They went over to supper together and as they parted from Malcolm at the dining-room door the latter brushed against Evan and thrust a bit of paper into his hand. Puzzled but discreet, Evan dropped it into his pocket and promptly forgot all about it until supper was almost over. Then, remembering it because Malcolm’s name was mentioned, he drew it out cautiously and read it under the protection of his napkin. The message, written in a tiny neat hand on hardly more than a square inch of paper, was short. “Hazing to-night” (it ran). “Bunk in with me and they won’t find you. Destroy this and don’t tell.” CHAPTER VI THE HAZING Evan tore the note into tiny bits and scattered them under the table, something undoubtedly in defiance of the rules. After supper, at which the foot-ball practice was the main subject of discussion, Evan and Rob, accompanied by Jelly, went back to Holden. Malcolm Warne had not returned, but that didn’t prevent Rob from taking possession of 36 and doing the honors. Jelly was properly impressed with so much magnificence and declared that next year he was going to make his folks furnish his room just like Malcolm’s. In a lull of the conversation Evan introduced the subject which since the receipt of Malcolm’s mysterious warning had occupied not a little of his thoughts. “Do they haze here, Rob?” he asked. There was a quick interchange of glances between Rob and Jelly. Then Rob smiled carelessly and shrugged his shoulders. “You might call it that,” he said. “The new ones have to go through a few stunts, but they don’t amount to much. Faculty bars real hazing, which it ought. You’ll probably be requested to sing a song or do a dance some night, but you needn’t be worried about it.” “I’m not at all worried,” answered Evan quietly. “I only wanted to know what to expect.” “They made me recite ‘Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night,’” said Jelly, smiling foolishly at the recollection. “It was funny, too,” laughed Rob. “Just picture Jelly in his little white nightie spouting that with inappropriate gestures!” “I wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t been for the gestures,” said Jelly with a grin. “They made me do all sorts of fool things, like pulling the bell-rope and clasping my hands.” “Yes, and when it came to the last they made him swing by his hands from the transom. I can see him yet, kicking his legs back and forth and gurgling ‘Curfew shall _not_ ring to-night!’” “Well, I hope they don’t ask me for poetry,” said Evan, “for I don’t know any.” “Better get Malcolm to coach you,” Jelly suggested. “He knows every line of poetry that was ever written, I guess. And I _have_ thought,”――dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper――“that he even writes it!” “Of course he does,” said Rob. “Every Southerner reads poetry and writes it. Southerners are romantic――whatever that is.”