e air of struggle that
pervaded his class. From the day when, wild-eyed and exhausted, the
jerseyed freshmen sat in the gymnasium and elected some one from Hill
School class president, a Lawrenceville celebrity vice-president, a
hockey star from St. Paul's secretary, up until the end of sophomore
year it never ceased, that breathless social system, that worship,
seldom named, never really admitted, of the bogey "Big Man."

First it was schools, and Amory, alone from St. Regis', watched the
crowds form and widen and form again; St. Paul's, Hill, Pomfret, eating
at certain tacitly reserved tables in Commons, dressing in their own
corners of the gymnasium, and drawing unconsciously about them a barrier
of the slightly less important but socially ambitious to protect them
from the friendly, rather puzzled high-school element. From the
moment he realized this Amory resented social barriers as artificial
distinctions made by the strong to bolster up their weak retainers and
keep out the almost strong.

Having decided to be one of the gods of the class, he reported
for freshman football practice, but in the second week, playing
quarter-back, already paragraphed in corners of the Princetonian, he
wrenched his knee seriously enough to put him out for the rest of the
season. This forced him to retire and consider the situation.

"12 Univee" housed a dozen miscellaneous question-marks. There were
three or four inconspicuous and quite startled boys from Lawrenceville,
two amateur wild men from a New York private school (Kerry Holiday
christened them the "plebeian drunks"), a Jewish youth, also from New
York, and, as compensation for Amory, the two Holidays, to whom he took
an instant fancy.

The Holidays were rumored twins, but really the dark-haired one, Kerry,
was a year older than his blond brother, Burne. Kerry was tall, with
humorous gray eyes, and a sudden, attractive smile; he became at once
the mentor of the house, reaper of ears that grew too high, censor of
conceit, vendor of rare, satirical humor. Amory spread the table of
their future friendship with all his ideas of what college should and
did mean. Kerry, not inclined as yet to take things seriously, chided
him gently for being curious at this inopportune time about the
intricacies of the social system, but liked him and was both interested
and amused.

Burne, fair-haired, silent, and intent, appeared in the house only as a
busy apparition, gliding in quietly at