“What’s wanted?” asked Evan innocently. Frank Hopkins, who was apparently master of ceremonies, replied grimly: “You are. Come on.” “What for?” asked Evan. “Never you mind. Just come along.” “Hello! What’s doing?” Rob appeared behind Evan, blinking. “Oh, I see. Buck up, Evan, it’s soon over. I’ll join the mob and see the fun.” So Evan was marched off in custody, feeling somewhat ridiculous in his night attire. However, there were plenty of others who boasted no more elaborate costumes than his, for pajamas appeared to be the proper dress. There was nothing solemn in the occasion. Every one whispered or laughed under his breath and a handful of more cheerful spirits joined arms and did a snake-dance down the hall. Evan was conducted to a room at the far end of the corridor, a room which, because it was larger than most, was regularly used on such occasions. Here, standing dejectedly about, were six other new boys, one of them, a youth of not over twelve years, looking at once pathetic and ridiculous in a long nightgown several sizes too large for him. Evidently Evan was the last of the victims, for after he had entered with his captors the door was closed and bolted. The room was crowded to its full capacity and there was a general scramble for posts of vantage. The two beds served as grand-stands, all those who could securing seats on the edge and more standing up behind them. The others formed a circle about the center of the room, the study table having been pushed aside. Evan wondered if Malcolm was there, but failed to see him. If Frank Hopkins was master of ceremonies, Edgar Prentiss was undoubtedly his first lieutenant and a most able one. Hopkins looked over the initiates disgustedly. “A mighty small crop this year,” he said, “and a pretty poor one, too. Who’s first, Ed?” “Let’s have Little Nemo,” said Prentiss, pointing to the boy in the nightgown. “Come out here, Little Nemo. Step forward and make a nice bow to the company.” The youth obeyed, trying very hard to smile. “What’s your name, kid?” demanded Hopkins. “George Winship.” “Say ‘sir’ when addressing the Honorable Court,” Prentiss commanded. “What are you doing here?” “I don’t know――sir.” “You don’t know? What did you come here for?” “To learn, sir.” “Good. Can you sing?” “N-no, sir.” “All right. Then go ahead and sing.” “I can’t.” “You’ve got to.” The boy looked distressedly around the circle of amused faces. “What――what shall I sing?” he asked. “Anything,” answered Hopkins. “Only get at it.” “Do you know ‘Rock-a-bye, Baby’?” asked Prentiss, scoring a laugh from the audience. The boy shook his head. “All I know is ‘Rock of Ages,’ I guess,” he said apologetically. “Let’s hear that, then,” said Prentiss. But there was a murmur of disapproval and Rob growled: “Shut up, Prentiss; that’s a hymn. Cut it out and let the kid go.”