ach
through the Berkshires. The Judsons are to be along and that pretty
Miss Dow, of whom I was so jealous when you were here, do you
remember? I met a Mr. Cockrell, who, it seems, was at Lawrenceville.
He told me you were going to be a phenomenal football player,
captain of the team next year, and all sorts of wonderful things. He
_admires_ you _tremendously_. I was so pleased! Don't forget to
write soon.

As ever,
JOSEPHINE.

This letter, as indeed all her letters did, left Dink trapezing, so to
speak, from one emotion to another. He had not acquired that
knowledge, which indeed is never acquired, of valuing to a nicety the
intents, insinuations and complexities of the feminine school of
literature.

There were things that sent him soaring like a Japanese kite and there
were things, notably the reference to Ver Plank, that tumbled him as
awkwardly down.

He immediately seized upon pen and paper. It had, perhaps, been his
fault. He would conduct the correspondence on a more serious tone. He
would be a little--daring.

At the start he fell into the usual inky deliberation. "Dear
Josephine" was so inadequate. "My dear Josephine" had--or did it not
have--just an extra little touch of tenderness, a peculiar claim to
possession. But if so, would it be too bold or too sentimental? He
wrote boldly:

"My dear Josephine:"

Then he considered. Unfortunately, at that time the late lamented Pete
Daly, in the halls of the likewise lamented Weber and Fields, was
singing dusky love songs to a lady likewise entitled "My Josephine."
The connection was unthinkable. Dink tore the page into minute bits
and, selecting another, sighed and returned to the old formula.

Here another long pause succeeded while he searched for a sentiment or
a resolve that would raise him in her estimation. It is a mood in
which the direction of a lifetime is sometimes bartered for a phrase.
So it happened with Dink. Suddenly his face lit up and he started to
write:

DEAR JOSEPHINE: Your letter came to me just as I was writing you of
a plan I have been thinking of for weeks. I have decided not to go
to college. Of course, it would be a great pleasure and, perhaps, I
look upon life too seriously, as you often tell me; but I want to
get to work, to feel that I am standing on my own feet, and four
years seems an awful time to wait,--for that. What do you think? I
do hope you understand just _what_ I mean. It is