The youth who had stood for a moment on the steps of the residence of Mrs. Virgil Throckmorton had indeed been Dick Starbright. He had chanced to pass along the street, and a sudden impulse had taken him to the door. His friend, Bert Dashleigh, had told him that Rosalind was soon to leave New Haven. A desire to see her and have a few words with her before she went away sent him up the steps, where he became an unwilling listener to some of the words spoken by her and Morgan, for Morgan had spoken louder than he knew.
“I guess I’ve made a mistake!” he had grumbled to himself, his heart flaming against the conduct of the youth whose words he had overheard; and he had beaten a quick retreat to the street, mentally raging against Morgan, and assuring himself that he had been an idiot for yielding to the temptation to speak again to Rosalind.
His thought, as he went down the street toward the car-line, was to wait for Morgan and demand an explanation; but he did not do this, and, flinging himself into the first electric that came along, he rode back to the campus. The recent snow had passed away in a rain-storm, which had been followed by a return of sharp, frosty weather.
He found the famous quadrangle filled with college men, who seemed to be having a high old time about something. Dashleigh caught him by the arm.
“What’s up?” Dick demanded.
“I don’t know. They’re roping in the freshmen. Perhaps we’d better make ourselves scarce.”
But Starbright had already been sighted.
“Oh, Starbright! Come bow to the golden image!” was shouted from the crowd.
Dashleigh started to run, but he found himself opposed by Bingham and Jack Ready, who cleverly tripped him as he put his nimble legs in motion.
“Refuse me!” said Ready, thrusting out his right hand in a wiggling way as he planted himself before Starbright. “Will you go of your own ’cord, or shall we cord you?”