody; we’ll square it.” But it was not all right. Nor could it be made all right. Weary hours of endeavor failed in any way to square matters, and the two friends were finally forced to acknowledge that here was an instance where wealth, influence, the magic of a famous name, went for naught. They were told politely but firmly that Norman Dalrymple, in his present state of unpreparedness, could not take the officers’ intensive-training course. Dimples was mortified, humiliated; Shipp felt the disappointment quite as keenly. “That’s the toughest luck I ever heard of,” the latter acknowledged. “You’ll have to reduce, that’s all.” But Dimples was in despair. “It’s healthy fat; it will take longer to run it off than to run the Germans out of France. The war will be over before I can do it. I want to get in _now_. Too fat to fight! Good Lord!” he groaned. “Why, I told everybody I was going in, and I cut all my ties. Now to be _rejected!_” After a time he continued: “It knocks a fellow out to reduce so much. If I managed to sweat it off in a hurry, I’d never be able to pass my physical. That sort of thing takes _months_.” Shipp silently agreed that there was some truth in this statement. “Tough? It’s a disgrace. I—I have _some_ pride. I feel the way I did when I lost our big game. You remember I fumbled and let Yale through for the winning goal. I went back to the dressing-room, rolled up in a blanket, and cried like a baby. You and the other fellows were mighty decent; you told me to forget it. But I couldn’t. I’ve never forgotten it, and I never shall.” “Pshaw! You made good later.”