Shipp turned back to explain.
“This is Norman Dalrymple, one of the best tackles we ever had at Harvard. He’s as sound as a dollar and stronger than a bridge. He’ll come down—”
“I’m sorry; but there’s nothing we can do. Regulations, you know.”
“Sure!” The man at the scales was speaking. “Two eighty-five isn’t a weight; it’s a telephone number.”
Dalrymple inquired, blankly:
“Do you mean to say I can’t get in? Why, that’s too absurd! I must get in! Can’t you fix it somehow?”
“You’re holding up the others. Won’t you please step aside?”
Shipp drew the giant out of line and said, quietly:
“Don’t argue. Get into your duds and wait for me. It will be all right. We know everybody; we’ll square it.”
But it was not all right. Nor could it be made all right. Weary hours of endeavor failed in any way to square matters, and the two friends were finally forced to acknowledge that here was an instance where wealth, influence, the magic of a famous name, went for naught. They were told politely but firmly that Norman Dalrymple, in his present state of unpreparedness, could not take the officers’ intensive-training course. Dimples was mortified, humiliated; Shipp felt the disappointment quite as keenly.