his man; every two or three minutes a man was found and felt that
thrilling touch and heard the order, "Go to your room." Each time
there was a shout of applause; each time the campus rushed in
a wave. And still the three hundred stood packed, waiting--
thinning a little, but so little. About thirty had been taken now,
and the black senior hats were visibly fewer, but the upturned boy
faces seemed exactly the same. Only they grew more anxious minute
by minute; minute by minute they turned more nervously this way
and that as the seniors worked through the mass. And as another
and another crashed from among them blind and solemn and happy
with his guardian senior close after, the ones who were left seemed
to drop into deeper quiet. And now there were only two black hats
in the throng; the girl looking down saw John McLean standing
stiffly, his gray eyes fixed, his face pale and set; at that
moment the two seniors found their men together. It was all over.
He had not been taken.

Slowly the two hundred and fifty odd men who had not been good
enough dispersed, pluckily laughing and talking together--
all of them, it is safe to say, with heavy hearts; for Tap Day
counts as much as that at Yale.

John McLean swung across the diagonal of the campus toward
Welch Hall where he lived. He saw the girl and her chaperon
come out of Durfee; and he lingered to meet them. Two days ago
he had met the girl here with Brant, and she had stopped and
shaken hands. It seemed to him it would help if that should
happen today. She might say a word; anything at all to show that
she was friends all the same with a fellow who wasn't good enough.
He longed for that. With a sick chaos of pain pounding at what