“Well, there you are.  He can’t tell you you’re the finest young tacklers that ever happened, because you’d all get swelled craniums and not do another lick of work.  I know the sort of fellow he is.  He’ll never tell you that you are doing well; only when he’s satisfied with you he’ll pass you on.  You see.  And don’t you care what he says.  Just go on and do the best you know how.  Blair told me to-day that if you tried you could make the Varsity before the season is over.  What do you think of that?  He says the coaches are puzzling their brains to find a man that’s fit to take the place of Dangfield, who was left-half last year.”

“I dare say,” answered Joel despondently, “but Durston will never let me stop tackling that dummy arrangement.  I’ll be taking falls out of it all by myself when the Yates game is going on.  Who invented that thing, anyhow?”

But, nevertheless, Joel’s spirits were very much better when the two lads reached the room and West had turned on the soft light of the argand.  And taking their books in hand, and settling comfortably back in the two great cozy armchairs, they were soon busily reading.

Hazing has “gone out” at Harwell, and so, when at about nine the two boys beard many footfalls outside their door, and when in response to West’s loud “Come” five mysterious and muffled figures in black masks entered they were somewhat puzzled what to think.

“March?” asked a deep voice.

“Yes,” answered Joel with a wondering frown.

“West?”

“Yep.  What in thunder do you want?  And who in thunder are you?”

“Freshies, aren’t you?” continued the inexorable voice.  The maskers had closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid inquisitorial postures between it and the table.

“None of your business,” answered West crossly.  “Get out, will you?”

“Not until our duties are done,” answered the mask.  “You are freshies, nice, new, tender little freshies.  We are here to initiate you into the mysteries of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo.  Stand up!” Neither moved; they were already standing, West puzzled and angry, Joel wondering and amused.

“Well, sit down, then,” commanded the voice.  Joel looked meaningly at Outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo.  But the latter were prepared.  Over went the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the two roommates.  The battle was short but decisive, and when it was done, Joel lay gasping on the floor and Outfield sprawled breathless on the couch.

“Will you give up?” asked the first mask.

“Yes,” growled West, and Joel echoed him.

“Then you may get up,” responded the mask.  “But, mind you, no tricks!” Joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire.  “Freshman March will favor us with a song,” announced the mask.