"By Jupiter, Jerry," whispered the football captain to Andrews, "he looks enough like you to be your father."
"Thank you for nothing," said Andrews, and at the same moment he reached across the shoulders of three or four men and tapped the regular college correspondent of "The Orbit."
"I'm down as a 'special,' Richmond," he said, with a smile that would have persuaded more obstinate fellows than the junior he was addressing; "I want you to let me have this." His voice was drowned by the college yell, which some irresponsible fellow proposed, in defiance of Patsy Tiernan, and which the Ossian boys made it a point of honor to give well, whoever started it. But as a whole the crowd was ready for mischief, and a few men were crying "Seals! Seals!" as the President of the University made his way to the steps of the car. He was terribly anxious at bottom for the conduct of his boys, knowing their capacity for spontaneous deviltry and the sudden unpopularity of Lord Rawlins, but he wore his jauntiest manner on the surface and the elaborateness of his greeting to his guest caught the mercurial fancy of the crowd.
"Give 'em the long yell," screamed some one, and the favorite long yell was given, on general principles. Tommy smiled with gratitude as he escorted the Ambassador down the shifting lane of under-graduates to his carriage.
"Speech! Speech!" shouted a hundred voices, but the President shook his head ceremoniously, and pretended not to hear the cries of "Seals! Seals!" "Burn him in effigy!" which Kilpatrick Tiernan was hoarsely raising in the rear of the crowd, to the joy of the hackmen and the dismay of the more seriously inclined. The carriage door closed sharply, and the "international act" was apparently over.
"That's good for a column," thought Andrews to himself, as the football captain marched him off to the field, following the drifting crowd. "And I wonder if the 'old man' wouldn't like me to try for an interview with Lord Rawlins? Even a fake interview might be better than nothing."
But his reportorial duties were forgotten the instant he reached the field and donned a sweater. For a long happy hour he coached the new half-back in particular and the rest of the team in general, while about half the university crowded over the side lines and called it the snappiest practice of the year. Then he got his bath, and a rub down from the affectionate hands of his old trainer, and it was nearly six when he reached the campus again. He had declined the training-table dinner and a half-dozen other invitations, in the hope of catching the British Ambassador at Tommy's, for the moment the excitement of coaching was over his uneasiness at his status with "The Orbit" came back again. One lucky stroke might make his fortune with the "old man" yet.
As he cut across the lawn toward the President's house the older members of the faculty, frock-coated and gloved, were coming away in solemn, awkward couples. That meant a reception, and it was probably just over. Lester, Tommy's man-of-all-work, was on duty at the door. Many a quarter of a dollar had he taken from Jerry Andrews, in return for items of interest to the readers of "The Orbit," but he shook his head with great importance when Jerry asked if there was any chance of getting Lord Rawlins's ear for a moment.
"Senator Martin is going to entertain his lordship at Belmartin, at dinner," Lester volunteered, nodding toward a United States senator who was pacing the great hallway. "They'll be driving over right away."
It was a dozen miles to the Senator's famous stock-farm, and his dinners were even more celebrated than his brood mares.
"Then Lord Rawlins won't be back till late, I suppose," hazarded Andrews.
"No, sir."
Now, if Andrews had been a little longer in the profession, he would have bagged the Ambassador then and there, and a senator into the bargain; but as it was he suffered Lester to close the door behind him, and he was half-way across the campus before he realized his mistake. He hesitated and turned back, but at that instant the Senator's carriage drove up to Tommy's door and Lord Rawlins entered it. He had lost his chance.
Ruefully he turned toward the telegraph office, to send his story of Lord Rawlins's arrival at the Ossian station that afternoon. It was something, of course, but the situation had promised something better yet, if he had not been so stupid. He stopped suddenly, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, his eyes glued to the ground, a queer look upon his face. Was it a chance remark made to him at the
