Young Bingham Bradfield nodded and blushed and smiled all the way down to the gate, as men in the different groups which they passed called out:
"There goes 'Braddy's brother,'" or, "Hullo, little Brad," or, "What's the matter with '98?" and one who knew him at home sang out, "B-I-N-G-O—Bingo!" It was awfully exciting.
"They're going to have a fire to-night," Dave said, as they walked up Nassau Street. "I heard some of the Freshmen say that they would begin and collect the wood as soon as it was dark."
"Where do they get it?" asked Bingham.
"Oh, just take it," Dave answered, carelessly. "They take fences and gates, and boards and barrels, and, oh, anything they can find. That would be a dandy one," pointing to a half-broken-down rail fence which divided an orchard from a newly opened road.
"It wouldn't let any cows or horses out, you see. They stole our barn gate once, and the horses got loose on the front lawn and tore up all the grass. We didn't mind, though," with true college spirit, "for we'd beaten Yale."
"Yale Freshmen?" eagerly.
"No," with great scorn: "the 'Varsity. Nobody's much stuck on Freshmen in Princeton," he continued, "except, of course, your brother. He's great; he'll make the 'Varsity next year, sure."
Bingo's feelings were soothed. He thought all the Freshmen "great," but was satisfied if others only appreciated Braddy.
They grew very chummy, the two boys, and Braddy's brother had learned a great deal about college life by the time he was brought back to the campus.