“The chief thing I’ve noticed about them,” said Lucile, “is that they’re so horribly numerous.”
“Fresh?” asked Madeline.
“Yes, indeed,” declared Polly emphatically, “dreadfully fresh. But somehow,—I’m on the grind committee, you know,—and they don’t do anything funny. They just do quantities and quantities of stupid, commonplace things, like mistaking the young faculty for freshmen and expecting Miss Raymond to help them look up their English references. I just wish they’d think of something original,” ended Polly dolefully.
“Why don’t you make up something?” asked Madeline.
Polly stared. “Oh, I don’t think that would do at all. The grinds are supposed to be true, aren’t they? They’d be sure to find out and then they’d always dislike us.” Polly smiled luminously. “I’ve got a good many freshmen friends,” she explained.
“Which means violet-bestowing crushes, I suppose,” said Madeline severely. “You shouldn’t encourage that sort of thing, Polly. You’re too young.”
“I’m not a bit younger than Lucile,” Polly defended herself, “and they all worship her.” Polly giggled. “Only instead of violets, they send her Gibson girls, with touching notes about her looking like one.”
“Come now,” said Lucile calmly. “That’s quite enough. Let Madeline tell us how to get some good grinds.”
Madeline considered, frowning. “Why if you won’t make up,” she said at last, “the only thing to do is to lay traps for them. Or no—I’ll tell you what—let’s give an initiation party.”
“A what?” chorused her guests.