McCarthy arrived late, with the freshman eleven, back from a close contest with a school team. They took a hurried supper, and went down a dozen strong, in jovial marching order.
The sensations of the theater were still new to Stover, nor had his fortunate eye seen under the make-up or his imagination gone below the laughter. To parade down the aisle, straight as a barber's pole, chin carefully balanced on the sharp edge of his collar, on the night of his first day as end on the Yale varsity, delightfully conscious of his own startling importance, feeling as if he over-topped every one in the most public fashion, to be absolutely blushingly conscious that every one in the theater must, too, be grasping a copy of that night's Evening Register, that every glance had started at his arrival and was following in set admiration, was a memory he was never to forget. His shoulders thrown up a little, just a little in accentuation, as behooved an end with a reputation for tackling, he found his seat and, dropping down quickly to escape observation, buried himself in his program to appear modest before the burning concentration of attention which he was quite sure must now be focused on him.
"Dobbs and Benzigger, the fellows who smash the dishes—by George, that's great!" cried McNab, joyfully running over the program. "They're wonders—a perfect scream!"
"Any good dancing?" said Hungerford, and a dozen answers came:
"You bet there is!"
"Fanny Lamonte—a dream, Joe!"
"Daintiest thing you ever saw."
"Sweetest little ankles!"
"Who's this coming—the Six Templeton Sisters?"
"Don't know."