Pepper/Pepper

INE o'clock in the evening, in Cambridge, is too early to stop doing nothing, and too late to undertake anything really important, so that James Pepper McHenry, having the lust for human companionship in his heart, and no money in his pocket, pulled a tweed cap over his eyes, and sallied forth in search of the unknown. His first impulse was to turn up the avenue to Leavitt's for a game of billiards, but it occurred to him that he already owed Leavitt thirty-nine dollars, wherefore he relinquished the project with a sigh of heartfelt economy.

His sophomore club was only a block away, but it was a club notoriously cold in the wintertime, and, furthermore, he was posted, to the best of his knowledge and belief, for the amount of forty-seven dollars and forty-seven cents, and the treasurer of the club was a man as tactless as he was sincere.

To McHenry, standing on the corner of Mount Auburn and Linden Streets, the thought of the Crimson sanctum shone through the mist of his uncertainty like a beacon on a stormy night; and, without waiting for further inspiration, he set his course for the Union, in the basement of which democratic edifice the college daily has its quarters.

The bare, square outer office was, as usual, quiet and disordered. Under a green-shaded light, two nervous candidates were collaborating on a ten-line rehash of an item concerning the landscape gardening at the Medical School, while a tall, dark young man, scribe for a metropolitan newspaper, sparred vigorously at the keys of a rheumatic typewriter. With innate curiosity, McHenry peered over his shoulder, and read the sober but alarming statement that there were at present sixteen Chinese students at the university, and fifteen of them were sons of mandarins of the third rank.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed involuntarily. "Can't you bag any better news than that?"

The two candidates started at the familiar indictment, but returned to their rehash with all the authentic symptoms of nervous prostration as soon as they discovered that McHenry wasn't a senior editor looking for trouble. The young man engaged in tabulating statistics of the yellow peril looked up, and grinned very slowly.

"No, I can't," he said. "It's pretty feeble stuff, isn't it?"

"It's fearful drivel," commented McHenry briefly. "Why don't you get some good, live news—have an interview with somebody really important, or dope out another all-American football team, or something vital along those lines? Why don't you?"

The scribe grinned even more slowly, and pulled the copy paper out of the battered machine.

"Keep away from that wheelbarrow," he quoted. "What do you know about machinery? Why, the answer is that I don't dare to fake anything. You see, I'm unfortunately tied up with a sheet that wants real news."

"I must have missed it," said McHenry, passing into the sanctum, where a solemn-faced junior lifted his head from a conscientious editorial bearing upon the behavior of freshmen in lecture rooms, and glowered at him.

"Oh—hello, Pep!" said the junior, allowing the corners of his mouth to relax. "I didn't recognize you. What's on your mind?"

"Only my cap," admitted McHenry, removing it thoughtfully. "Look here, Wilcox; who's the animated hatpin covering the Chinese situation out in your front parlor?"

"Chinese situation?" repeated Wilcox, in grave doubt.

"Yes. Good-looking chap with lots of legs under him."

"Oh, that's Phil Smith. He's scribe for a couple of New York newspapers. What's the matter with him?"

"You ought not to let those insects clutter up your factory," reproved McHenry, finding a chair, and taking possession of it. "He gives me the willies. If I ever saw a man with a free-lunch expression on his face, he's it!"

"To tell the truth," said Wilcox, lowering his voice, "I imagine he's in a pretty bad way, Pep. He's working his way through, and trying to take high rank at the same time. And he's scribing, and tutoring, and working for second assistant business manager of this publication, too. You remember him, don't you? You ought to—he's in your class. He's that Colorado lad who's supposed to be such a wizard of a baseball man. Don't you recollect the row about him last year?"

"Baseball!" said McHenry, sitting upright.

"Yes. He's the man who couldn't afford to play baseball."

"He—he couldn't afford—why, darn him, he's got to play! The idea of a man cutting out sports because he's too poor to spend the time—he's got to play!"

"Well, he can't."

"Why can't he?"

