veled. A half mile down the track, the train had begun to glide between stone, ivy-covered dormitories with their gayly curtained French windows, out of which laughing boy faces leaned. Keay had pointed out the athletic fields and the huge gray bulk that was the new gymnasium. But as the train now eased to a stop, Keay and Logan both leaped out with their suitcases into a mob of shouting students and left Harold to himself.
"Yea, Dave!" yelled a joyous voice.
"Yea, 'Spike'!" roared Dave Keay and leaped to pound a husky shoulder and pump a welcoming hand. Even the shy Logan seemed swallowed up by his friends.
Harold felt alone and deserted. He was fairly pushed down to the platform by the exiting collegians behind him. He stood on the hard concrete, his suitcase in one hand, his golf sticks in the other, smiling, half expecting some of the throng would rush up to him and make him welcome. He heard a sudden shout and saw the mob rush past him toward one of the rear cars. He looked back in time to see a familiar figure standing at the top of the car steps waving to his admirers. Harold took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and consulted it. It was the worn clipping from the Tate "Tattler." It confirmed his recognition of the stalwart youth now holding court
