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THE MAROON TIGER Page 11 fugitives (A Very Brief Episode) By Raphael. Deserting an uninteresting husband who loves you very much to dash away with a handsome young cava lier is breathlessly exciting, but a trifle wearing on the conscience, thought Rosalinde as she hastily thrust deli cate things into an overnight bag. She paused at her task. “This is wrong—but what’s a woman to do? I’ve tried —.” She said this in an unusually queer key, the tone a woman uses when she makes an attempt to justify one of her many faults. If Colin heard her, he gave no evi dence of it. He was lighting his fourth consecutive cig arette. “The steamer leaves in half an hour,” he said very evenly, his slim impatient fingers drumming softly on the gold cigarette case. Rosalinde said nothing. A silence prevailed; one of those silences which is very deathly when one is running away with some one’s wife. “Do we catch it, or don’t we?” “Of course—You know I want to get away from this. The trunks are gone; I’m ready, but—” “You still love him.” Colin’s measured words reeked of bitterness. “No!—no. I loathe him; loathe him, not for what he’s done, but for what he hasn’t. He is too genteel, too wor shipping. He haunts my shadow like a domesticated beast. That’s it. He loves me too much; that’s why I hate him. A woman detests that, Colin.” But Colin wasn’t concerned with her reasons for leav ing. He pierced her through with cold eyes. “Why the uncertainty, then?” “There is none.—Yet, one hates to scourge a faith ful dog.” Colin never had a dog. “We have twenty-six minutes.” And his fingers re turned to their drumming again; fingers that loved the touch of cards and money and beautiful women. Rosalinde was scribbling on a blue sheet of paper her final letter to her husband. She held it up to her companion. “Peter,” it read, “forgive me for doing this to you. I am going aw r ay with Colin. You have been splendid— much too splendid—to an ungrateful woman who want ed to stay interested. The fault was that too much you loved Rosalinde.” Colin nodded, mildly grunted his satisfaction, and deftly lit another cigarette. Rosalinde placed the letter on the table under a brass ash-tray. Peter would sure ly see it when he returned from Camden the next day. A month later two very happy people sprawled upon the warm sands at a small resort near Cannes. It was one of those brilliant days that France affords. The woman was the slender thing strong men love; the man a bronze god reclining. “Happy?” he asked, turning his face toward the wom an who answered with lips that deliciously tasted of salt water. Since moments of bliss are usually short-lived, it wasn’t surprising to the pair to be interrupted by the old fellow from the hotel. McIver. ’34 “Pout Madame,” he said, bowing very low like a prince. Rosalinde took the letter he offered and waved him away. The envelope revealed evidence of having fol lowed Rosalinde for some time; it bore several scratched- out addresses. “Peter.” Quietly. “But I’m not going back, Colin.” “Tear it up, and let’s burn our bridges this time.” A command was never spoken so softly, nor obeyed so immediately. Rosalinde did what few of her curious sex would have done; she tore the letter, unopened, to small bits, and, walking down the sands, strewed it on a greedy wave that licked it up. Then she returned to Colin, and they laughed merrily in the sun as happy people do. Now, if some mermaid had been interested in jig saw puzzles and gathered and put together those pieces of torn paper, she would have read—if she could read English—these words: “Rosalinde, never forgive me for what I am doing; I don’t deserve that much of your sympathy. I have too long lied to you, pretending I still loved you. The flame died long ago, and my ‘trip to Camden’ was merely an easy way out, and a chance to rekindle the fire—with someone else. You did everything a wife could, but I simply lost interest. That’s all. Perhaps you were too good to Peter.” GREEN TURNS MAROON In the latter part of September, fifty-two typically green and ambitious Freshmen strutted up on Morehouse’s campus. Some came with tennis racquets, saxaphones, and banjos—as if coming to a playground instead of an insti tution of learning. One bright fellow, who had been directed beforehand to catch the “West Fair” car and get off at the end of the line, followed directions to the letter by getting off and gently knocking on the door of the “gym.” He left in disgust. Nobody was in. He has since learned the difference between the“gym” and the Administration Building. Freshmen are represented in all extra-curricular activi ties on the campus. The freshmen class can pride itself on having five men on the football squad, three on the basket ball team, and six on the track team. Numerous fresh men are connected with the Glee Club and Orchestra, one with the Debating Team and five with the “M” Club. Freshmen also form the nucleus of Le Cercle de Francois and Die Deutsche Slunde ‘Einigkeit.’ Eight members are on the “dean’s list” and twenty- one were eligible to pledge fraternities. The “yearlings” have been well represented in intramural sports. They were successful in copping the track meet and had rep resentative teams in all other sports. Let us welcome freshmen to our fold next Septem ber, for, after all, it’s around the freshmen that the future Morehouse will be built. It’s the freshmen that must carry the Maroon banners—even at the expense of dyeing their former green ones. Theodore Menchan, ’36.