"Because it's all he can do to keep up with his class now. He's doing some clerical work over in Brooks House—I forgot to put that in. Of course if he got this second assistant's job, he'd have easier time of it, but—"

"For Pete's sake," said McHenry, "where would he get time to work for this bloody sheet?"

"As a matter of fact, he doesn't."

"Is he any good—I mean in baseball?"

"All I know is that he played one Saturday afternoon last spring in the scrub series, and made two two-baggers and two three-baggers, and about 'steen million coaches sat around his bedside until three g.m. [sic] trying to persuade him to starve to death for the sake of the team—that's all I know, Pep."

"Merciful St. Patrick! When did this managership competition start?"

"First of the year, but it doesn't end until February."

"Simply getting ads?"

"That's practically all it is." "And the rake-off?"

"Well, the second assistant gets two shares—about a hundred and eighty dollars the first year. Next year he'd be first assistant, and have four shares, and senior year, when he's manager, he'd get away with eleven or twelve hundred dollars if the paper has good business."

"It's a very disgusting way you have of splitting up profits on the Crime," complained McHenry. "Very too much professional. You ought to hoard it up, like the Lampoon, and build an idiotic building that nobody uses."

"Well, if you knew how much work it takes to get out this paragon of publicity," declared the junior, "you'll think we're mighty well underpaid, Pep. It's all very well for you to talk—you rich guys who sit back and wear out the cushions on the Institute chairs, and—"

"Hold on, boy!" said McHenry. "Stop right there! Do you know whom you're addressing in this flippant manner? Whatever else you do, cut out the childish prattle. I'm the most absogoldarnlutely busted man in the State of Massachusetts at this present moment." "It isn't a State—it's a commonwealth."

"Let it in—are you sure this long-legged virtuoso's really a baseball player?"

"Pep, I've told you all I know."

"It didn't take long at that," mused McHenry. "And—and so the poor chap camps out there, editing Chinese correspondence for the yellow journals when he might be playing ball. Oh, what a rotten farce!"

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Wilcox sweetly.

"A great deal!" snapped McHenry, jumping to his feet, and seizing his cap. "The trouble with you literary fellows is that you can't ever see over the ink bottle! You're mildewed in this subterranean cavern you call a printing plant. Here I'm spoiling for some thing to do, and a man who's undoubtedly the best pitcher east of the Mississippi—"

"His regular position is shortstop," said Wilcox.

"What a disgustingly small nature you have, Wilcox! That's a mere detail. You're a narrow-minded lot of esthetics, just as I was saying. Instead of making it possible for this crack shortstop—although I'll bet he can pitch like a streak!—this man-eating, stone-wall infielder to come out and bat home runs for the glory of the university, you just sit back and watch him perspire in this second-class chicken coop you call a newspaper office! And then, when the Elis beat us a few more times, you'll write some more editorial drool about the good players not coming out for the team! You give me a pain in the neck! Have a heart!"

"But, Pepper," said Wilcox weakly, "we can't elect this gink second assistant manager just because he needs the money—"

"All right," said Pepper savagely. "If you can't, I can!"

"Pepper!"

"Good ''night!" ''

"Wait a second! Look here—"

He was gone! The most volatile man of a very cosmopolitan university had shot through the door of the sanctum, and fallen upon the recalcitrant Phil Smith with all the ardor of a fiery nature.

"Here!" said McHenry. "Does it make any difference to you if you get first-class, fresh, snappy, exclusive ideas?"

"What—what?" said the scribe, gasping.

"You come right along with me to my room—that is, if you care to. I'd like to have you. I've got some ideas that'll make 'em all sit up and take notice!"

The scribe bundled his papers into a drawer, and slapped the cover on his machine.

"Lead me to it," he said joyfully.

To the room he had quitted in utter boredom half an hour ago, McHenry returned in great enthusiasm, and brought out his most vicious-looking cigars for the delectation of his guest. He offered matches, provided two ash trays, outlined the advantages of all the chairs, and finally set about building an open fire, which was wholly unnecessary, for the room was adequately heated by steam.

