Then Mr. Bradley, as if imitating Mr. Robbins, hit the pond in almost the same spot. It was then Mr. Robbins’ turn to cry “bravo,” which he did, and, to Rollo’s dismay, Stella’s father twice, at least, took the name of his Maker in vain.

You may be sure it was in vain, for, from then on, things went from bad to worse, until Rollo could stand it no longer. He turned and walked quietly back toward the house.

The gentlemen did not notice his departure; they were too busy digging holes in the ground and throwing sand out of a ditch which, to Rollo, seemed deep enough already.

“Never,” thought Rollo, “have I seen men dig up so much ground without either putting anything in or taking anything out.”

As Rollo neared the house he noticed that the tennis-ground was deserted. Two rackets lay on the terrace-steps. He crossed the terrace quietly and peered into the dim living-room within which he saw Monty and Miss Lois sitting on a sofa.

“Hurrah,” cried Rollo, bounding into the room, “may I join you?”

They were playing pillows-and-keys.

ROLLO’S EVENING WITH
UNCLE GEORGE

One cool morning in the early autumn, Rollo was sitting on the red velvet hassock which his mother had given him for his birthday, his chin resting on the sill of the window which faced toward Park Avenue. Below was a pleasant picture of green spaces and cheerful nursemaids attentively watching the tall constable on the corner, while their little charges darted nimbly amid the passing automobiles whose black tops glittered like the backs of large beetles. This was a scene which Rollo had often contemplated with much satisfaction, but to-day he found no pleasure in it whatsoever. Suddenly he heard a light step behind him and turning perceived that Jonas had entered the room, silently, as was his custom.

“Jonas,” said Rollo, crossly, “I wish you would not steal up behind me as you do. Since we have moved to the city and you have become my mother’s social secretary, instead of the hired man, you wear shoes which do not warn me of your approach by their squeaking. It is not right to spy so.”

Now this was very rude of Rollo, and it may be plainly seen that he was in an ill-humour, but Jonas only smiled pleasantly, which made Rollo more angry than ever.

“You are mistaken, Rollo,” said Jonas. “I was not spying upon you. In fact, quite the contrary, it was expressly to see you and deliver a message that I came into the room.”

“A message!” cried Rollo, “and from whom, pray?”

“From your Uncle George,” answered Jonas. “He wishes to know if you could dine with him to-night and go to the theatre.”

Rollo’s face lighted up with pleasure, but he replied seriously, “To-night? Let me see; to-day is Thursday, is it not? I do not think I have any engagement for this evening.”

Of course Rollo knew very well that he had no engagement, but he had learned that in the city it was not considered polite to accept any invitation without a certain amount of hesitation. When Jonas had left the room, however, Rollo leaped about with many a caper, and shouted “Hurray!” to himself. He no longer felt gloomy and contrary, but was quite satisfied with the world which had looked so dark to him a few moments before. At exactly seven o’clock in the evening, Rollo was ready and waiting, dressed in his best suit with a new tie which his father had purchased for ten cents from a peddler in the lower part of the city. Rollo’s father once said to him, “My son, buy everything you can from a cart. You get more for your penny.”

Uncle George came promptly as he had promised and Rollo drove off with him gaily in a bright yellow taxicab. Rollo’s uncle has not lately been mentioned in these stories. He was a younger brother of Rollo’s mother, and Rollo liked him very much, partly because he was always gay and light-hearted, and partly because his father did not seem to approve of Uncle George. Rollo’s father frowned very severely when he saw the yellow taxicab, but since he was not paying for it he said nothing.

“I am going to take you to my club,” said Uncle George.

“A club!” cried Rollo. “What is that?”

“I will tell you,” said Uncle George. “A club is a place of refuge from one’s family. It is an organization where a man can order what he likes for dinner, when he likes. It is a place where he can be sure that his letters will not be opened by mistake.”

“Could my mother belong to this club?” asked Rollo.

“No; only gentlemen are admitted.”

“But could my father join such an organization?”

“No, not the club I have in mind. I do not think even your father could become a member.”

