The hall was tastefully arranged with flowers and a bank of palms, behind which the orchestra was to be hidden. About the balcony were draped the college colors, with the class hues of the freshmen intermingled. Early on the evening of the dance, Garvey Gerhart, who was chairman of the committee on arrangements, left the college on his way to town to see that all was in readiness. "Doesn't he look pretty!" exclaimed Phil, who, with a group of sophomores, stood near Booker Chapel. "I wonder if he has his dress suit on?" asked Tom. "We ought to see if his hair is parted," put in Sid. "Freshmen don't know how to look after themselves. Have you a clean pocket handkerchief, Algernon?" and he spoke the last in a mocking tone. "Look out; there may be another fire," retorted Gerhart with a grin, and the sophomores could only grit their teeth. They knew the freshmen still had the laugh on them. "But not for long?" muttered Phil. "Is Dutch all ready?" "All ready," answered that worthy for himself. "We'll slip off to town as soon as it's dusk." "Think you'll have any trouble in getting in?" asked Ed Kerr. "Not a bit. I bribed one of the doorkeepers. Be on hand outside to listen to the fun." A little before the first arrivals at the freshman dance had reached the hall, a figure might have been seen moving quickly about the ballroom in the dim illumination from the half-turned-down lights. The figure went about in circles, with curious motions of the hands, and then, after a survey of the place and a silent laugh, withdrew. The music began a dreamy waltz, following the opening march. Freshmen led their fair partners out on the floor, and began whirling them about. The lights twinkled, there was the sweet smell of flowers, fair faces of the girls looked up into the proud, flushed ones of the youths. Chaperons looked on approvingly. The music became a trifle faster. The dance was in full swing. Suddenly a girl gave a frightened little cry. "What's the matter?" asked her partner. "My shoes! They--they seem to be sticking to the floor. I--I can't dance!" From all over the room arose similar cries of dismay from the girls and exclamations of disgust from the boys. The dancers went slower and slower. It was an effort to glide about, and some could scarcely lift their feet. The floor seemed to hold them as a magnet does a bit of iron. Garvey Gerhart, releasing his pretty partner, leaned over and touched the floor. "It's as sticky as molasses!" he cried in dismay. CHAPTER XX PHIL GETS A TELEGRAM The music stopped with a discord. A strange spell seemed thrown over the dancers. Some, who had come to a stop, now tried to move, and found that their feet were fast to the floor. It was an effort to lift them. The surface that had seemed well waxed was now as sticky as if glue had been poured over it. To walk was almost impossible; to dance, out of the question.