TICKLER NO. 3 Old man, are you going to be with us at the livest Friendship Feed the alumni of the good old U have ever known? The alumnæ of ’08 turned out 60% strong. Are we boys going to be beaten by a bunch of skirts? Come on, fellows, let’s work up some real genuine enthusiasm and all boost together for the snappiest dinner yet! Elegant eats, short ginger-talks, and memories shared together of the brightest, gladdest days of life. The dinner was held in a private room at the Union Club. The club was a dingy building, three pretentious old dwellings knocked together, and the entrance-hall resembled a potato cellar, yet the Babbitt who was free of the magnificence of the Athletic Club entered with embarrassment. He nodded to the doorman, an ancient proud negro with brass buttons and a blue tail-coat, and paraded through the hall, trying to look like a member. Sixty men had come to the dinner. They made islands and eddies in the hall; they packed the elevator and the corners of the private dining-room. They tried to be intimate and enthusiastic. They appeared to one another exactly as they had in college--as raw youngsters whose present mustaches, baldnesses, paunches, and wrinkles were but jovial disguises put on for the evening. “You haven’t changed a particle!” they marveled. The men whom they could not recall they addressed, “Well, well, great to see you again, old man. What are you-- Still doing the same thing?” Some one was always starting a cheer or a college song, and it was always thinning into silence. Despite their resolution to be democratic they divided into two sets: the men with dress-clothes and the men without. Babbitt (extremely in dress-clothes) went from one group to the other. Though he was, almost frankly, out for social conquest, he sought Paul Riesling first. He found him alone, neat and silent. Paul sighed, “I’m no good at this handshaking and ‘well, look who’s here’ bunk.” “Rats now, Paulibus, loosen up and be a mixer! Finest bunch of boys on earth! Say, you seem kind of glum. What’s matter?” “Oh, the usual. Run-in with Zilla.” “Come on! Let’s wade in and forget our troubles.” He kept Paul beside him, but worked toward the spot where Charles McKelvey stood warming his admirers like a furnace.