across the long, green swards, dancing on the leaded window-panes, and swimming around the tops of spires and towers and battlemented walls. Gradually he realized that he was really walking up University Place, self-conscious about his suitcase, developing a new tendency to glare straight ahead when he passed any one. Several times he could have sworn that men turned to look at him critically. He wondered vaguely if there was something the matter with his clothes, and wished he had shaved that morning on the train. He felt unnecessarily stiff and awkward among these white-flannelled, bareheaded youths, who must be juniors and seniors, judging from the savoir faire with which they strolled.
He found that 12 University Place was a large, dilapidated mansion, at present apparently uninhabited, though he knew it housed usually a dozen freshmen. After a hurried skirmish with his landlady he sallied out on a tour of exploration, but he had gone scarcely a block when he became horribly conscious that he must be the only man in town who was wearing a hat. He returned hurriedly to 12 University, left his derby, and, emerging bareheaded, loitered down Nassau Street, stopping to investigate a display of athletic photographs in a store window, including a large one of Allenby, the football captain, and next attracted by the sign “Jigger Shop” over a confectionary window. This sounded familiar, so he sauntered in and took a seat on a high stool.
“Chocolate sundae,” he told a colored person.
“Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?”
“Why—yes.”
“Bacon bun?”
“Why—yes.”
He munched four of these, finding them of pleasing savor, and then consumed another double-chocolate jigger before ease descended upon him. After a cursory inspection of the pillow-cases, leather pennants, and Gibson Girls that lined the walls, he left, and continued along Nassau Street with his hands in his pockets. Gradually he was learning to distinguish between upper classmen and entering men, even though the freshman cap would not appear until the following Monday. Those who were too obviously, too nervously at home were freshmen, for as each train brought a new contingent it was immediately absorbed into the hatless, white-shod, book-laden throng, whose function seemed to be to drift endlessly up and down the street, emitting great clouds of smoke from brand-new pipes. By afternoon Amory realized that now the newest arrivals were taking him for an upper classman, and he tried conscientiously to look both pleasantly blasé and casually critical, which was as near as he could analyze the prevalent facial expression.
At five o'clock he felt the need of hearing his own voice, so he retreated to his house to see if any one else had arrived. Having climbed the rickety stairs he scrutinized his room resignedly, concluding that it was hopeless to attempt any more inspired decoration than class banners and tiger pictures. There was a tap at the door.
“Come in!”
A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway.
“Got a hammer?”
“No—sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one.”
The stranger advanced into the room.
“You an inmate of this asylum?”
Amory nodded.
“Awful barn for the rent we pay.”
Amory had to agree that it was.
“I thought of the campus,” he said, “but they say there's so few freshmen that they're lost. Have to sit around and study for something to do.”
The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself.
“My name's Holiday.”
“Blaine's my name.”
They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned.
“Where'd you prep?”
“Andover—where did you?”
“St. Regis's.”
“Oh, did you? I had a cousin there.”
They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he was to meet his brother for dinner at six.
“Come along and have a bite with us.”
“All right.”
At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday—he of the gray eyes was Kerry—and during a limpid meal of thin soup and anaemic vegetables they stared at the other freshmen, who sat either in small groups looking very ill at ease, or in large groups seeming very much at home.
“I hear Commons is pretty bad,” said Amory.
“That's the rumor. But you've got to eat there—or pay anyways.”
“Crime!”
“Imposition!”
“Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything the first year. It's like a damned prep school.”
Amory agreed.
“Lot of pep, though,” he insisted. “I wouldn't have gone to Yale for a million.”
“Me either.”
“You going out for anything?” inquired Amory of the elder brother.
“Not me—Burne here is going out for the Prince—the Daily Princetonian, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You going out for anything?”
“Why—yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman football.”
“Play at St. Regis's?”
“Some,” admitted Amory depreciatingly, “but I'm getting so damned thin.”
“You're not thin.”
“Well, I used to be stocky last fall.”
“Oh!”
After supper they attended the movies, where Amory was fascinated by the glib comments of a man in front of him, as well as by the wild yelling and shouting.
“Yoho!”
“Oh, honey-baby—you're so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!”
“Clinch!”
“Oh, Clinch!”
“Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick!”
“Oh-h-h—!”
A group began whistling “By the Sea,” and the audience took it up noisily. This was followed by an indistinguishable song that included much stamping and then by an endless, incoherent dirge.
“Oh-h-h-h-h
