grandfather, and the older brothers who had graduated four and
six years ago--all of them. Except himself. The girl had thought
it such a disgrace that she would not look at him! Then he grew
angry. It wasn't decent, to hit a man when he was down. A woman
ought to be gentle--if his mother had been alive--but then he
was glad she wasn't. With that a sob shook him--startled him.
Angrily he stood up and glared about the place. This wouldn't do;
he must pull himself together. He walked up and down the little
living room, bright with boys' belongings, with fraternity shields
and flags and fencing foils and paddles and pictures; he walked
up and down and he whistled "Dunderbeck," which somehow was in
his head. Then he was singing it:

"Oh Dunderbeck, Oh Dunderbeck, how could you be so mean
As even to have thought of such a terrible machine!
For bob-tailed rats and pussy-cats shall never more be seen;
They'll all be ground to sausage-meat in Dunderbeck's machine."

There are times when Camembert cheese is a steadying thing to
think of--or golf balls. "Dunderbeck" answered for John McLean.
It appeared difficult to sing, however--he harked back to
whistling. Then the clear piping broke suddenly. He bit his
lower lip and went and sat down before the desk again and turned
on the electric reading-lamp. Now he had given in long enough;
now he must face the situation; now was the time to find if
there was any backbone in him to "buck up." To fool those chaps
by amounting to something. There was good stuff in this boy that
he applied this caustic and not a salve. His buoyant
lightheartedness whispered that the fellows made mistakes;
that he was only one of many good chaps left; that Dick Harding