The girl sitting in the window of Durfee understood thoroughly
the character and the chances of the day. The seniors at the tree
wear derby hats; the juniors none at all; it is easier by this sign
to distinguish the classmen, and to keep track of the tapping.
The girl knew of what society was each black-hatted man who twisted
through the bareheaded throng; in that sea of tense faces she
recognized many; she could find a familiar head almost anywhere
in the mass and tell as much as an outsider might what hope was
hovering over it. She came of Yale people; Brant, her brother,
would graduate this year; she was staying at the house of a Yale
professor; she was in the atmosphere.

There, near the edge of the pack, was Bob Floyd, captain of
the crew, a fair, square face with quiet blue eyes, whose
tranquil gaze was characteristic. To-day it was not tranquil;
it flashed anxiously here and there, and the girl smiled. She knew
as certainly as if the fifteen seniors had told her that Floyd
would be "tapped for Bones." The crew captain and the foot-ball
captain are almost inevitably taken for Skull and Bones. Yet
five years before Jack Emmett, captain of the crew, had not
been taken; only two years back Bert Connolly, captain of the
foot-ball team, had not been taken. The girl, watching the big
chap's unconscious face, knew well what was in his mind. "What
chance have I against all these bully fellows," he was saying
to himself in his soul, "even if I do happen to be crew captain?
Connolly was a mutt--couldn't take him--but Jack Emmett--there
wasn't any reason to be seen for that. And it's just muscles
I've got--I'm not clever--I don't hit it off with the crowd--I've
done nothing for Yale, but just for the crew. Why the dickens
should they take me?" But the girl knew.