dark hair. It was Chester Trask's—Trask, the present athletic pride of Tate, football captain, the most popular man in college. Harold watched Trask smiling and talking to Chairman Young and wondered what gems of thought were passing between these Olympians. Also at the speaker's table were other huskies of Trask's age—other present Tate gods of the diamond, gridiron and cinder track. It was wonderful. Professor Harlow Gaines was almost in a total eclipse, forgotten.
Pinckney Parsons ("Pep") Young, arose, grinning and immaculate, and tapped his knife upon his plate for order.
"On behalf of the Ohio branch of the alumni association of Good Old Tate," drawled Chairman Young, amid a few irresponsible yells of "Atta boy, 'Pep,'" and "When do we eat?" from the rear of the crowded, smoke-filled room, "I wish to welcome to this festive board our honored guests and also my fellow-members of the alumni. I know you boys are hungry, so we will dispense with the speaking and other features until after the food has been served. Before we eat, however, I want to ask you all to stand and sing one verse of 'Tate Takes the Lead.' Will the undergraduate orchestra, which has journeyed so far for our pleasure, oblige?"
The undergraduate orchestra obliged by
