"What for?"
"Because I want to."
"Very sorry," said McNab's rather squeaky voice—"most particular sorry; but this house is infected with yellow fever and the rickets, and we wouldn't for the world share it with the sophomore class—oh, no!"
A light began to dawn over Stover.
"I'm rooming here," he said.
"What's your name and general style of beauty?"
"Stover, and I've got a twitching foot."
"Why didn't you say so?" said McNab, who then admitted him. "Pardon me. The sophomores are getting so fidgety, you know, hopping all up and down. My name's McNab—German extraction. Came up on the train, ahead of you—thought you were a sophomore, you put on such a beautiful side. Here, put on that chain."
"Hazing?"
"Oh, no, indeed. Just a few members of the weakling class above us might get too fond of us; just must see us—welcome to Yale and all that sort of thing. I hate sentimental exhibitions, don't you?"