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100 ferent clubs, of which there are fourteen, I think, averaging about twelve members, embrace over half of the men at the university, and in all college matters by far the more influential half. There are, however, a great many nice men who do not join the fraternities, either because they have not been asked by the one they prefer, or because they disapprove of the fraternity system on the ground that they prevent outside and general friendships. Here, however, they are mistaken. A great many of my best friends are members not of mine, but of other and rival fraternities.

I take my club-mates around to see my new friend, and, if the general opinion be favorable, proceed to "twig" him, or, in plain English, to ask him to join my fraternity. He probably hesitates, thanks me for the honor, and asks time to consider. If he is asked by some other good fraternity before he decides, it is uncertain how long it will take him to make up his mind. At last a decision is reached, he lets the successful "twigger" know, and generally the first intimation the unsuccessful club has of its defeat is the sight of the rival badge on the left breast of its "goat."

And now his social pleasures begin. He may have letters of introduction to one or more of the professors, but in any event some of his new friends take him to call. In the neighborhood of the university is collected a set of the prettiest, most stylish, and altogether most charming young ladies it has ever been my lot to associate with. Most of the professors give a number of small receptions at the beginning of each session, and, as our friend has been fortunate enough to get a "bid" to one of these, he comes rushing over to our room to ask whether he ought to wear a dress-suit, whether there will be dancing, whether a black necktie will do as well as a white one, etc. The questions a young man can ask when on the eve of his first appearance among strangers, whose manners and customs he seems to think must be entirely different from those in vogue anywhere else in good society, are innumerable. We tell him that dress-suits are never worn here except at germans, and that otherwise he must dress just as if he were going to a party at home. He turns away with a half-concealed sigh of disappointment; for he had evidently intended to make many a "mash" in that new dress-suit. But off he goes, at last, to dress, and we to mature our plans for the night's campaign.

We first visit the rooms of all our acquaintances, and inform them of the fad that our new man has a "bid," and that he must be initiated into the mysteries of a "dyke." This project meets with general acceptance, and preparations are forthwith begun for this time-honored and purely local institution. Dyke is said to be derived from the