“What a delightful place!” said Rollo.

“Indeed it is so,” said his uncle. “But here we are.”

Just then the taxicab stopped in front of a handsome building with a large glass door, which was opened for Rollo and his Uncle George by an old gentleman with white hair, whom Rollo thanked politely as he entered.

“Will you excuse me for a moment,” said Uncle George. “I have to go upstairs to discuss a business matter with a friend of mine. He has some stock he wishes to dispose of, and I often take a little of it off his hands just before dinner.”

“Quite so,” said Rollo. “I will await your convenience.”

During his uncle’s absence Rollo strolled into a handsome room the walls of which were covered with books. In large chairs sat a number of gentlemen with books in their laps, as if they were reading, but Rollo was surprised to see that they were all fast asleep.

“What a beautiful room,” thought Rollo. “I understand now why I yawn so over my lessons. All books must make people sleepy.”

One old gentleman was snoring loudly, so Rollo took a large card marked “Silence” and placed it on his stomach, after which he went into another room to meet his uncle, who returned at that moment, looking brighter and more good-natured than ever. He brought with him the gentleman with whom he had been doing business.

“Rollo,” he said, “this is my friend, Mr. Ross, who is going to dine and go to the theatre with us. He is a member of the old Shaker Colony.”

“Is it so?” said Rollo. “There are a number of Shakers living near my home in the country. One of them has made several comforters for my mother.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Ross. “And I have made a number of comforters for your uncle, have I not, George?”

“Indeed you have,” said Rollo’s uncle, and together they walked upstairs to a splendid room, where they all dined together very merrily. Rollo stood for a moment beside his chair expecting that his Uncle George would ask a blessing, but Uncle George evidently forgot to do so and bade Rollo sit down and fall to, which he did.

“Have you been to the theatre, often, Rollo?” asked Mr. Ross, while they were eating dinner.

“No, not exactly,” replied Rollo. “My mother took me to Boston two years ago, and I saw a very wonderful panorama of the battle of Gettysburg. But that is not exactly the theatre, is it?”

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Ross, “though I am sure some of the plays in New York are much worse than any battle.”

“What play are we to see, Uncle George?” asked Rollo. “Is it to be Shakespere?”

“No,” answered Uncle George. “I hardly thought Shakespere would be lively enough. You see, Rollo, the plays in New York are divided into two groups. There are the very serious plays acted by great people which all the critics say are great successes. But unfortunately, no one goes to see them. Then there are the very silly comedies about people in bath-tubs, which the critics say are very low and wicked and which everyone flocks to see. That is the kind we are going to see.”

“How delightful!” said Rollo. “I have never seen anyone in a bath-tub but myself.”

As soon as dinner was finished, Rollo and the two gentlemen drove in another cab to the theatre, which was on the main street of New York, called Broadway, because it is quite narrow and goes zigzag through the city. But Rollo was entranced with the brilliant electric lights, the flashing signs and great rush of traffic.

“Is it a celebration?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Uncle George. “Broadway is always a celebration. But come; let us alight.”

Rollo greatly admired the interior of the theatre, which was at least five times larger than the Second Congregational Church, which he was accustomed to attend when at home. Just then to his surprise all the lights in the edifice went out.

“Oh dear,” said Rollo. “Isn’t that provoking.”

“Hush,” said the two gentlemen. “The play is about to begin.”

At that moment an enormous curtain rose slowly, music filled the air from some hidden and mysterious source, and Rollo saw before him a picture more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before.

The name of the play which Uncle George had selected was “Shaking the Shimmy.”

It was in three acts. The first act was in the ladies’ dressing-room of a parlor car, the second was on the beach at Atlantic City, and the third was in the dormitory of a young ladies’ seminary in Greenwich. A notice on the program explained that the last act enabled the producers, two Jewish gentlemen, to have twenty beds on the stage at one time, which broke all records.

