Walt swallowed a lump, nervously opened a book that lay on the table, then looked at the big red sweater on the bed, and said: "I can't do it, Cap." Smith kicked a pillow of which he thought a great deal almost into the grate, and said with fine scorn: "When do you join the Phis?" "I don't know," said Van, drearily. "Well, I think you're nutty; it's the cheesiest gang in College." The battle had begun. Walt might as well practice his defense at once, so he said with a little dignity: "My uncle is a Phi, and it is his wish." "So that is it!" Such a reason was no discredit to the Rhos; therefore it was the harder to accept. "You give me a jolt, Walt. Just because your uncle is in a rotten fraternity you must crawl into the heap, too. I'd see him hanged first before I'd queer myself with those yaps." Cap went on even more impatiently, but the Freshman heard not a word. He was staring at the book open before him. "Cap, what book is this?" "The fraternity catalogue." "What fraternity?" "Ours, of course; whose did you think it was, the--" Walt gave a hysterical whoop and flung himself over the footboard upon the astonished Smith. He rolled him over the bed and sent him to join the pillow on the floor; then, sitting up on the bed with tousled hair and shining eyes, he said: "Cap, if you still want me, I say yes!" "What's the matter with you?" asked the amazed Sophomore from the rug. "Nothing!" shouted Walt. "I see the whole thing; uncle's awful writing--mother got it Phi instead of Rho--she doesn't know one from the other--his name's in your book. Hoo!" and he sprang on Smith again and lifted him bodily. The Chapter had been waiting. Hearing propitious sounds, they came stringing in, and Haviland's explanation, with the celebration that followed it, took such a length of time that the longest, lankiest Phi fell asleep in the parlor and his lamp burned out about two. THE INITIATION OF DROMIO. The Initiation of Dromio. "I know a prof.,--not much to see,-- Take care! Mistakes are made here frequently, Beware!" The Rho fraternity called Walter Haviland "professor." Haviland was one of their pledged Freshmen. In rushing, a good nickname, gracefully used, is a great thing. It puts a Freshman considerably at his ease, and impresses him with the feeling that he belongs to the set. The first day that Haviland came over to dinner, Bob Duncan, a Senior, spoke up from his end of the table: "Are you a relative of Lamb, the botany professor?" "I have never heard that I am," answered the Freshman. "Are you in any of his classes?" "No; I'm not going to take botany." "If you were, I don't believe the class could tell you apart. Doesn't he look like Lamb to beat the band, fellows?" "He's a little heavier than the prof.," suggested Smith. "Oh, perhaps he is a little," admitted Duncan, "but their height is the same to an inch, and the facial resemblance is great."