“By Jove!” said Cowan.  “We’ve got seven home games this year!  That’s fine, isn’t it?  But I’ll bet we’ll find Woodby a tough proposition on the 12th.  Last year we played her about the 1st of November, and she didn’t do a thing to us.  And look at the game they’ve got scheduled for a week before the Robinson game!  That’ll wear us out; Artmouth will put just about half of our men on the sick-list.  And—­Hello!” he said, dropping his voice; “talk of an angel!”

A youth of apparently nineteen years was approaching them.  He was of moderate height, rather slimly built, with dark eyes and hair, and clean-cut features.  He swung a note-book in one hand, and was evidently in deep thought, for he failed to see the group on the steps, and would have passed without speaking had not Cowan called to him.  Housed from his reverie, Fanwell Livingston glanced up, and, after nodding to Cowan and Neil, turned in at the gate.

“I suppose you want congratulations,” said Cowan.  “Well, you can have mine.”

“And mine,” added Neil.  “And Gale here will extend his as soon as he’s properly introduced.  Mr. Gale—­Mr. Livingston.”

“Victory—­Defeat,” added Cowan with a grin.  The two candidates for the freshman presidency shook hands, Paul without enthusiasm, Livingston heartily.

“Congratulations, of course,” murmured the former.

“Thank you,” answered the president.  “You’re very generous.  After all, I dare say you’ve got the best of it, for you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that if the fellows had chosen you you would have done much better than I shall.  However, I hope we’ll be friends, Mr. Gale.”  Livingston’s smile was undeniably winning, and Paul was forced to return it.

“You’re very good,” he answered quite affably.  “I hope we will.”  Livingston nodded, smiled again, and turned to Cowan.

“Well, they tell me you fellows are in for desperate deeds this year,” he said.

“How’s that?” asked Cowan.

“Aren’t you in on the sophomore councils?  Why, I’m told that if the freshmen don’t give up the dinner plan I’m to be kidnaped.”

“How’d you hear—­” began Cowan.  Then he paused with some confusion.  “Who told you that rot?” he asked with a laugh.

“Oh, it came in a roundabout way,” answered Livingston.  “I dare say it’s just talk.”

“Some freshman nonsense,” said Cowan.  “I guess we’ll do our best to keep you fellows from eating too much, but—­” He shrugged his big shoulders.  Livingston, observing him shrewdly, began for the first time since intelligence of the supposed project had reached him to give credence to it.  But he laughed carelessly as he turned away.

“Oh, well, we have to keep you fellows amused, of course, and if you like to try kidnaping you may.”

“I wish the sophs would try it,” said Neil warmly.  Cowan turned to him.

“Well, if they did—­if they did—­I guess they’d succeed,” he drawled.