“There are thousands of fellows here,” mused Joe, “and all of them may be as good as I. Of course not all of them want to get on the nine—and fewer want to pitch. But—Oh, I wonder if I can make it? I wonder——”
It was getting late. He realized that he had better go to his room, and see about supper. Then in the morning would come reporting at college and arranging about his lectures—and the hundred and one things that would follow.
“I guess I’ve got time enough to go over and take a look at the place,” he mused. “I can hike it a little faster to my shack after I take a peep,” he reasoned. “I just want to see what I’m going to stack up against.”
He turned and started toward the stately buildings in the midst of the protecting elms. Other students passed him, talking and laughing, gibing one another. All of them in groups—not one alone as was Joe. Occasionally they called to him as they passed:
“Off with that hat, Fresh.!”
He obeyed without speaking, and all the while the loneliness in his heart was growing, until it seemed to rise up like some hard lump and choke him.
“But I won’t! I won’t!” he told himself desperately. “I won’t give in. I’ll make friends soon! Oh, if only Tom were here!”
He found himself on the college campus. Pausing for a moment to look about him, his heart welling, he heard someone coming from the rear. Instinctively he turned, and in the growing dusk he thought he saw a familiar figure.
“Off with that hat, Fresh.!” came the sharp command.
Joe was getting a little tired of it, but he realized that the only thing to do was to obey.