“Bosh!” snorted Dick, trotting out another of the derisives. “If you’re going to let a snob like Harry Eggleston set the pace for you――” The interruption was a hoarse cry from the street: “Freshmen out! All Freshmen out!” Dick opened the window and stuck his head out. “What’s broke loose?” he asked. “Turn out! The Sophs are paintin’ one of our fellows green down in Adams’s field barn! Turn out!” Dick shut the window and went to get his cap. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Larry?” he said; adding: “This is a class job, you know.” Larry shook his head. “Might as well begin in one place as another, Dick: I’m not in on the rah-rah stuff.” Dick Maxwell’s temper was easy-going, but about once in a blue moon it got away from him. “That’s yellow, and you know it!” he flamed out; and with that he was gone. But he had scarcely reached the sidewalk before Larry was at his elbow. “I can’t stand for that――from you, Dick,” was all the explanation that was offered; and, of course, Dick was instantly penitent. “I’m a liar!” he blurted out contritely. “Nobody knows better than I do that there isn’t a single yellow drop of blood in you, Larry. There goes a bunch of our fellows now――let’s run.” The hazing episode proved to be merely an incident. Enough Freshmen were rallied to rush the field barn in Adams’s back forty; the artistic Sophomores were scattered; and the victim, who proved to be the big, husky “Aggie,” Welborn, who roomed at Mrs. Grant’s, was rescued. Of course, Welborn was a sad sight. The artists had stripped him and he was well daubed with green paint. Nevertheless, he was cheerfully triumphant. “I got five of ’em, b’jing! before they got me,” he gloated, with a grin that the green paint made peculiarly hideous. “Whadda you reckon’ll take it off?” “Turpentine,” suggested somebody in the mob of rescuers; and two of the light-footed ones ran for a drug store. With the worst of the paint removed, Larry and Dick took Welborn home, where they commandeered the bath-room and worked over him until he was well-nigh blistered but clean. “Gosh! talk about Turkish baths!” gurgled the big victim, as they were sousing him for the final time in the tub of hot soap-suds. “I’ll say this beats ’em a mile high! Wait till we got those Soffies at the bridge! I’m goin’ to take a stick along and notch it every time I put one of ’em to sleep.” “Well?” said Dick to Larry, after they had tucked the cheerful victim into his bed, and were once more in their own room, “changed your mind any?” “Not a minute’s worth!” was the gruff reply. “It’s all tom-foolishness, and I don’t want any of it in mine.” “But you’ll turn out for the bridge scrap, won’t you?――for the honor of the class?” “Not so you could notice it,” Larry refused; and with that he stuck his face into a book.