out. A moment later he had a last, distant view of the straight white farmhouse, as the cars dashed by, and of the big red barn with white trimmings, and the wind-brake of tall, straight poplars, to the north, in even row, planted by his father's own hand before Will was born; he saw their tops waving in the breeze as they were cut off from view—and all that seemed years and years ago, though, in reality, it was only Monday, the day before yesterday, and here he was at last, actually at college and sitting in chapel listening to the President's kind words of welcome; and feeling somewhat important at being one of those particularly addressed by such a famous and learned man and feeling very proud at the thought that he was part of such an ancient and mighty seat of learning—and hoping that the small account he had opened at the Princeton Bank was going to tide him over till an opportunity for earning money turned up.

As he and his many classmates trooped forth into the sunny outdoors again some orange-and-black-bedecked Sophomores on the steps murmured, "right, left, right, left," in time to their footsteps, and then Will Young did not feel so proud and important.

But this big, green Freshman did not take off his hat to them as some of his classmates did. In fact his hat did not come off until the evening of the following day—and then not quite in the way you might expect.

CHAPTER III

THE GREAT SOPHOMORE-FRESHMAN RUSH

Freshman Young had an experience on the second night of his college course that he was never to forget. And few of those who shared it with him forgot it, and not many of the hundreds of other men that have been in college before and since have forgotten similar experiences of their own on the second or third night of college existence. Not one of them would care to miss it if he had it to do over again.

He was in his room going over for the fifth time the Latin passages in Livy, Book I. The recitation came the first thing in the morning. That meant at half-past eight, immediately after chapel.

His room was on the third story, back, of a queer, old-fashioned house in a still queerer, old, crooked street called Canal Street, because, he supposed, it led down to the canal. The little room seemed quite bare and cheerless, but he did not mind that. He had got down to work as a "college man."

That day, for the first time, he had met his professors in the classroom along with the other Freshmen of his division. He was the last man of the last division, because his last name began with Y. Later on in the term, when they were to be divided according to rank, he would not be in the last division; he had made up his mind to that. So he was going over the Livy lesson for the fifth time, although he had worked it all out during the afternoon.

Perhaps there was another reason for keeping his mind so busy. The old white farmhouse with the well-trimmed lawn and the evergreen trees in front and the tall, straight wind-pump to the west, and beyond that the long, level sweeps of rich prairie acres, all seemed very far away to-night. "I'm not homesick—of course not," he told himself, but all the same he thought he could study better if he could hear the old wind-pump go "kitty-chunk, kitty-chunk," as when he was studying his High School lessons on windy winter nights, long ago; so long that it all seemed like a different existence.

It was because he was thinking very hard about that previous existence that he started so when he suddenly heard a sound—away off in the distance. It was in the direction of the campus. It was someone singing. It was nothing to get excited over; men in the upper classes were all the time going around in groups lazily singing, laughing and talking, and looking as if they never thought of their studies. So he turned over the leaves of his book again. But after awhile this singing came nearer and nearer.

There were many voices, all singing in concert, if not all in tune, but Young did not notice that fault, for just then the singing stopped—the quick, short college cheer cut through the air, and on the end of the cheer the Freshman class numerals—his class numerals. He waited a moment to make sure. Then it came again:

"Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger! Siss-boom-ah! Ninety-blank!"

Then another one, a "long cheer" this time—the same as the other except that the Siss, the Boom, and the Ah were prolonged impressively: "Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger—sisses! Boom-m! Ah-h-h—Ninety-blank!"

Now, it gives a freshman a peculiar thrill the first time he hears many voices shouting in concert for his class. Young's heart began to thump. "That's my class," he said to himself, and then he turned to his books again because he had not come to college to have a good time, but to study. But he sighed a little.

Now the voices began singing to the tune of "Balm of Gilead":

"Here's to Ninety—blank—Drink her down—drink her down—

"Here's to Ninety-blank—
Drink her down—drink her down,
Here's to Ninety-blank—
For she's always——"

something that rhymed with the other part of Ninety.

Young put down his book for a minute.

They were coming still nearer.

He could hear some of the individual voices now.

Up Dickinson Street they came.

They turned the corner at Canal Street.

Now they halted.

Then a shrill voice shouted, "Now then, altogether, fellows, Hip! hip!"

"Ninety-blank! this! way!!" the many shouted in unison. It made a great noise.

Young opened his window.

"Once more," cried the shrill voice.

The call was repeated.

Young stuck his head out.

"Now then, fellows, a good rousing cheer for the honor of your class. Let everybody talk. Hip, hip!"

And the cheer fairly shook the house.

"Now then," commanded the clear, shrill voice, "Ninety-blank this way again once more—Hip, hip!"

Young drew his head in from the window and the next minute he was running downstairs three steps at a time. He could not help it.

Two other Freshmen joined him from neighboring houses on the way to the corner.

There, with the street light glaring dimly upon them, stood the Freshman class, or most of it, closely drawn up four abreast, cheering for itself with all its might. The Juniors were leading the cheers with energetic waving of the arms; other Juniors were marshalling the forces.

Young and his two unknown companions began to run as they drew nearer, and those in the rear ranks hearing their footsteps gave a yell of welcome. It sounded like a prolonged "Yea-a-a."

The three new-comers modestly fell in at the rear. A quick-stepping nervous Junior came down the line looking each row over as he came along. He wore glasses, Young noticed, and a faded orange-and-black blazer.

"Here, you big fellow, you'll do to go in front," he said, in a voice husky from cheering, and with that Young was taken by the arm, led way up to one of the front rows, shoved in beside three other fellows, and the Junior said, "Now, Tommy, that row's complete."

The Freshman next to Young grabbed him by the coat-sleeve and locked an arm through his as if they had been comrades for four years instead of just about to be.

He had on a soiled canvas football jacket and was hatless. His hair was long. "How much do