How-de-do, Saphcad! "

Oh, there, Jock Hasbrouck!”

Oh, you Morning Glory!”

“Oh, you Kennedys, we’re going to lick you!”

Yes you are, Dickinson!”

The coach passed down the shaded vault of the village street, turned into the campus, passed the

ivy-clad house of the head master and rolled around

a circle of well-trimmed lawn, past the long, low,

Upper House where the Fourth Form gazed at them in senior superiority; past the great brown masses of Memorial Hall and the pointed chapel, around to where the houses were ranged in red, extended bodies. Little Smeed felt an abject sinking of the heart at this sudden exposure to the thousand eyes fastened upon him from the wide esplanade of the Upper, from the steps of Memorial, from house, windows and stoops, from the shade of apple trees and the glistening road.

All at once the stage stopped and Jimmy cried: Dickinson! At one end of the red-brick building, overrun with

cool vines, a group of boys were lolling in fiannels

and light jerseys. A chorus went up.

“Hello, Fire Crackers!”