"Is McCarthy here?" said Stover, laughing.
"Your wife is waiting for you most anxiously."
"Hello, is that Dink?" called down McCarthy's exuberant voice at this moment.
Stover went up the stairs like a terrier, answering the joyful whoop with a war-cry of his own. The next moment he and McCarthy were pummeling each other, wrestling about the room, to the dire danger of furniture and crockery. When this sentimental moment had exhausted itself physically, McCarthy bore him to the back of the house, saying:
"We don't want to show our light in front just yet. We've got a corking lot in the house—best of the Andover crowd. Come on; I'll introduce you. You remember Hunter, who played against me at tackle? He's here."
There were half a dozen loitering on the window-seat and beds in the pipe-ridden room.
Hunter, in shirt sleeves, sorting the contents of his trunk, came forward at once.
"Hello, Stover, how are you?"
"How are you?"
No sooner did their hands clasp than a change came to Dink. He was face to face with the big man of the Andover crowd, measuring him and being measured. The sudden burst of boyish affection that had sent him into McCarthy's arms was gone. This man could not help but be a leader in the class. He was older than the rest, but how much it would have been hard to say. He examined, analyzed, and deliberated. He knew what lay before him. He would make no mistakes. He was carried away by no sentimental enthusiasm. Everything about him was reserved—his cordiality, the quiet grip of his hand, the smile of welcome, and the undecipherable estimate in his eyes.