The freshmen were happy that night. Never before had they known the sophomores were such jolly good fellows. They took to the punch, regardless of the fact that not a few of them had seen it manufactured. They began to get “mellow.” Sophomores and freshmen, rivals and enemies, hugged each other and danced about. They were seen with their arms about each other’s necks. The freshmen swore the sophomores were fine fellows, and the sophomores swore the freshmen were “dead easy people.” The punch ran low. It was replenished out of a large tin canister, and Diamond swore that its last state was even worse than the first. “Oh, what a jolly lot of heads these fellows will have in the morning!” murmured Browning, as he continued to ladle out the stuff, the perspiration pouring down his face. Then of a sudden arose a fearsome cry: “Faculty! faculty!” Consternation, confusion, dismay! There was a furious scramble to get out of the way somehow, anyhow, somewhere, anywhere. To be seen and recognized by the faculty was a very serious matter just then. The sophs and the juniors dove into bedrooms and plunged under the beds and into the clothes rooms, leaving the poor freshmen to conceal themselves as best they could. Heavy feet were ascending the stairs. Voices were heard. “That’s Prof. Mower!” sibilated a voice from one of the overflowing clothes rooms. “I don’t care about seeing him any more,” softly groaned a voice from beneath a bed. Then there was a deep grunt of disgust for such a pun, proceeding from various portions of the dark room. A shrill voice was heard outside the door. “That’s Prof. Such!” came a husky whisper from the clothes press. “He shouldn’t come here at such an hour,” punned another voice, from some mysterious corner of the dark room. “He’s too near-sighted to see anybody if there was a light in the room,” declared somebody. “Hark!” Another voice was heard beyond the door. “That is Prof. Babbitt!” whispered several of the hiding ones. “He is dangerous!” Prof. Babbitt was a man who was continually in trouble with the students, who despised him, and lost no occasion to hector him. Rap! rap! rap! Three sharp raps on the door. Silence within the room. A hand fell on the latch, and the door was opened. Peering from beneath the bed and from other hiding places the students saw three persons stalk into the room. “It’s very dark here,” said the voice that sounded like that of Prof. Such. “I--I think I smell tobacco,” said another voice, which the trembling culprits were certain came from the lips of Prof. Mower. “I am certain I smell something worse than tobacco,” fussed the voice of Prof. Babbitt. “Dear dear!” exclaimed the first speaker. “It is awful! I shall not be able to remain in this room.” “It’s the punch they smell,” whispered one of the students under the bed, holding his lips close to the ear of a companion.