"Profession?"
"Member of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue."
Slightly startled, a fairly youthful product of West Point twisted on the uncomfortable orderly room chair, and glanced from the name on George's card to the tall, well-built figure in a private's uniform facing him. George knew he looked like a soldier, because some confiding idiot had blankly told him so coming up on the train; but he hadn't the first knowledge to support appearances, didn't even know how to stand at attention, was making an effort at it now since it was clearly expected of him, because he had sense enough to guess that the pompous, slightly ungrammatical young man would insist during the next three months on many such tributes.
"I see. You're the Morton."
George was pleased the young man was impressed. He experienced again the feelings with which he had gone to Princeton. He was being weighed, not as skilfully as Bailly had done it, but in much the same fashion. He had a quick thought that it was going to be nice to be at school again.
"Any special qualifications of leadership?"
The question took George by surprise. He hesitated. A reserve officer, sitting by to help, asked:
"Weren't you captain of the Princeton football team a few years ago?"
"Yes, but we were beaten."
"You must learn to say, 'sir,' Mr. Morton, when you address an officer."