His Fabian tactics were caused partly by his innate sense of dramatic generalship, and partly because he had allowed his imagination to run away with the facts. His heart had cried out in sympathy for an athlete who couldn't afford to play baseball, and his heart had made certain representations of a very specific nature, but his intellect held no news of sufficient importance to justify the invitation he had so spontaneously extended. At the same time, he knew his own resources. Something would turn up—it always did—and in the meanwhile, the fire was extraordinarily hard to kindle.

"Can't I help you?" asked Smith solicitously.

"No, thanks. Er—I take it the scribing isn't awfully good just now?"

"It's perfectly punk. If you've got any real stuff, it'll cheer me up a lot."

"I don't want—that is, I'm asking out of sheer curiosity—is there anything in it?"

"Only space rates—eight dollars a column."

"Holy mackerel!" said McHenry, squatting on the hearth. "Only I suppose," he added hopefully, "you clean up a good wad in football season."

"Well, hardly. They send over an expert."

McHenry fanned the kindling to a gentle blaze, and got awkwardly to his feet.

"That's tough luck. You play football yourself, don't you?"

"Oh, I knocked around a bit at school. I played baseball more."

"I see. Did you make the freshman last year?"

The scribe reddened a little.

"No. I didn't try." "You didn't try!" McHenry's tone was as ingenuous as though he hadn't already heard the narrative from Wilcox.

"No use beating around the bush," said Smith manfully. "I simply couldn't afford it."

"Oh! I beg your pardon."

"It's quite unnecessary. I'm going through on my own, and that isn't all, either. I'm going to Law School later, so I've really got to do more than earn my own living. I've got to save something. A man in Law School doesn't have much of an opportunity to do things on the side, you know."

"I know," said McHenry soberly. "Now—now about this second assistant managership of the Crime."

"Don't speak of it!" said Smith. "There isn't a chance. Not a chance. I can't get out and hustle for ads the way the other candidates do. I suppose I really ought to have taken my name off the list."

"Plenty of time; plenty of time. You've got until February. Er—how's the cigar going? Care for it at all?"

"It's a regular he-cigar, thank you. You were saying something about news?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. I—I remember that very well. I don't know if anything I can say will interest you, of course— Excuse me a minute, while I look after that fire, will you?"

The germ of an idea incubated in the warmth; McHenry expressed it over his shoulder.

"It's a funny thing," he said, "but in a good many colleges a man like you wouldn't have to hump so hard. You'd be taken care of—so you could play baseball. They'd get you an agency to sell cigarettes, or negligée shirts, or something."

"That's one of the reasons I came here," said Smith calmly. "I could have gone to other places and made a good deal of money, only I didn't care to do it that way."

"But you'd come out for the team if the finances were right?"

"You couldn't stop me!"

"Then look here," said McHenry frankly. "We've simply got to get together. I don't know much about work, and you don't apparently know much about anything else, so we ought to make a whale of a good team. We'll have to even up somehow. The team needs infielders like blue blazes—you know that!—and it's a blamed shame for a man like you to sit down at a typewriter and grind out press stuff, when a man like me hasn't anything to do but wait around until it's time to eat again! And I can guess how you feel. I can't even play bean bag myself—but it must be perfect Hades to want to play ball and not be able to."

"That's mighty decent of you," conceded Smith, "but—I guess I'll have to get along the best way I can. There's no particular reason for you to worry about my troubles. Now you really can help out, if you want to, with that news item."

"Smith," said his peppery host, "I'm—to tell the truth, maybe I got you up here under false pretenses. You see, Wilcox said something—and I'm interested in the team, of course, and I wanted to have a talk with you—so, speaking hurriedly—I didn't say news, you know, I said ideas!"

He paused lamely, but the scribe had laid his cigar carefully on the ash tray, brushed his coat free from a few stray shreds of tobacco, and stood up.

"Wait! You don't know yet!"

"I know my time's worth something—not much, I admit, but still—"

"But you've got to get that business managership!" gasped McHenry. "Don't you see, man? Look at it! It's the only way out! Twelve hundred in senior year alone—and all sorts of graft in between! And you can play baseball, and—"

"I haven't one chance in a million for that job, McHenry, and you know it!"

