zine under his arm. He leafed its pages hesitantly under Harold's nose. Near-sighted, he had not recognized Harold.
"Shelley" swung rather falteringly into his line. He was not good at this sort of business. All the Tate Literary Monthly editorial board were required to dash out among the Freshmen and rustle up subscriptions. The entering men were almost their only prospects. The other students would sooner flunk out than be caught with the "Lit" on their study tables.
"I represent the Tate Literary Monthly. Only purely literary review published here," Logan attempted to rattle it off. "Publishes all the good stuff written at Tate. You'll want to write for it yourself. No Freshman can get along without the 'Lit.' Two dollars and a half. Ten issues."
Harold already had his pocketbook out. Had only been waiting to learn how much more money would be required. Suddenly Logan got a square look at his victim. What he saw was a pathetically eager, bewildered, innocent face. The face of a Freshman who has been steadily mulcted for three hours and has been paying out oodles of cash for junk that he would probably never use. The most pitiful sight in the world—a man who is too badly cowed to say "No." Logan knew the
