would be tapped.

The dominating, unhurried note rang, echoed, and began to
die away as they saw Brant's hand fall on Bob Floyd's shoulder.
The crew captain whirled and leaped, unseeing, through the crowd.
A great shout rose; all over the campus the people surged like
a wind-driven wave toward the two rushing figures, and everywhere
some one cried, "Floyd has gone Bones!" and the exciting business
had begun.

One looks at the smooth faces of boys of twenty and wonders what
the sculptor Life is going to make of them. Those who have known
his work know what sharp tools are in his kit; they know the tragic
possibilities as well as the happy ones of those inevitable strokes;
they shrink a bit as they look at the smooth faces of the boys
and realize how that clay must be moulded in the workshop--how
the strong lines which ought to be there some day must come from
the cutting of pain and the grinding of care and the push and
weight of responsibility. Yet there is service and love, too,
and happiness and the slippery bright blade of success in the
kit of Life the sculptor; so they stand and watch, a bit pitifully
but hopefully, as the work begins, and cannot guide the chisel
but a little way, yet would not, if they could, stop it, for the
finished job is going to be, they trust, a man, and only the
sculptor Life can make such.

The boy called Johnny McLean glanced up at the window in Durfee;
he met the girl's eyes, and the girl smiled back and made a gay
motion with her hand as if to say, "Keep up your pluck; you'll
be taken." And wished she felt sure of it. For, as Mrs. Anderson