"I don't know it! I've got an idea!"

"Spring it!" said Smith.

"It's—it's a way to get ads without going out to solicit em! It won't take any of your time, and you'll get that job sure! And—why, you ought to be with the squad as soon as it gets in the cage! I'd bet a hundred thousand dollars on it—any time!"

"Spring it!" said Smith. "And, by the way, if it's as good as you say it is, why do you pick me out? Why don't you hand it to some of your friends? What's the joke?"

"One thing at a time, please. By gosh, it's—it's staggering! It's like rolling off a log! Why, my dear fellow, all my friends are positively embarrassed with money! Besides I like to dig out schemes. There's six or seven thousand dollars a year in it! But—will you swear not to breathe a word about my part in it?"

"I'd swear not to breathe for a year for six thousand dollars," said Smith.

McHenry, who had taken to pacing the room excitedly, halted long enough to grab a pipe from the mantel.

"The Harvard Show Rooms—and Advertising Agency," he said, stuffing tobacco into the bowl. "Care for the name at all?"

The scribe stared at him, wrinkled his nose reflectively, sat down, and picked up the cigar from the ash tray.

"My time isn't worth as much as I thought it was," he said cheerfully. "Let's hear the rest of it."

Shortly after dusk, Pepper McHenry slipped out of his luxurious dormitory, and up Linden Street to the avenue, where two long strides and a short one brought him to a small, freshly decorated shop, whose windows were obscured by tightly drawn shades. At the sound of his key in the lock, some one inside stirred slightly. There was a noise as of an overturned chair, and Phil Smith, erstwhile scribe for New York newspapers, appeared in the doorway, flushed and palpitating.

"Murder and sudden death!" exclaimed McHenry, leaping into the shop, and instantly closing the door. "You must have thought the place was pinched! What's the matter with you, anyway, Smithy? Can't you keep your feet on the floor once in a while?" He became aware of the presence of a third party, and coughed apologetically.

"Mr. Phelps, of Cook & Son," said Smith, in wild excitement; and Mr. Phelps and Mr. McHenry shook hands. Mr. Phelps was a middle-aged gentleman, dressed exactly like the advertisements of collars.

"It's rather a neat little hole, isn't it?" queried McHenry. "Do you—care for it at all?"

Mr. Phelps laughed pleasantly.

"It's a mighty clever idea," he said. "Why, yes. Considering the way we've had to show our goods out here for the last ten years—in the dark corners of somebody else's store—I think it is rather a 'neat little hole.'"

"He wants it Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, the first week in every month, in term time," said Smith ecstatically.

"All to himself—exclusive?"

"That's what we were talking about," admitted Mr. Phelps. He resumed his seat, and produced a gold cigarette holder, in which he inserted a gold-tipped cigarette, and smoked in a very gentlemanly manner. "If you'll let me offer you a little gratuitous advice, however, you'll lower your prices, Mr.—McHenry, wasn't it? I should say offhand you're trying to charge about twice too much."

"It can't be done," said Pepper. "Why, look here. You haven't the faintest idea what the rent of this miserable little dump is. You go out and try to get a better price somewhere, and see what they'll say! There's the tariff, and the high cost of living, and the new income tax." He counted them off on his fingers.

"Of course," interposed Smith, "if Mr. Phelps insists—"

"If Mr. Phelps insists," said McHenry grimly, "we'll let Hamilton & White have those days. They asked for 'em anyway."

"But it really does seem to me," maintained Mr. Phelps, "that you're a little unreasonable, considering all the circumstances. Now if you boys—"

"I beg your pardon," said McHenry, in a voice which had apparently been in cold storage for several months.

The representative of Cook & Son choked over his cigarette.

"I said, if you gentlemen want to make money on this scheme, you'd probably be willing to do a little advertising for us."

"Have you told him yet?" said McHenry to Smith.

"Not yet," faltered Smith to McHenry.

The prime mover in the Show Rooms leaned against the mission desk, and smiled benignly.

