Harold was among those who followed as the team filed down off the stage and out of the building through the aisles of shouting students. He could hear the army left in the auditorium still singing "Tate Forever More" as he walked down University Street. Already the football crowds were pouring into town. The sidewalks were unusually animated for a Friday night. The entrance to the brightly lighted Hotel Tate was blocked with people, and in the lobby he could see swarms. Peggy would be very busy to-night and to-morrow, though she had secured time off to go to the game with her mother and use the two tickets Harold had presented to hen Peggy was prettier than any of the pretty girls laughing and chatting with their escorts in the crisp November night of University Street. Harold was quite sure of that.
As he made his way through a group of people on the sidewalk in front of the Tate, a man suddenly detached himself from the rest and caught Harold by the sleeve.
"You're Harold Lamb, aren't you?" asked a voice somehow familiar. Harold looked up into the face of Walter Coburn, Jr., son of the Sanford banker. But he had to look twice to make sure. The eyes and skin of young Coburn were so much clearer than they had been on the occasion of their last meeting.
