A QUESTION OF DUTY.
HE} looked up from his calculus and the half-finished ex
ample, and out upon the campus, with its new dress
of green. It was early summer, and he had a bad attack of
spring fever. He wanted to go out there, but he dreaded
the flunk which would ensue on the morrow, if he should
give way to his inclination. So he lay back in his chair and
sighed.
His name was Philip Newbold Audenried, according to
roster in the College catalogue, but none of the fellows ever
thought of calling him Philip. Occasionally, when there
was the usual influx of boisterous students, returning from
their vacations they would greet him with “Hello! Auden
ried, old man. What kind’f a time had'je?” But as a
general thing he was known to Fresh and Senior alike as
just plain “Swipes."
No one, not even Philip himself, knew exactly why the
name had been applied to him. The first time he had heard
it had been early in his Freshman year, when, in a back
room on the fourth floor, a delegation of Sophomores had
received him, and had instilled into his mind the usual ad
vice meted out to intending collegians. He didn't remem
ber the full nature of the reception, beyond that it was a
program both varied and replete with surprises. He closed
his eyes the better to recall the scene.
First there was a dark hallway, down which he was be
ing guided by a half-dozen arms—belonging to the reception
committee. Then a door opened, and he was thrust into a
still darker room. He had a sudden foreboding that some
thing was going to happen. It did—a good many some
things. By a momentary gleam from the incandescent lamp
so skillfully manipulated by one of his tormentors, he caught