Stover shifted his coat, saying:
"Certainly; come on in."
He saw a man of twenty-two or -three, with the head and shoulders of a bison, sandy hair, with a clear, blue, steady glance, heavy hands, and a face already set in the mold of stern purpose. He stood a moment, holding a decrepit handbag stuffed to the danger point, hesitating whether to stow it in the rack above, and then said:
"Guess I won't risk it. That's my trunk. I'll tuck it in here." He settled in the vacant seat, saying: "What are you—an upper classman?"
Something like a spasm passed over the well-ironed shoulders of Schley in front.
"No, I'm not," said Stover, and, extending his hand, he said: "I guess we're classmates. My name's Stover."
"My name's Regan—Tom Regan. Glad to know you. I'm sorry you're not an upper classman, though."
"Why so?" said Stover.
"I wanted to get a few pointers," said Regan, in a matter-of-fact way. "I'm working my way through and I want to know the ropes."
"I wish I knew," said Stover, with instinctive liking for the blunt elemental force beside him. "What are you going to try?"