of haze and expectoration. Swinging his bulky suitcase up into the rack, he slumped into an empty seat and stared out of the window at the flat farming country flitting by. At length he summoned forth sufficient interest in his mundane surroundings to look about him. His exploration was almost at once rewarded, for a familiar bulk loomed in the seat across the aisle. The young man over there was smoking a bulldog pipe and reading a cowboy magazine. He wore the soft shirt with collar attached and the always-at-home air of the finished collegian. Harold did not have to look at him twice to assure himself that his carmate was none other than the famous "Dusty" Rhoades.
After some hesitation, Harold slid across the aisle and into the seat beside Tate's ex-football captain. Rhoades turned toward the newcomer, mild interest showing in his light blue eyes.
"You're Mr. Rhoades, aren't you?" Harold asked.
The celebrated athlete nodded.
"Well, I'm Harold Lamb," Harold pursued. "I met you at the alumni meeting at Cleveland last March, the one where you and Chester Trask spoke."
Rhoades remembered the meeting, if not Harold Lamb. They shook hands.
