guarded by three or four of the Sophomore cronies of Harold's tormentors.
Harold hesitated doubtfully. "You'll be unpopular if you don't." That was the warning that impressed him. For he was deeply anxious to be popular. If he was ever going to be a second Chester Trask, he mustn't take any chances of being unpopular. He remembered Trask's suavity at speech-making at the Cleveland alumni meeting.
Harold gulped. Then he said, "Well—if I'm expected to say something—I suppose—I ought to."
He walked out to the front of the stage, the kitten still held absurdly under his sweater. He wondered if the trembling of his knees looked as badly as it felt. He faced the sea of white, tittering faces in front of him. The crowd had arrived early, knowing what to expect. It was, as Sheldon and the others had explained, the custom at Tate to have Freshmen address the opening assemblage before the dean arrived. Each year a Sophomore committee lined up likely victims and inveigled them back stage. Then pushed them out to the delight and merriment of their fellow students. It was the opening event in the hazing season. Sheldon and Garrity had been at the station for the purpose of lining up the Freshman "speakers" and they had
