Joe Bartlett, a wizened lad with a rather mean little face set in a peanut head.
Harold knew Westover by reputation. The bare tuition there, the story ran, was two thousand dollars a year, exclusive of board or any extras. And one had to come of Westover ancestors and be enrolled at birth in order to enter. It was the crème de la crème of preparatory schools for lads born with golden spoons in their mouths. Harold's three dinner companions acted as if they were quite aware of this and were anxious for him to be impressed. In this they were not disappointed. Quite abashed, he said hardly a word the rest of the meal. The trio talked among themselves about others of their prep school cronies who were in the Freshman class. They blithely ignored Harold, beyond casting curious, half-smirking glances at him every now and then. The four rose together at the end of the meal and walked out into the September moonlight.
"Beastly meal," commented Donald Haddon in carefully clipped accents. "It's an outrage that we have to take our meals there."
"Blame Leonard here," suggested Bartlett, only half joking. "He persuaded us to come to Tate instead of going to Harvard."
"Oh, quit your crabbing, you two," Leonard Trask laughed. "You're acting like a
