ere else. Maybe a third of the Siwash girls were pretty
and fascinating and wise and loyal, and nine or ten other exceedingly
pleasant adjectives. And perhaps another third were--well, nice enough
to dance with at a class party and not remember it with terror. And then
there was another third which--oh, well, you know how it goes
everywhere. They were grand young women, and they were there for
educational purposes. They took prizes and learned a lot, and this was
partly because there were no swarms of bumptious young collegians
hanging around them and wasting their time. Far be it from me, Miss
Allstairs, to speak disparagingly of a single member of your sex--you
are all too good for us--but, if you will force me to admit it, there
were girls at Siwash--ex-girls--who would have made a true and loyal
student of art and beauty climb a high board--certainly, I said I wasn't
going to say anything against them, and I'm not. Anyway, it's no great
compliment to be admired for your youth and beauty alone. Age has its
claims to respect too--oh, very well; I'll change the subject.

As I was saying, we couldn't influence all the co-ed vote personally,
but we handled it very systematically. Every popular girl in the school
had her following, of course, at Browning Hall. So we just fought it out
among the popular girls. Before elections they'd line up on their
respective sides, and then they'd line up the rest of the co-ed vote. On
a close election we'd get out every vote, and we'd have it accounted
for, too, beforehand. The real precinct leaders had nothing on us. It
took a lot of time and worry; but it was all very pleasant at the end.
The popular girls would each lead over her collection of slaves of
Horace and Trig, and Counterpoint and Rhetoric, and we'd cheer politely
while they voted 'em. Then we'd take off our hats and bow low to said
slaves, and they would go back to their galleys after having done their
duty as free-born college girls, and that would be over for another
year. Everything would have continued lovely and comfortable and darned
expensive if it hadn't been for Mary Jane Hicks, of Carruthers' Corners,
Missouri.

No, I've never told you of Mary Jane Hicks. Why? The real reason is
because when we fellows of that period mention her name we usually cuss
a little in a hopeless and irritable sort of way. It's painful to think
of her. It's humiliating to think that twenty-five of the case-hardened
and time-seasoned po