Burne was suddenly so much realler than being clever.
Yet he sighed... here were other possible clay feet.

He thought back through two years, of Burne as a hurried, nervous
freshman, quite submerged in his brother's personality. Then he
remembered an incident of sophomore year, in which Burne had been
suspected of the leading role.

Dean Hollister had been heard by a large group arguing with a
taxi-driver, who had driven him from the junction. In the course of the
altercation the dean remarked that he "might as well buy the taxicab."
He paid and walked off, but next morning he entered his private office
to find the taxicab itself in the space usually occupied by his desk,
bearing a sign which read "Property of Dean Hollister. Bought and Paid
for."... It took two expert mechanics half a day to dissemble it into
its minutest parts and remove it, which only goes to prove the rare
energy of sophomore humor under efficient leadership.

Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation. A certain
Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had failed to get her
yearly invitation to the Harvard-Princeton game.

Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a few weeks before,
and had pressed Burne into service--to the ruination of the latter's
misogyny.

"Are you coming to the Harvard game?" Burne had asked indiscreetly,
merely to make conversation.

"If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly.

"Of course I do," said Burne feebly. He was unversed in the arts of
Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of kidding.
Before an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed involved. Phyllis
had pinned him down and served him up, informed him the train she was
arriving by, and depressed him thoroughly. Aside from loathing Phyllis,
he had particularly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Harvard
friends.

"She'll see," he informed a delegation who arrived in his room to josh
him. "This will be the last game she ever persuades any young innocent
to take her to!"

"But, Burne--why did you _invite_ her if you didn't want her?"

"Burne, you _know_ you're secretly mad about her--that's the _real_
trouble."

"What can _you_ do, Burne? What can _you_ do against Phyllis?"

But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which consisted
largely of the phrase: "She'll see, she'll see!"

The blithesome Phyllis bore her twenty-five summers gayly from the
train, but on the platform a ghastly sigh