om. They wore orange and
black jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had the
appearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George had
no doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazing
was frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism.

"Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, and
follow us."

George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, to
give them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should be
qualified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledged
him as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready to
obey. Then someone grunted with disgust.

"Come on. Duck out of here."

"What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel."

"It's Morton. We can't monkey with him."

The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door in
search of victims more available. George became belligerent for an
opposite reason.

"Why not?" he demanded.

The leader smiled in friendly fashion.

"You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field."

As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation.
Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an important
character.

The next morning, packed with the nervous Freshmen in a lecture room, he
heard his name read out with the sections. He fought his way into the
university offices to scan the list of conditioned men. He didn't appear
on a single slip. He had even managed the easy French paper. He attended
to the formalities of matriculating. He was free to play football, to
take up the by-no-means considerable duties of the laundry agency, to
make friends. He had completed the first lap.

When he reported at the field that afternoon he found that the Freshmen
had a coach of their own, a young man who possessed the unreal violence
of a Sophomore, but he knew the game, and the extra invective with which
he drove George indicated that Stringham and Green had confided to him
their hopes.

The squad was large. Later it would dwindle and its members be thrown
into a more intimate contact. Goodhue was there, a promising
quarterback. Rogers toiled with a hopeless enthusiasm. George smiled,
appreciating the other's logic. It was a good thing to try for the team,
even though one had no chance of making it. As a matter of fact, Rogers
disappeared at the first weeding-out.

The opening fortnight was wholl