The Free Lance.
“ His gooa blade carves the casques of men, for the Free Lance
thrusteth store."
Vol. XVII.
It was commencement week, and Collegetown had thrown aside
its mantle of scholastic solemnity. “Old-Grads” were renewing
friendships broken off at graduation and recalling the old days
when the world seemed to them a garden of roses. Undergradu
ates were strolling about the campus, some accompanied by laugh
ing, joyous, clear-eyed girls, sweethearts, perhaps; while others
were showing places of interest to the dearest, the best woman
they would ever know, the woman who would believe in them
and love them always, whether the years to come brought them
honor or disgrace, the woman whom they called mother.
Down in front of the post office a group of students were talk
ing, and one of them suddenly exclaimed:
“What’s got into Bob Langdon? I saw him this morning and
he looked as though his rich uncle had died and forgotten him in
the will. I invited him to come and meet my sister, and he ex
cused himself by saying that he had a previous date. Beastly in
him, wasn’t it? I would cut every date I had for the pleasure of
meeting a pretty girl.”
“I noticed him today, and thought he was blue over the
'exams,’ ” volunteered another. “You know he flunked elementary
mechanics with an E. and chemistry with a D., and this
was his second time with chemistry. What do you think, Rey
nolds ? He’s your room-mate, you should know.”
JUNE, 1903.
A FAILURE.
No. 3.