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 sloughed away amid the religious implications of the dark-green aisles.

The sight of a white boy sitting on an outcrop of limestone with a strap of school-books dropped at his feet rather surprised Peter. The negro looked at the hobbledehoy for several seconds before he recognized in the lanky youth a little Arkwright boy whom he had known and played with in his pre-college days. Now there was such an exaggerated wistfulness in young Arkwright's attitude that Peter was amused.

“Hello, Sam,” he called. “What you doing out here?”

The Arkwright boy turned with a start.

“Aw, is that you, Siner?” Before the negro could reply, he added: “Was you on the Harvard football team, Siner? Guess the white fellers have a pretty gay time in Harvard, don't they, Siner? Geemenettie! but I git tired o' this dern town! D' reckon I could make the football team? Looks like I could if a nigger like you could, Siner.”

None of this juvenile outbreak of questions required answers. Peter stood looking at the hobbledehoy without smiling.

“Aren't you going to school?” he asked.

Arkwright shrugged.

“Aw, hell!” he said self-consciously. “We got marched down to the protracted meetin' while ago—whole school did. My seat happened to be close to a