succeed."

"You'd stop us, perhaps?" sneered Cowan.

"Easily," answered Neil, smiling sweetly; "there are only a hundred or
so of you."

"There's no one like a week-old freshman for self-importance," Cowan
said, laughing in order to hide his vexation.

"Unless it's a third-year sophomore," Neil retorted.

"Oh, well," Paul interposed, "it's all poppycock, anyhow."

"That's all," said Livingston.

"Of course," agreed Cowan.

Neil was silent.



CHAPTER VII

THE GENTLE ART OF HANDLING PUNTS

Life now was filled with hard work for both Neil and Paul. Much of the
novelty that had at first invested study with an exhilarating interest
had worn off, and they had settled down to the daily routine of lectures
and recitations just as though they had been Erskine undergrads for