“I wonder if Dunk is there yet?” thought Andy. “Hope he is. Oh, it’s Yale at last! Yale! Yale!”
He breathed in deep of the night air. He looked at the shadows of the electric lights of the campus filtering through the trees. He paused a moment.
A confusion of sounds came to him. Outside the quadrangle in which he stood he could hear the hum of the busy city—the clang of trolleys, the clatter of horses, the hoarse croak of auto horns. Within the precincts of the college buildings he could hear the hum of voices. Now and then came the tinkle of a piano or the vibration of a violin. Then there were shouts.
“Oh, you, Pop! Stick out your head!”
The call of one student to another.
“I wonder if they’ll ever call me?” mused Andy.
He started across the campus. Coming toward him were several dark figures. Andy met them under a light, and started back. Before he had a chance to speak someone shouted at him:
“There he is now! The freshest of the fresh! Take off that hat!”
It was Mortimer Gaffington.