youth with blond hair slicked down and parted neatly in the center. His pipe was marked 2T5.
"Yes," said Harold proudly.
"Freshman, eh?" his questioner grinned.
Harold wondered how he had learned that and why he considered it a little amusing.
"My name's Keay—Dave Keay," offered the merry one. He nudged his companion, whose tortoise-shelled glasses were deeply buried in his book. "Snap out of it, 'Shelley,'" chided Keay. "We've got company. An entering man." Keay turned to Harold. "The bookworm is Logan—Tom Logan, editor of the 'Lit.' All the boys call him 'Shelley' because he writes poetry, the poor nut. Now, what's your name, Freshman?"
"Harold Lamb," answered Harold Lamb.
"Lamb?" and for some reason Keay laughed out loud. "Get that, 'Shelley'—the name's Lamb. Well, well. What a swell name for a Freshman. Well, glad to know you, Lamb. So is 'Shelley' here when he gets through blinking and really sees there's somebody else here besides me. 'Shelley's' ruining his poor old optics reading Baudelaire in the original. What do you know about that for highbrowed nuttiness, hey? Well, Freshman, I hope it's Lamb by name and not by nature." Keay seemed to think this such a witty crack that
