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There was always his luck.

He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from the room.

“If you don’t pass it,” said the newly arrived Alec as they sat on the window-seat of Amory’s room and mused upon a scheme of wall decoration, “you’re the world’s worst goopher. Your stock will go down like an elevator at the club and on the campus.”

“Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?”

“’Cause you deserve it. Anybody that’d risk what you were in line for ought to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman.”

“Oh, drop the subject,” Amory protested. “Watch and wait and shut up. I don’t want every one at the club asking me about it, as if I were a prize potato being fattened for a vegetable show.”

One evening a week later Amory stopped below his own window on the way to Renwick’s, and, seeing a light, called up:

“Oh, Tom, any mail?”

Alec’s head appeared against the yellow square of light.

“Yes, your result’s here.”

His heart clamored violently.

“What is it, blue or pink?”

“Don’t know. Better come up.”