Rollo never dreamed that young ladies could be so beautiful as those who flitted about on the stage. Although he understood very little of what was said on the stage, he was tingling with excitement and sat far forward on the edge of his chair, resting his chin on the shoulder of a lady in front of him, who smiled and patted his hand.

Rollo heaved a great sigh of disappointment when the play was over. Then looking about at the audience he said, “Does it not seem strange, Uncle George, to see all these people fully clothed? I vow I had forgotten that there were such things as dresses.”

“And how did you like the play?” asked Uncle George.

“It was superb, sir,” said Rollo politely. “And much pleasanter than the ‘Battle of Gettysburg.’”

“Good,” said his uncle, “and now we shall go to supper.”

“Bless my soul!” cried Rollo. “Is not the evening over?”

“No indeed,” replied Uncle George, “it is but just beginning.”

“Hurray! Hurray!” shouted Rollo, tossing his cap in the air.

The place where Rollo and Uncle George and Mr. Ross went for supper was high up on the top of a tall building. At the entrance a gentleman held a red velvet rope across the door, but he smiled pleasantly when he saw Uncle George and let them pass to the annoyance of a number of people who were waiting. This of course pleased Rollo not a little.

“What is the name of this place?” asked Rollo.

“It is called the Place Blanche,” explained Uncle George. “French is the language spoken by the people who name New York restaurants. If a restaurant should have a name which a taxi-driver could pronounce correctly, it would not last a week!”

“It is very crowded,” said Rollo, “and the space for dancing seems quite small.”

“That too is carefully arranged for,” said his uncle. “People like to eat in stuffy, uncomfortable places. As for dancing, it is much better to dance when one is pressed hard against several other couples, for if you do not happen to care particularly for your partner you can close your eyes and imagine you are dancing with a number of other ladies at the same time.”

“What strange music!” said Rollo.

“It is indeed so,” agreed Mr. Ross. “We are gradually getting away from the old-fashioned instruments such as violins and flutes. You will notice, Rollo, that in the orchestra are two drums, a pair of cymbals, a siren, and a pistol; also the pianist does not use his fingers but his clenched fists.”

Rollo fully expected that this time at least Uncle George would not forget to ask the blessing, but lo! a second time he did so, perhaps because he was at the time very much occupied trying to get the cork out of a large bottle, which he had managed to conceal in his inside pocket. As soon as this was open, Uncle George and Mr. Ross became very gay indeed, and Rollo, catching the spirit of the evening, joined merrily in the conversation. Later in the evening they met several friends at other tables, with whom they danced and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

The sky in the east was a pale blue-green when Rollo entered the door of the apartment. Jonas, who kept to his country hours, was just rising.

“Good-morning,” said Jonas.

“Good-night,” said Rollo.

It was but the work of a moment to undress and leap into bed. But before he did so Rollo knelt for a moment and asked a blessing—for Uncle George.

ROLLO AMONG THE ARTISTS

You will remember that I have spoken in a previous story of the beautiful clam-shell which Rollo possessed, and which he admired very much. It was a gift from his Uncle George, and on it was painted a picture of a curving beach, a light-house, and a small yacht. Below the picture was the title, “Souvenir of Atlantic City.”

One day Rollo was sitting on his little cricket, holding up the shell to the light, and marvelling at the change this made in the colours. His mother was busily engaged knitting washcloths for the missionary box which was to be sent to the natives of the Filbert Islands; for though she had moved to the city, Rollo’s mother did not forget her duties toward Dr. Ordway, the minister at home, and through him, to the heathen children in the Filbert Islands.

“Do you know, Mother,” said Rollo, “I believe that the man who painted this clam-shell was perhaps the greatest artist in the world. I have looked all through the vast collection at the Metropolitan Museum, and I do not find the mate to my clam anywhere.”

“Is it so?” said his mother. “You seem very much interested in artistic things. I remember that years ago I too enjoyed the fine arts. You may recall the portrait of a kitten which I painted on the red plush sofa-cushions at home.”

“Indeed I do!” cried Rollo. “It was most artistic. Heigh-ho! I wish I was an artist!”

