Page:The plastic age, (IA plasticage00mark).pdf/52

40 When he reached Sanders 6, he found three other freshmen grouped before the door.

“Is this English One, Section Seven?” one asked tremulously.

“I think so,” whispered the second. “Do you know?” he asked, turning to Hugh.

“Yes; I am almost sure.”

They stood there looking at each other, no one quite daring to enter Sanders 6, no one quite daring to leave. Suddenly the front door of the building slammed. A bareheaded youth rushed up the stairs. He was a repeater; that is, a man who had failed the course the preceding year and was taking it over again. He brushed by the scared freshmen, opened the door, and strode into Sanders 6, closing the door behind him.

The freshmen looked at each other, and then the one nearest the door opened it. The four of them filed in silently.

The class looked up. “Sit in the back of the room,” said the instructor.

And that was all there was to that. In his senior year Hugh remembered the incident and wondered at his terror. He tried to remember why he had been so badly frightened. He could n’t; there did n’t seem to be any reason at all.