It was the night of the freshman dance, an annual affair that loomed large in the annals of the first-year students and their girl friends. It was to be held in a hall in Haddonfield, and many were the precautions taken by the committee to prevent any of the hated sophomores from attending, or getting to the place beforehand, lest they might, by some untoward act, “put it on the blink,” as Holly Cross used to say.
The hall was tastefully arranged with flowers and a bank of palms, behind which the orchestra was to be hidden. About the balcony were draped the college colors, with the class hues of the freshmen intermingled.
Early on the evening of the dance, Garvey Gerhart, who was chairman of the committee on arrangements, left the college on his way to town to see that all was in readiness.
“Doesn’t he look pretty!” exclaimed Phil, who, with a group of sophomores, stood near Booker Chapel.
“I wonder if he has his dress suit on?” asked Tom.
“We ought to see if his hair is parted,” put in Sid. “Freshmen don’t know how to look after themselves. Have you a clean pocket handkerchief, Algernon?” and he spoke the last in a mocking tone.
“Look out; there may be another fire,” retorted Gerhart with a grin, and the sophomores could only grit their teeth. They knew the freshmen still had the laugh on them.
“But not for long?” muttered Phil. “Is Dutch all ready?”
“All ready,” answered that worthy for himself. “We’ll slip off to town as soon as it’s dusk.”