His dark face, tanned now to a bronze, with features clear-cut and strong, was lit by a pair of dark brown eyes, honest, fearless, and glowing with a slumbering fire that men would hesitate to stir to flame.

The lines of his mouth told of self-control, and the cut of his chin proclaimed a will of iron, and altogether, he bore himself with an air of such quiet strength and cool self-confidence that men never feared to follow where he led.

Yet there was a reserve about him that set him a little apart from men, and a kind of shyness that saved him from any suspicion of self-assertion.

In vain he tried to escape from the crowd that gathered about him, and more especially from the foot-ball men, who utterly adored him.
"You can't do anything for a fellow that doesn't drink," complained Starry Hamilton, the big captain of the foot-ball team.
"Drink! a nice captain you are, Starry," said Ranald, "and Thanksgiving so near." "We haven't quite shut down yet," explained the captain.
"Then I suppose a cigar is permitted," replied Ranald, ordering the steward to bring his best.

In a few minutes he called for his mail, and excusing himself, slipped into one of the private rooms.