is the two
always."

"Harry, do you remember our serenade at the residence, after they
returned from Washington the first time?"

"No," answered Rice, "I remember, but I wasn't there. We played a game
somewhere that day and I stayed over and missed the fun."

"Tell us about it, Ralph," said Duncan, as he emptied the cubes of
cheese into the chafing-dish.

"Well, you see," said Shirlock, unbraiding himself from two affectionate
under-classmen on the couch and sitting up in the light, "the story
really begins with the first football game, which came off in the spring
of '92, and was ours, as every Freshman can tell you, even though he
doesn't know just what is meant by 'Pioneers.' The day of the game,
Whittemore, the captain, got a telegram from Washington wishing us luck
in our first encounter, and that afternoon we sent back answer in much
the same style that Caesar used on one occasion--I suppose the little man
to my left here can give me the Latin words?" he added, rumpling the
hair of a horizontal Freshman.

"Not long afterward the Senator and Mrs. Stanford came back from the
East and someone over in the Hall proposed that we give them a welcome
home. We could get a bigger demonstration there in those days than you
can now, I'll bet; you know everybody who was anybody at all lived in
Encina then; that was the center of the College life, politics began and
grew up there, and it was over there in the old lobby that we started
the Stanford spirit. Things were great, that first year. It's all right
enough here by our own fireside, with our own little gang, but I tell
you honestly if things could have lasted as they were that first year, I
wouldn't have wanted to come over here. We were all together, right in
line for everything, wise or foolish."

"It was the student body then, all right," put in Rice, "and we had the
Faculty with us too whether we were around the gridiron, where they
first had it, east of the cinder path, you know, learning the yell and
incidentally getting the team into condition for that 14-10, or whether
we were crawling by our lonelies through the fence over in the
vineyard."

"The days of grapes,
The days of scrapes,"

sang Pellams from the piano.

"Were there any profs on that flat-car?" interrupted Duncan. He had come
into College while a memory of that pioneer adventure yet lingered.

"It's unkind to remind us of that affair! No, I don't think there were.
The Faculty had