"I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment, so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearly equal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the most exalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment is based on manner rather than matter." "You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing it is the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?" Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced George with a little show of bewildered temper. "See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can't fasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home and read your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawless and touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, is always worth while." George's attitude was a challenge. "Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if your hands do get dirty." Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need a preacher," he said, "not a tutor." XI In his room George opened his book and read happily. Never in his life had he been so relaxed and content. Entangled in the adventures of colourful characters he didn't hear at first the sliding of stealthy feet in the hall, whispered consultations, sly knockings at various doors. Then there came a rap at his own door, and he glanced up, surprised, sweeping the photograph and the broken crop into the table drawer. "Come in," he called, not heartily. A dozen young men crowded slowly into the room. They wore orange and black jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had the appearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George had no doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazing was frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism. "Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, and follow us." George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, to give them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should be qualified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledged him as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready to obey. Then someone grunted with disgust. "Come on. Duck out of here." "What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel." "It's Morton. We can't monkey with him." The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door in search of victims more available. George became belligerent for an opposite reason. "Why not?" he demanded. The leader smiled in friendly fashion. "You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field." As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation. Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an important character.