"Here's the whole story," he began. "You take this shop the first three days of every month. You get a show window right on the avenue. And right here I want to ask you if you've noticed the gate across the street? No? Well, that's where all the Lizzie-boys go into the Yard for lectures. When they come out again—and you want to remember that they've got to come out some time—they see this joint staring them right in the face. They can't miss it. In the window you'll have your display, and over the door, you'll have a sign something like this: 'Cook & Son, of New York: Clothiers—Haberdashers—Hatters. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.' Do you think that's any good?"

"Surely it's good!"

"It's a lot better than having a salesman come out here once a month with a lot of samples about as big as a soda cracker, and camping in a drug store to show his stuff," said McHenry scathingly. "I wonder that you New York concerns ever sold a cent's worth that way." "Yes, we can show a good line here, and we ought to do some business, but—"

"Let me do all the butting," pleaded McHenry. "Now, to back up your display, you take half a page in the Crimson each day you're here. You simply send your copy and cuts to Mr. Smith here, and he'll see to all the details. You advertise your line in the Crime, and show it here, and that's all there is to it. You've always done a pretty fair business in Cambridge, Mr. Phelps, but you ought to double it when you have a regular stand. And you'll be in darned good company, too, because we're booked solid—or, rather, we think we're going to be—and only first-class people can get in here."

"Of course, he could send the order and copy direct to the Crime," said Smith weakly.

"Not in a thousand years he couldn't!"

"It doesn't make any real difference, Pep!"

"It makes all the difference in the world!"

"Let it go," said Mr. Phelps pacifically. "The main point is the rent. We'd agree to the advertising all right. We've always used small space in the Crimson; but, as you say, it would be very advisable to tie our display up to some half pages."

"I told you so!" said McHenry to Smith.

"You do forget, I think, that there isn't much profit for us in selling one suit of clothes, Mr. McHenry. I doubt if the big tobacconists, or the sporting-goods people, and the other out-of-town concerns, who send salesmen out here, can possibly use this place of yours, and fail to make money—but just take this one point; take the tariff—"

"Whoa!" said McHenry. "Once when I was dizzy with the heat I took Ec. One—that's Economics, Mr. Phelps—I know you save about four dollars a suit on that new tariff! I know you!"

The representative blushed warmly.

"Pepper!" said the agonized shortstop.

"Keep your shirt on!" retorted McHenry. "If you don't, Phelps might try to sell you some new ones."

"And you'd expect settlement when?"

"In advance," said McHenry promptly. "We'd expect your check at least two days before you show up."

"Oh, that's ridiculous!"

"Now wait a bit!" said McHenry, motioning Smith to silence. "Look here, Mr. Phelps, we expect to have somebody from out of town, showing goods here every day of every week. We've had applications from sixteen firms already. They used to come out here, as you know perfectly well, and be mighty thankful to get desk room anywhere they could find it. Some of the little fellows will double up on this joint, but the big ones like you will have it exclusively for a few days at a time. We offer you a clean shop, with a front on the avenue, and there are plenty of people who want it if you don't. Only if you sign up now, you get it on the first of next month, and you'll be the first concern in here. That ought to count for something."

"Pepper!" gasped the ex-scribe in desperation, "give him a chance!"

"Let her run, Phil—I'm only getting warmed up. This is a unique institution, Mr. Smith—I mean, Mr. Phelps. You ought to be wise enough to see that a couple of undergraduates can't get such a frightful lot of credit in Cambridge. If we don't pay the rent by the fifth of the month, for instance, we'll get shot out of here so fast that we'll land in Somerville ahead of the dynamite. We've got to have the check in advance. Also the check for advertising. Phil, give him a Crime rate card."

"I've got one," said Mr. Phelps shortly. "Now about a lease—a contract."

For the first time, McHenry looked nonplused.

"You write it, Phil," he said. "We'll have to get some printed for us later on."

"You're so correct—so very correct, Mr. McHenry," grinned the man from Cook & Son, "that I hope you'll make it perfectly legal."