Just as he said these words, as if in answer to his wish, his Uncle George opened the door. “What is that?” he said. “You wish you were an artist? What kind of an artist do you wish to be?”

Rollo was puzzled. “What kind?” he repeated. “What kinds are there?”

“Many,” said his Uncle George. “But perhaps before you make up your mind it would be well if you looked over the different kinds. How would you like to visit Greenwich Village with me where all the artists live?”

“Oh Goody-Gumpkins!” cried Rollo, for which his mother gently reproved him.

“I should love it,” said he. “You are so kind, and I am so glad you are a broker, Uncle George, for you always seem to have plenty of time.”

“Nothing but,” said Uncle George. “But come, if we are going, let us be off at once.”

“Hurrah,” cried Rollo. “Good-bye, Mother!” and seizing his cap and thrusting his clam-shell into his pocket, he ran to join his uncle in the doorway.

“How do we go? Is it far?” he questioned when they had reached the street.

“We may as well take the stage,” said his uncle. “It goes directly to the Village.”

Rollo’s uncle raised his hand and the stage stopped politely.

“Thank you,” said Rollo as they climbed to the top. Soon the conductor came to them and held out a little machine, which seemed to nibble Rollo’s fingers when he pushed the two dimes which his uncle had given him into the slot.

“He cannot hoodwink me,” said Rollo after the conductor had gone away. “I saw the money drop through into his hand.”

“You are a bright lad,” said his uncle, which made Rollo very happy. As they rode along Uncle George pointed out to him the eager faces of the thousands of Lithuanians, Greeks, and Polaks who make New York the greatest of American cities. Soon the stage rolled through a majestic stone archway.

“We are now entering the Village,” said Uncle George.

“Well, I will say it has a handsome front door,” said Rollo, “but did you say ‘Village,’ Uncle George? It appears to me mightily like a part of the city.”

“So it would seem,” said his uncle, “but appearances are deceitful. However, you will soon see that it is very different from the rest of the city. We are first to visit a friend of mine, a Mr. Pryzik, the great American sculptor. You know what a sculptor is, Rollo?”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” said Rollo. “We have a beautiful group at home done by Mr. Rogers. It is called ‘Reading the Will.’ The expression of anxiety on the part of the relatives is most noteworthy.”

“It is a noble subject,” said his Uncle.

“But did you say Mr. Pryzik was an American?” asked Rollo.

“Practically,” replied his uncle. “He was born in Prague, but he has lived in this country for six years. True, he has not become a citizen because of the income-tax, but he is very patriotic and much prefers to sell his sculptures to Americans. But here we are at the sculptor’s.”

While talking, Rollo and his uncle had turned into a narrow doorway and mounted several flights of stairs. A tinkling bell was answered by a very hairy man who flung open the door before which they stood, crying, “Enter,” in a great voice.

“This is Mr. Pryzik,” said Uncle George, “and this is my nephew Rollo.”

The room was a large loft or storeroom lighted from above and while Mr. Pryzik and Uncle George chatted amiably together, Rollo looked about him eagerly noting many large groups of figures struggling and writhing in every conceivable posture. Some were covered with grey cloths which gave them a singularly ghost-like appearance.

“And what are you doing that is interesting?” asked Uncle George.

“Much,” replied the great artist. “I have some magnificent things under way, not completed, you understand, but well begun. Here, for instance, is a fountain for Mr. Rockefeller’s garden. It represents the struggle between crude and refined oil.”

“It is very exciting,” said Rollo. “Does Mr. Rockefeller like it?”

“I do not know,” said Mr. Pryzik. “I have written him seven letters on the subject, but I think he must be away on his vacation. And here is my masterpiece, the crowning group destined to be placed on the dome of the Palace of the League of Nations.”

“Oh!” said Rollo. “Where is it to be?”

“The site has not been decided,” replied the artist. “A Swedish friend of mine, Mr. Lundquist, has drawn some very noble plans for the building, which he has sent to Washington. We need only ten million dollars. You will note that the figures representing the various nations are made in sections so that any one may be removed in case of war. The bosom of Bulgaria has been much admired.”

