That evening at the club one of the fellows—who, perhaps, had also overheard a conversation—said, in a pause, "I understand the Sophs will bring out the procs pretty soon."
Young was not so shy before his own crowd. "No, they won't," said he. "Not until after Saturday's baseball game."
"Why not, Young?" he was asked.
"What are the procs, anyway?" inquired Barrows, at the foot of the table, who had been Young's champion on the first trip to the canal. He was a small, ingenuous fellow with a big head, and had taken a prize for passing the best entrance examinations from his State.
Young was about to laugh and own up that he did not know, when the Junior who ran the club cleared his throat and explained. He was fond of instructing these Freshmen. He had been very green himself two years before, and he knew how it felt. He also knew how impressive an upper-classman seems to the entering student.
"The two lower classes," he said, with a great deal of Junior dignity, "always get out proclamations on each other. It is one of the customs. The Sophs generally bring theirs out first; they are like big bill posters."
"What's on them?" asked Barrows.
"On them is printed a lot of nonsense in green type. They cast aspersions on you, call you fresh and green and heap ignominy on your prominent men and deride your eccentric characters."
"Well, where do they put them?" asked the one who brought up the subject.
"All over the State."