"'We, Cook & Son,' " dictated McHenry steadfastly, "'agree to hire the Harvard Show Rooms, one room on the ground floor of 9876 Mass. Avenue, Cambridge, Massachusetts, U. S. A.'—is that legal enough for you, Mr. Phelps?—'on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday on the first week of each month, from September to June inclusive. And on each of those days, we'll use a half page of space in the Crime—I mean the Harvard Crimson—sending the check to Phil Smith, care of the Harvard Show Rooms, on the previous Friday. And on that same Friday we'll also send a check for the use of the rooms, which will be twenty dollars a day. And whether we use the rooms or not, we'll send the check—both checks, just the same. In other words, so that nobody will try to get funny with this contract, we intend the Show Rooms to draw down sixty dollars of our money every month, and the Crime is to get three half pages of space, even if by and by freezes over. We mean business!'—is that legal enough for you, Mr. Phelps?"

The representative, convulsed with laughter, affixed his name to the remarkable document.

"And now," he chuckled, "suppose we do a little advertising in your college paper, anyway? Why wouldn't it be a good idea to use—say a half page every day from now until we open up? A sort of general announcement of the Show Rooms in general, and Cook & Son in particular? Would you agree to let us do that, instead of announcing it yourselves?"

"Why, I suppose we might," said McHenry slowly.

"You bet we will!" shrilled Smith.

"And—of course it's out of the ordinary—but I certainly do admire your originality in this thing, and I understand about the credit end of it, too—so I'll have an order for the advertising made out as soon as I get back to New York, and send it, with both the checks, right along. If this idea works out as I think it will, it'll be an asset to us, too—and you're both very clever boys—I should say, young men."

"Thank you," said McHenry soberly. "And don't forget to send the checks to Mr. Smith, will you? That's really the biggest part of the scheme."

When the clothing man had gone, McHenry smiled broadly, and held out his hand. Smith grasped it fervently.

"Oh, Pepper!" he said. "Oh—Pepper!"

"Ahem!" coughed Pepper briskly. "Well, now, old top, you see how it's done, don't you? This joint ought to make money on the rent alone, and if the advertising these fellows will do doesn't get you that assistant managership, I'll—I'll eat my hat! Remember this, though—a lot of 'em like Phelps will think you're an easy mark because you're in college. Don't let 'em scare you. Take a tip from Pepper—go after 'em! They can't afford not to use us! Do you think any reputable house would dare to send a salesman out here to hang around a drug store and show samples on the prescription desk, when there's a place like this in town? The answer is, No. Well, do you think you can run it all right?"

"Do I? We ought to make a killing, Pepper!"

"Not we—you."

"Me? What?"

"You heard me."

"But—I don't get it!"

"My dear boy," said Pepper gently, "I can't stick any longer. It's quite impossible. Why, you don't know what my father would say if he thought I was interested in a money-making scheme. Although," he appended reflectively, "I don't quite know what he'll say when he finds out I've spent most of my year's allowance already, and the snow isn't here yet. Well—he gives me enough. I can't kick. You see, Phil, I just planned to get this thing going for you, and here's where I get off."

"B-but—Pep—"

"That's my middle name," said McHenry. "Good luck to you, old scout."

"But I can't—why, you've no reason at all! You've simply—you've set me up in business. Pepper McHenry! And you've got to share it with me!"

"Phil," said his friend, "if you can play ball as well as I think you can, some day I'll be proud of having loaned you one idea. And I'll be darned proud to have done it, too! And if you ever mention my name in connection with this joint, I'll wallop you over the eye!" He laid his hand on the doorknob, and burst out laughing. "Don't look so tragic, Phil," he begged. "That's just the kind of guy I am, you know. I never carried anything through in my life. I just sort of get things started. Besides, I wouldn't have the time to dub around here anyway. Just one thing more—don't offer anybody too much for his money. Did you see Phelps fall over himself for that set of announcements in the Crime? He's really going to advertise us from now until he opens up. And just before he sprang that, I'd made up my mind to announce us in full pages in the Crime, and pay for the ads myself!"