“I never have been to Bulgaria,” said Rollo.

“This group here,” continued Mr. Pryzik, “is an idea of mine for the pylons of the proposed Hudson River bridge. The figures at the New York end symbolize the four boroughs of Greater New York, those on the Jersey side the great commonwealths of Hoboken, Jersey City, Englewood and Hohokus. My commission alone will amount to over two hundred thousand dollars. But there is a powerful political influence working against me. In the meantime I have some immediate work on hand, small but useful, some amusing button hook handles for one of the big silversmiths and a new radiator cap for Ford cars which will give them great distinction. An advantage is that any tinsmith can make them.”

“You are indeed a genius,” said Uncle George, “and make no mistake, you will be recognized as such. But we have other calls to make, I thank you for your courtesy.” And bowing to Mr. Pryzik, Rollo and his uncle descended to the street.

“And now, Rollo,” said Uncle George—“you shall see another kind of artist—the great poetess, Miss Myra Stark. She is an old friend of mine. She lives in a cellar—there we are, down these steps.”

Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman as Miss Myra Stark. She was very pale except her lips, which were painted a rich prune colour; her yellow hair was cut very like Rollo’s except that it had no curl. Her smock was of coarse burlap with a skirt of yellow wool.

“Come in, Man. Come in, Boy,” she said, in answer to their knock. “Take off your shoes if you like. My cellar is near the earth. I never wear shoes at home. I like to feel my feet on the face of Mother Earth.”

“I wonder if Mother Earth likes it,” said Rollo.

“She loves it,” said Miss Stark. “Boy, you have the soul of a poet. Are you a poet?”

“I can recite a little,” said Rollo, modestly.

“Do so,” commanded his hostess.

Rollo was an obliging little boy and therefore, standing in the middle of the room, he recited as follows, with appropriate gestures which he had carefully learned at school:

“Bravo!” cried Miss Stark and Uncle George.

“I thank you very much,” said Rollo.

“It is a great poem,” said Miss Stark. “It sounds simple but it means more than it says. It has its devious moments. You notice that though the ‘name’ is washed away the ‘place’ and the ‘day’ remain. I have just written something myself in the same manner.”

“Do let us hear it,” said Uncle George.

“I will,” replied the poetess. “It is called Brain-ticks. Listen:

“I don’t understand,” said Rollo.

“Of course you don’t,” cried Miss Stark. “We none of us do. We were just meant to live quietly and simply near Mother Earth. But you must come again. I am sorry you will not stay. Good-bye, good-bye.”

“Our next visit, and I think it must be our last,” said Uncle George, “will be to a gentleman friend of mine who is a painter. In a way he is quite a genius. His name is Wilkins. Wilkins’ idea is that it is very wrong for a man to be limited to one form or school of art, to be exclusively a landscape painter or a portrait painter, a radical or a conservative. He goes in for all forms of art. But you shall see for yourself, for here is his studio.”

Mr. Wilkins’ studio was by far the pleasantest place Rollo had yet seen in the Village. And it was even as Uncle George had said; all about the walls were pictures, no two alike, but all, Rollo thought, very beautiful. Mr. Wilkins, a tall, handsome man, was very cordial to his visitors and showed Rollo the various pictures, explaining carefully just how they were made.

“There is a formula for each,” he said. “In these cow-pictures, for instance, you will see that there is a definite proportion of two-thirds cow to one-third landscape. Venetian canal scenes like this must be exactly fifty per cent reflection. Last week I worked up a batch of South Sea pictures using the Gauguin formula. It is very simple.”

Mr. Wilkins was delighted with Rollo’s clam-shell.

“I must do some!” he said. “Could you leave it here?”

“Yes, indeed, gladly,” said Rollo.

“And what have you been working on to-day?” said Uncle George.

“Just a little summer work,” said Mr. Wilkins. “Here it is.”

He removed a cloth which covered an easel, and Rollo gazed with awe and admiration at a picture of a beautiful young lady who was about to go in bathing without any bathing suit. Rollo had never seen anything like it before and he was much interested.

