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“Bosh!” snorted Dick, trotting out another of the derisives. “If you’re going to let a snob like Harry Eggleston set the pace for you—”

The interruption was a hoarse cry from the street: “Freshmen out! All Freshmen out!” Dick opened the window and stuck his head out.

“What’s broke loose?” he asked.

“Turn out! The Sophs are paintin’ one of our fellows green down in Adams’s field barn! Turn out!”

Dick shut the window and went to get his cap.

“You’re coming, aren’t you, Larry?” he said; adding: “This is a class job, you know.”

Larry shook his head.

“Might as well begin in one place as another, Dick: I’m not in on the rah-rah stuff.”

Dick Maxwell’s temper was easy-going, but about once in a blue moon it got away from him.

“That’s yellow, and you know it!” he flamed out; and with that he was gone. But he had scarcely reached the sidewalk before Larry was at his elbow.

“I can’t stand for that—from you, Dick,” was all the explanation that was offered; and, of course, Dick was instantly penitent.