the boy's father read near it, when another sound made his pulse
jump.

"Chase him out," came from the bed in a weak, cheerful voice.
"Don't want any more things shut up for a spell."

An hour later the older man stood over the boy. "Do you know
your next job, Johnny?" he said. "You've got to get well in
three weeks. Your triennial in New Haven is then."

"Holy--mackerel!" exploded the feeble tones. "All right, Henry,
I'll do it."


* * *


Somewhere in the last days of June, New England is at its
loveliest and it is commencement time at Yale. Under the tall
elms stretch the shady streets, alive eternally with the
ever-new youth of ever-coming hundreds of boys. But at
commencement the pleasant, drowsy ways take on an astonishing
character; it is as if the little city had gone joyfully mad.
Hordes of men of all ages, in startling clothes, appear in all
quarters. Under Phelps Gate-way one meets pirates with long hair,
with ear-rings, with red sashes; crossing the campus comes a band
of Highlanders, in front of the New Haven House are stray
Dutchmen and Japanese and Punchinellos and other flotsam not
expected in a decorous town; down College Street a group of
men in gowns of white swing away through the dappled shadows.