against that of another Freshman. He perched up in a tree opposite one of his classmates similarly situated and yelled "Katy did" while the other youth responded with "Katy didn't." This for ten solid minutes. He marched in innumerable hazing parades with his trousers rolled to his knees and his garters draped around his ears. In these processions there was always a leader who intoned erudite slogans such as "I'm the Sultan!" while the others in line shouted back, "We're his harem!"
But by the end of the second week, hazing was officially over, by edict of the Senior Council, and Harold's life slid into more of a rational routine. Standing outside of the main entrance of Commons after luncheon on Saturday, he discovered that for the first time since arriving at Tate he was alone and with nothing to do. This struck him as all wrong. If he wanted to get along, if he ever expected to be a big man like Chester Trask, he mustn't idle. He was making friends hand over fist. He must keep it up, strike while the iron was hot, no matter if these first two weeks had seemed to cost him a fearful lot of money.
His eyes shifted to a shiny new runabout that had drawn up to the curb in front of Commons. He recognized the occupants as