“She is a hum-dinger,” said Uncle George. “Who is she?”

While Mr. Wilkins and Uncle George chatted in a corner Rollo examined the picture closely and was really very sorry when Uncle George told him it was time to go.

When they were again seated on the stage on their way home, Rollo said, “Uncle George, I should not think Mr. Wilkins would wish to show his wife’s picture to people in that way.”

“His wife’s picture!” said Uncle George. “But I did not know Mr. Wilkins was married.”

“Of course he is,” said Rollo. “How ever else could he see a lady so?”

Rollo’s uncle was silent for a moment before he said, “Rollo, I had occasion to say before and I repeat now, you are a bright lad. You have seen to-day three artists, a sculptor, a poetess, and a painter. Which would you prefer to be?”

I leave it to my little readers to guess which one Rollo chose.

ROLLO’S ROMANCE

Some of my little readers may recall that shortly after Rollo’s family moved to their city apartment, Rollo was invited to a gay luncheon party at a public inn which was managed by a Mr. Ritz. It was here that Rollo first met his cousin Stella, and another little girl named Anabelle Litchfield. Rollo had liked Anabelle very much, but he had had no opportunities to talk with her at that time, for Anabelle’s attention was greatly occupied by the laughing chatter of a young Mr. Rupert Hogan, a boy of about Rollo’s own age who lived in New York and knew a great many things about city life which our little hero had never learned.

During the months which followed, Anabelle had made a number of visits, and thus the summer and fall had passed until her memory in Rollo’s mind had become vague and indistinct, though still very pleasant.

In the meantime, however, Rollo was becoming more and more versed in the accomplishments which are expected of a city boy. This was due very largely to the kindness of his Uncle George who frequently took his little nephew with him to the theatre, to his club, and to a number of evening festivals where there was dancing, charades, and all manner of fun.

At the time this chapter of our story opens, Rollo was seated before the cheerful gas-log at home instructing Jonas as to the proper method of making a martini. This was indeed a change from the old days in the country when Jonas used to teach Rollo how to pile wood and pick up potatoes. The positions were now reversed. Rollo was the teacher and Jonas was the pupil.

“You see, Jonas,” said Rollo, “you must be very careful to put in at least two-thirds of gin to one-third of vermouth.”

“What is vermouth?” asked Jonas.

“Vermouth is a sweet cordial similar to cherry-bounce,” said Rollo. “But now, Jonas, we will have the review lesson. What is a manhattan?”

“A manhattan,” replied Jonas, “is a liquid composed of two-thirds of extract of rye, one-third——”

At this moment Rollo’s sister, Lucy, came running into the room.

“Oh, bother!” cried Rollo. “Why do you interrupt Jonas and me at our work?”

“You will be very glad to hear,” said Lucy gaily. “Our cousin Stella’s mother has just telephoned to say that she wishes you and me to go with her to a great football match at New Haven to-morrow. The Yales are to play the Princetons, and Stella is to go and her friend Anabelle, likewise.”

“Hot towel!” cried Rollo, to Jonas’s amazement, and running violently about the room to the grave danger of the dainty bric-a-brac which stood on the marble-topped table.

“We start to-morrow morning at ten o’clock,” said Lucy, “and mother said you must surely wear your tippet, and take the little shawl your Aunt Sarah knit for you.”

“Tippet and shawl, indeed!” said Rollo, “I shall wear my new fur-lined great-coat and my coon-skin hat. Oh, hot towel! Hot towel!”

The little folks then joined hands and danced about excitedly until they were quite exhausted.

Promptly at ten o’clock on the following day, Cousin Stella’s handsome automobile came rolling around the corner, and Rollo and Lucy, warmly dressed in their best coats and hats, were soon ensconced among the comfortable cushions with their little friends.

