Truly, Larry did know it; hence the knees of his continued protest grew weaker still. “It’s kind of an honor, I guess,” he admitted soberly. “Yet I can’t change over all at once. I’m slow; slower than Christmas, Dick. You know that. I’ll have to have time to think it out.” “Sure you will!” Dick agreed, reaching for his cap. And a moment later he was gone; to one of those social doings which were by this time cutting pretty deeply into his evening study hours. Larry had been alone for some little time when his door opened to admit Havercamp, a Junior and the editor of the college paper. “Hello, Donovan!” he boomed; and as Larry reached for a chair: “No, I can’t stop――just on my way over town to put the _Micrometer_ to bed. What college activities are you in?” Larry shook his head. “Trying to break into athletics a little, as you know.” “Sure I know! Didn’t I see you put the wallop into the Rockford Poly game? That’s what brings me up here. I want you on the _Micrometer_――athletic reporter.” “But, see here,” Larry objected; “I can’t write for little sour apples!” “You’ll never learn any younger. Dig in and try it; you can begin right away and hash up something snappy about basket-ball. You know how the athletic frenzy dies out after foot-ball, and we want to keep the door slamming. Go to it; good exercise in English One. If you ball things up at first, we’ll help you out. That’s all. Good-night!” Larry turned back to his work with a little prideful glow; added to that other glow which had come upon Dick’s announcement as to the intention of the Omegs. It was the first time he had been asked to take part on any of the extra-curriculum activities, and though he doubted his ability to write anything that anybody would print, he was perfectly willing to try. Consequently, a little later he went over to the gymnasium where two of the basket-ball teams were practicing, got duly interested, and sat up until nearly midnight wrestling with his first attempt at writing for print, grinding out a couple of columns, which, by the way, Havercamp blue-penciled to a short and snappy stickful in the next issue of the _Micrometer_. A couple of evenings after this, Larry found himself holding a reception――that is, a little bigger reception than usual――in his room at Mrs. Grant’s. Apart from the lame dogs, who came pretty regularly, sundry other fellows had discovered that Dick Maxwell’s red-headed room-mate was what you might call a heaven-born mathematician, that he was good-natured, and that an evening spent in his company was likely to result in better Math. markings for the spender. For that reason the evening in-droppings were growing quite frequent, and when, on the night in question, the callers included Carey Lansing, a Senior, and Grand Satrap, or whatever you call it, of the Zeta Omegas, Larry thought nothing of it.