Hazing at Julien’s has assumed, of late, a comparatively mild form. Of course there are traditions of serious trouble in former years and a few fights have taken place, consequent upon the indignant resistance of new men to the ridiculous demands forced upon them by their ingenious tormentors. Still, the hazing of today is comparatively inoffensive, and there is not much of it. In the winter the students are too busy to notice a newcomer, except to make him feel strange and humble by their lofty scorn. But in the autumn, when the men have returned from their long out-of-door rest, with brush and palette, a certain amount of friskiness is developed, which sometimes expends itself upon the luckless “nouveau.” A harmless search for the time-honored “grand reflecteur,” an enforced song and dance, a stern command to tread the mazes of the shameless quadrille with an equally shameless model, is usually the extent of the infliction. Occasionally the stranger is invited to sit on a high stool and read aloud to the others while they work, as he would like to do himself. But sometimes, if a man resists these reasonable demands in a contumacious manner, he is “crucified.” This occurs so seldom, however, that Clifford, on entering the barn-like studios that morning, was surprised to see that a “crucifixion” was in progress. A stranger was securely strapped to the top rungs of a twenty-foot ladder which a crowd of Frenchmen were preparing to raise and place in a slanting position against the wall. “Who is it that those fellows are fooling with?” he asked. “An Englishman, and it’s about time we put a stop to it,” answered Elliott. When Americans or Englishmen are hazed by the French students, they make common cause in keeping watch that the matter does not go too far. “How many of us are here this morning?” said Clifford. “Fourteen who can fight,” said Elliott; “they only want someone to give the word.” Clifford buttoned his jacket and shouldered his way into the middle of the crowd. “That’s enough. He’s been put through enough for today,” he said coolly. A Frenchman, who had himself only entered the Atelier the week previous, laughed and replied, “We’ll put _you_ on, if you say anything.” There was an ominous pause. Every old student there knew Clifford to be one of the most skillful and dangerous boxers in the school. They looked with admiration upon their countryman. It didn’t cost anything to admire him. They urged him on, and he didn’t need much urging, for he remembered his own recent experience as a new man, and he didn’t know Clifford. “Go ahead,” cried this misguided student, “he’s a nouveau, and he’s going up!” Clifford laughed in his face. “Come along,” he called, as some dozen English and American students pushed into the circle and gathered round the prostrate Englishman. “See here, Clifford, what’s the use of interrupting?” urged a big Frenchman.