Harold consumed the regulation Hotel Stafford banquet dinner without further incident. He hardly tasted the food. He was too excited.
When the demi-tasse had been served and the orchestra had finished playing the last of the popular songs that accompanied the food, Chairman Young tapped his coffee-cup with his spoon for attention.
"It is not often," declared Tate's leading banker, "that I am privileged to gaze upon such a representative gathering of sons of Good Old Tate. Before me I note, for instance, good old 'Shock' Shaw, representing the brawn of the Class of 1914, and near him, 'Plugger' Gaines, representing, if I may say so without deprecating the mental capacities of his fellows, the brains. Between them, if I am not mistaken, sits a typical specimen of the rising young manhood that will form the brawn and brains of the Tate classes of the future."
Harold suddenly felt himself blushing violently. Two hundred eyes seemed to be fastened upon him. He lowered his head, wishing himself a hundred miles away, back in Sanford. Then he got hold of himself, banished his blushes, raised his head. How he wished that Banker Young's words could come true! That he, Harold Lamb, could
