“Did you strike oil, Jimmy?”
“Wow, there’s Nikki. Hi, you Nikki, how’s Yeddo?”
Brown, yellow, black, red and white, they shouted the greetings and brought the word from all parts of the world, while they importuned each other for news of the long summer vacation. They spoke of Hawaii, the Philippines, China, Japan, of mines in the mountains, ranches in the desert, oil in the foothills, of oranges, pears and apples, of lumbering, of Alaska, of sea voyages and hunting trips, of work and play.
The students of Cascade College were returning for the fall semester—each with a wonder tale to tell. To Eastern college men the scene would have seemed strange; for under the college spirit and the bubbling joy of the return there was a deeper note. They were boys again—schoolboys back from vacation—but during the two months they had played the parts of men and they had the air of having had a part in the big world outside the classroom.
Standing alone, and feeling lonely during all the merriment, James Lawrence Kirkland watched the reunion. Half a dozen times he had started as if to join the press of students to reach the registrar’s office and conclude the ordeal of matriculation, but each time he had stopped as if fascinated by the sight of so many interesting boys. He found himself liking and disliking them and striving to pick out those who would be his friends and those who would be his enemies during the four years to come. He saw an alert, keen-eyed little Nipponese youth running to meet a giant of a boy in a broad Stetson hat.
“Mr. Sunderland,” cried the brown youth.
“Oh you Nikko,” yelled the giant, and lifted the lighter youth in his arms and danced with him.
This was Sunderland, the famous football player and hammer-thrower, and Jimmy Kirkland watched him with new interest. And as he gazed he saw upon the lapel of the coat of the little brown youth a service medal that told of a year with Oku’s army in Manchuria.
Larry felt suddenly insignificant and unimportant among these fellows, scarcely older than he was, who had played a part of the world’s great events. His confidence and assurance were evaporating, and he found himself lonely among them all. He turned quickly and, jostling through the glad throngs, he reached the registrar’s office and was enrolled. The card which he filled in read:
James Lawrence Kirkland. Residence, Shasta View Ranch, Pearton, Oregon. Age, eighteen.