There'll be more to-morrow night and for the rest of this week. It's the same every year. The trouble is that most of them are selling plain junk. Parsons nicked you for one of those terrible lions? I thought so. He's been paying his way through college with those awful things for three years now. He buys the picture for fifty cents in New York, and gets 'Cheap George,' the picture-framer here in town, to stick a frame around it for fifty cents more. Two dollars and a half profit. Not bad. The rest of the salesmen are just as generous. They all figure that somebody has to sting Freshmen, so it might as well be they. The only thing you bought that's worth anything to you is the 'Tattler.' You almost have to subscribe to that. If you were living in a dormitory room there'd be two or three nervy Sophomores around by this time selling you your radiator and the paper on your wall. You can be thankful you've escaped that. Well, I must be running along. I've stuck fifty of your poor classmates for subscriptions to the 'Lit.' That's my quota for this evening."
He smiled lugubriously at Harold, arose from his chair and departed.
And the next night Harold again bought everything in sight from the campus gold-brick peddlers.
