All over the campus surges a crowd; students of the other classes,
seniors who last year stood in the compact gathering at the tree
and left it sore-hearted, not having been "taken"; sophomores
who will stand there next year, who already are hoping for and
dreading their Tap Day; little freshmen, each one sure that he,
at least, will be of the elect; and again the iron-gray heads,
the interested faces of old Yale men, and the gay spring hats
like bouquets of flowers.
It is, perhaps, the most critical single day of the four years'
course at the University. It shows to the world whether or no a boy,
after three years of college life, has in the eyes of the student
body "made good." It is a crucial test, a heart-rending test
for a boy of twenty years.
The girl sitting in the window of Durfee understood thoroughly
the character and the chances of the day. The seniors at the tree
wear derby hats; the juniors none at all; it is easier by this sign
to distinguish the classmen, and to keep track of the tapping.
The girl knew of what society was each black-hatted man who twisted
through the bareheaded throng; in that sea of tense faces she
recognized many; she could find a familiar head almost anywhere
in the mass and tell as much as an outsider might what hope was
hovering over it.
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