others. Ross was a senior, a quiet man with gray eyes, rather heavy features, and soft brown hair. He was considerably older than the others, having worked for several years before he came to college. He listened to the stories that were being told, occasionally smiled, but more often studied the group curiously.
The talk became exceedingly nasty, and Hugh was about to leave in disgust when the discussion suddenly turned serious.
“Do you know,” said George Winsor abruptly, “I wonder why we hold these smut sessions. I sit here and laugh like a fool and am ashamed of myself half the time. And this is n’t the only smut session that’s going on right now. I bet there’s thirty at least going on around the campus. Why are we always getting into little groups and cover¬ ing each other with filth? College men are sup¬ posed to be gentlemen, and we talk like a lot of gutter-pups.” Winsor was a sophomore, a fine student, and thoroughly popular. He looked like an unkempt Airedale. His clothes, even wher new, never looked neat, and his rusty hair refuset to lie flat. He had an eager, quick way about him and his brown eyes were very bright and lively.
“Yes, that’s what I want to know,” Hugli chimed in, forgetting all about his desire to leave “I’m always sitting in on bull sessions, but ] think they ’re rotten. About every so often I maki