Somewhat to Rollo’s disappointment Rupert Hogan was one of the party, but this feeling was almost immediately forgotten in his enthusiasm at again seeing Miss Anabelle who looked charming indeed in a dark blue dress with grey furs, against which she wore a large bouquet of violets. Rupert, on the contrary, wore a bright, brown suit with an extremely large yellow chrysanthemum in his buttonhole.

“Which are you for, Rollo,” asked Anabelle, “Yale or Princeton?”

“I am for Princeton,” said Rupert loudly, which was very rude as he had not been addressed.

“I am for Yale, of course,” cried Rollo.

“Oh joy!” laughed Anabelle. “So am I. I must teach you the cheer. It begins ‘Brek-ek-kek-kek, ko-ax, ko-ax!’”

“Tiger. Siz-boom-ah!” shouted Rupert.

“See, I have a tin horn, all the Princeton men carry tin horns.”

Thus, with much shouting and noise and merry glee the little company sped on their way towards the city of New Haven. The thoroughfare soon began to be greatly crowded with thousands of automobiles filled with other girls and boys as well as grown-ups, some so old that Rollo marvelled at their being out of doors at all, all bound for the great match. There was much dust and confusion, and not a little danger. Racing cars filled with gentlemen with pleasant red faces dashed by at a break-neck pace, and at one spot there was quite a pile of autos which had run into each other and were severely damaged. It also began to be extremely cold.

“Are we not delightfully uncomfortable?” shouted Rollo, as they whirled off the road to avoid another car, jumped a ditch, grazed a telegraph pole, and bounced back onto the turnpike again.

“Yes indeed,” said Anabelle. “That is half the fun. Of course we might have made the journey in a warm train, but that is not considered the smart thing to do. One should always be half-frozen when one arrives at a football match.”

“Right-o!” said Rollo. “Come, Rupert, I will wager you a dime on the result!”

“Done with you, Rollo,” said Rupert, and Lucy and Stella and Anabelle all applauded.

New Haven town was even more crowded and confusing than the highway had been. Important constables waved them hither and thither, and they were soon passing imposing buildings, which Stella’s mother told them were the Halls of Learning.

“There are the new Harkness buildings,” she said. “A very great architect, Mr. Rogers, designed the group.”

“We have a Rogers group in our parlor,” said Rollo, “but it is by no means so large or so fine as this one. But do they play the match in that great courtyard?”

“Dumbbell!” said Rupert. “They play the game in the Bowl.”

“Well I vow!” thought Rollo, “who ever heard of playing football in a bowl!”

But he kept silent and was very glad he had done so, for, after an hour of snail-like pace through the streets they came in sight of a gigantic structure, in which Rollo could see thousands and thousands of people sitting.

“There is the Bowl,” cried his friends and they all clambered stiffly to the ground, still munching their luncheon sandwiches, and made their way to their seats.

The spectacle which met Rollo’s gaze was indeed an imposing one. Round about the great arena stretched thousands of people, tier upon tier, an unbroken mass rising far above his head.

“They do not look like people,” cried Rollo, “but like the knots on one of Grandmother’s hooked-rugs. But I should like very much to see a baseball game here.”

“And why baseball?” asked Rupert.

“Because,” said Rollo, “it would be interesting to see a tiny pitcher in such a huge bowl.”

“Bravo!” cried Anabelle, and Rupert scowled ill-naturedly.

At this moment a tremendous burst of cheering split the air, several bands began to play at once, and the great multitude rose to its feet shouting and waving their flags, as two groups of strange padded creatures pranced into the arena like savage beasts entering the Coliseum at Rome.

A moment later a whistle blew sharply, and an ominous hush fell over the vast assemblage. Although he knew not why, a strange sensation of physical illness almost overpowered Rollo. The game was about to begin.

“Isn’t it wonderful!” cried Stella.

“Is it?” said Rollo in a faint voice.

The contest which followed left our little hero even more dazed and confused. Time after time he shuddered and winced as the two groups of players came crunching together, or when ten or more Princetons fell with a crash upon a single Yale.

“No fair!” shouted Rollo, but Anabelle said, “Hush, Rollo,” very gently, and put her hand on his under the robe.