waging an unsuccessful battle to conceal the fact all evening—they fell upon him. They snatched at his clothes. They wanted souvenirs. His coat parted. The rest of his trousers were pulled off. Arrayed only in his underwear, dress shirt and the sleeves of his missing coat, he fled crazily from the room.
Through the pandemonium rolled the syncopated din of Jergens' Jazz Jongleurs.
Into the lobby of the Tate Harold rushed pell-mell. The nearest refuge offered was a telephone booth. He darted into this retreat and slammed the door after him. For a moment he leaned against the inside of the booth recovering his breath and his sanity. After a time he realized he could not stay there all night. But what to do?
Harold looked hopefully about. He saw a bell boy come whistling down the lobby bearing a tuxedo suit on his arm from the hotel valet shop and destined for a roomer. The trousers were resting temptingly on the careless youth's arm. Harold resolved upon a desperate chance. As the messenger passed, the Freshman opened the telephone booth door a little, darted a hand out and caught the coat and trousers deftly without the bellboy seeing him.
Inside the booth Harold inspected his loot. He tried them on. They were a trifle small,