"But, Pep I You guaranteed the rent—and—and all—"

"Don't worry, old top! I paid one month's rent—I borrowed the money from Wilcox, by the way—and you can pay me back as soon as you get some advance checks. So long—you old calamity howler! Come in and see me some time!" He went out, laughing, and ran headlong into an inoffensive sophomore, who was knocked off the sidewalk into four inches of accumulated rainfall.

"For Pat's sake, Pep McHenry!" growled the indignant one. "You're the limit! I don't believe you ever thought of anybody else's comfort in all your life!"

Over the deep green of Soldiers' Field the last shadows of the afternoon were slowly lengthening when a slim young man rose from the Harvard bench, and strolled unconcernedly to the plate. Near second base a frenzied senior danced impatiently; at third a stolid junior waited for the supreme effort, and guyed the Yale third baseman as he waited. The blue-stockinged infielders closed in for the last man. From grand stand and bleachers came alternate roars of hope, and inspiration, and pleading.

"Paste it, Smithy—''paste it!" ''

"Last man, everybody—play it safe!"

"Takes one to hit, old boy!"

"Two runs to win, old top—one to tie!"

"Wait for a good one, Smithy!"

"Lean against the trade-mark—ooh!"

The Yale pitcher shook his head at the catcher's signal. Twice before had this slim young Harvard shortstop caught a fast one on the end of his bat, and sent it far out toward the marshes for extra-base hits. Now, with two on bases and two out, and two runs needed for Harvard to win, the Yale pitcher shook his head until the man behind the plate signaled a drop. Then the pitcher nodded, and put the last ounce of his strength into the delivery. And Phil Smith, who was now in a position to care little for the high cost of living, knocked a perfectly good dollar-and-a-quarter baseball half way to the Charles River.

McHenry, Wilcox, and one Ted Sewall, fought their way arm in arm over the narrow bridge, and through the happy crowd, up to the equally crowded and happy Square. They talked little, but what they said was pregnant.

"Four to three," said Sewall needlessly. The others had also stayed through the game.

"Didn't he lean against it?" pleaded Wilcox hoarsely. "Didn't he?"

"I suppose you noticed that Smithy knocked in all four runs at one time or another, and saved the game about eleven times every inning," said McHenry.

"Some boy," said Sewall.

"Cleverest I ever saw," conceded Wilcox. "They say he's cleaned up over a thousand dollars on those Show Rooms—somebody's there every day of the week."

"And on the busy end of the Crime," said McHenry.

"Oh, well, we couldn't keep him off. He brought in so darned much advertising from the people who used the Rooms that we had to elect him. He'll make good, too."

"They also say he's some little feetball player," observed Sewall. "It's a good thing he caught that idea, isn't it? If he'd kept on grinding the way he had been, we'd have lost the Princeton series this year, too. Well—let's shoot a game of billiards until dinner time."

"I'm with you," said Wilcox. "Pepper?"

"Not me," yawned McHenry. "I haven't the nerve. I owe 'em about seventy-nine dollars right now."

"You make me tired. Pep," said Wilcox severely. "You ought to be mighty well ashamed of yourself. There's a man like Phil Smith working his way through, and paying his debts like an honest man, and you've got a couple of thousand allowance, and owe money like a railroad!"

"See you later, Pep," added Sewall. "But I advise you to pay up pretty soon—these folks begin to get anxious about now, you know. And as a friendly tip—if you want to borrow any money, I guess Phil's got all you want. I think it's pretty disgusting for you to let a greasy grind beat you out on the question of paying your debts! You're a degrading influence! See you later!"

McHenry watched his friends disappear under the brilliantly illuminated sign of the smoke shops, and turned away with a queer little sigh. The bulletin pasted on the front window attracted his attention, and he glanced at it reminiscently. There were two items:

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End of seventh: Yale, 3; Harvard, 2.

Final score: Harvard, 4; Yale, 3.

.

"Oh, well," said McHenry to himself, yawning. "Oh, well—I saved their blamed old game for 'em, anyway!"