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carrying the scars on his forehead where he’d been kicked in a scrimmage in the High School game; at Eric Rodman, the big Number One back who could play any game at all and equally well, and to whom eight colleges had been talking, not knowing that he was going to Princeton as three generations of Eric Rodmans had done before him. Ronald looked at them all, taking off his polo coat and muffler. All familiar faces, boys he had worked with, played with, fought with together in tough battles in different sports, friends. Yet strangers, too. Now at least they were strangers in a way. They were there, over on the other side of a river, and he was alone on the opposite bank, calling to them, and they didn’t hear.
    As he tossed his coat to the couch, they began their wisecracks to which he hardly listened.
    “Where you been, Ronny? Slumming again this afternoon?”
    “Ron’s been out seeing how the other half lives,” remarked Tommy from the window seat.
    “How’s the Duke of Plaza-Toro?” asked Eric. He was a great Gilbert and Sullivan fan, had a chest in his room with several hundred records, and always called Goldman by that name. Ronald came to.
    “He’s better. They think they’ll let him out in two months. He’s still... he still suffers a lot.” Then despite himself it came out. He knew the moment he said the words it was foolish; he’d been saying it for several weeks with no effect. But still it crept out. “Gosh, I wish some of you men would drop in on him at the Orthopaedic some afternoon.”
    The silence came suddenly.
    “Ok for you, Ronny, he’s your pal.”
    “Nuts he’s my pal. He isn’t my pal at all. He’s just a man I laid up in a football game.”
    “Yes, and I suppose two years ago, remember, when they laid out Johnny Staines and busted his leg, those meatballs came running up to the Infirmary to see him?”
    “I don’t remember. But...”
    “Point is, Ronny,” remarked Tommy in his southern drawl, “those lugs play dirty football; only when we get tough they don’t like it. They expect us to play patty-cake ’cause we’re from the Academy, and when we play just as hard as anyone...”
    Ronny felt his face become hot. He was getting angry. He wanted to shout at them as loud as he could. Oh, sure. When they play rough it’s dirty football; when we play rough we’re just getting tough and playing hard.
    Keith knew Ronald and saw his roommate’s face redden. So he tried to change the subject.
    “Football, football, don’t we have enough football three months in the year?”
    But Ronald was not to be hushed up. “I don’t know about dirty football but I bet that boy LeRoy is still limping from the bruises on his shins and legs.”
    “Yeah... but you know, Ronald...” Now Tommy was dispassionate and objective. He was even authoritative; he was talking about a subject which he knew. Of which they were totally ignorant. “You know, Ronny, they have no right to play Negroes on their team.” He pronounced the word as if it were spelled Nigrows.
    Ronald flared up. “Whad’ya mean they got no right? It’s a free country, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, sure. It’s a free country all right. Sure, they got a right, they got a right. Point is they hadn’t oughta. Now down south we have separate schools and colleges for Negroes with their own teams and leagues and schedules and everything.”
    Ronald was stopped. He’d never heard of that. Nor had any of the others. They looked at Tommy on the window-seat with some interest.
    “Certain. We give ’em their own teams and all, and they like it. Why, they’d much rather play with themselves.”
    “How do you know, Tommy?” Ronald was stung by the other’s assurance.
    “Oh, oh, I know. Down south we understand how to treat Negroes. Up here, you-all spoil ’em.” He paused. “Leastways, we think. Now we don’t have any trouble; we love our Negroes. They’re our friends, yes, sir. They are....”
    “Well, the way you got to