Just paints these lions as a hobby. What do you say? Three bucks and a half—and cheap at twice the price. Sign here."
The salesman had reeled all this off with the speed and facility of a Coney Island barker. After such a display of pep and elocution, Harold could not turn him down. Besides, it was a fine, upstanding, fire-eating lion. He signed in a daze. Parsons '25, having given him a receipt for his three dollars and a half, breezed out as quickly as he had sailed in.
Hardly had his footsteps stopped echoing down the hall when there was a second knock at Harold's door. A swarthy youth with a flaming red tie answered the invitation to come in. He approached Harold waving a narrow book.
"Take your subscription for the Tate Tattler,'" sang out the newcomer. "Five bucks a year. Everybody has to take it. Has all the university notices as well as news of the campus and the world at large. Sign here."
Of course he wanted the "Tattler," Harold thought. He signed. The solicitor swung out of the room with a hurried "Thanks. Good night."
The "Tattler" had the best graft of all the campus salesmen, the college was agreed. You had to take the "Tattler." Else you
