"Will they let us?"
"Why not? There's no study hour to-night. Anyway, we won't be gone more than ten minutes."
There was a light behind the windows of Number 17 West as they passed the courtyard, and Clif pictured Walter Harrison Treat up there rearranging his shoes for the fourth time and chuckled. Kemble asked what the joke was and Clif explained. Kemble declared that Treat must be a pill, adding: "I wish you and I had got together, Bingham. I'm with a Second Class fellow named Desmond, Billy Desmond. Not a bad sort, but a bit snifty because he's been around here a couple of years."
"I guess Treat feels sort of superior for the same reason," mused Clif.
"I don't want to be harsh with Desmond, because he's a First Team man; plays tackle, I think; and he might be useful. I say, you're going out for practice to-morrow, aren't you?"
"Yes. I haven't heard anything about it, but I suppose they want candidates."
"Of course they do. Did you bring togs?"
"Some old ones. I'll get others if—it's worth while."
"Oh, you'll get to play somewhere. Desmond says there's a lot of rivalry amongst the class teams. And then there's the scrub, too."
"I'll be lucky to make that, I guess. The fellows here look awfully big and husky, Kemble."
"Yes, there's a guy at my table who must be nine-
