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36 appeared to be very much at home. It was ten o'clock at night.

Three or four uncomfortable-looking figures sat about in chairs. A roar of laughter broke out and even the uncomfortable figures joined in.

The occasion of the merriment, Terence Golatly, emerged from the bedroom. He was in charge of a pudding faced individual who wore an orange-and-black Tam O'Shanter.

"As Master of Ceremonies, gentlemen, I beg to introduce this promising little boy who will talk of politics in his native city, Newark," said the fat sophomore.

Freshman Golatly was attired in a dressing gown and had on his head a waste-paper basket, shaped like an Uncle Sam's beaver hat. If this was hazing, there was nothing cruel in it—he apparently was enjoying his position as much as the rest.

L. Putney Betts nervously passed the handsome cigar box.

There is no use recording Mr. Golatly's oratorical outburst; but in the midst of it there was an interruption. Three or four freshmen entered the room, and among them the