protruding. It was only Bill Withers wearing a false face and trying to fool me.
I have had the experience often since.
I called at a fraternity house recently when rushing was on. Through the dim light I could see that all the fellows were wearing false faces. Above the din of the rag time whanged from the long-suffering piano I could detect the hollow, unnatural voices issuing through the masks that the men were wearing. The older fellows, more skilled in their strategy, had adjusted their disguises with greater cleverness than the others, but even the freshmen, their false faces sometimes awry, were attempting to cover up their real selves.
I ran onto Jim Burton one Sunday this summer at church with his parents. He was looking pious, attentive, and altogether unsophisticated. As he leaned over to pick a hymn book from the floor I could see how crudely he had adjusted his false face, for underneath he was the same irreligious, ir-
