Did they buy them? Oh, ask! They crowded around Bunny three deep, he couldn’t make the change fast enough; as the excitement spread, they crowded six deep, ten deep—it was a mob, a riot! Everywhere, all over the campus, men and women, seeing the throng, came running. An accident? A fight? What was the matter? People who got their copies and drew out of the crowd, became centres of minor disturbances, others trying to see over their shoulders, asking questions. For just about ten minutes this went on; until from the Administration building there emerged, portly and dignified, with gold nose-glasses and a roll of fat around his neck—just such a personage as you would meet in any big real estate office or bank in the city—Reginald T. Squirge, Ph. D., Dean of Men. Quietly and masterfully he penetrated the throng, and quietly and masterfully he took charge of the millionaire newsboy, and conducted him into his private office, still clutching his armful of papers. “Wait here,” he commanded, and again went out, and returned with Peter Nagle; a third time he went out, and his prey was Gregor Nikolaieff; while at his heels came deputy deans, appointed ad hoc, escorting the other criminals. How many copies had been sold no one could say; the unsold copies were stacked in a corner of the Dean’s office, and if they were ever counted the result was not made known. But enough had been distributed to set the campus ablaze. “Have you read it?” “Have you got a copy?”—that was all anybody heard that day. The price of “The Investigator” leaped to one dollar, and before nightfall some had sold for two or three times that price. One reason was that a copy had reached the Angel City “Evening Booster,” most popular of newspapers, printed in green, five editions per day. The second edition, on the streets about noon, carried a “streamer head” across the front page: RED NEST AT UNIVERSITY! _Bolshevik Propaganda at S. P. U._ There followed a two-column story, carried over to page fourteen, giving a lurid account of “The Investigator’s” contents, including the most startling of the facts about the hiring of athletes for the university, and the whole text of the satiric poem about God—but alas, only a very brief hint as to what Harry Seager had told about Siberia. A little later in the day came the rivals of the “Evening Booster,” the “Evening Roarer” and the “Evening Howler”; they had been scooped one whole edition, but they made up for it by a mass of new details, some collected by telephone, the rest made up in the editorial offices. Said the “Evening Roarer”: RED COLLEGE PLOT UNEARTHED and it went on to tell how the police were seeking Russian agents who had made use of Southern Pacific students to get their propaganda into print. The “Evening Howler,” which went in especially for “human interest stuff,” featured the ring-leader of the conspiracy: