He listened to the stories that were being told, occasionally
smiled, but more often studied the group curiously.
The talk became exceedingly nasty, and Hugh was about to leave in
disgust when the discussion suddenly turned serious.
"Do you know," said George Winsor abruptly, "I wonder why we hold these
smut sessions. I sit here and laugh like a fool and am ashamed of myself
half the time. And this isn't the only smut session that's going on
right now. I bet there's thirty at least going on around the campus. Why
are we always getting into little groups and covering each other with
filth? College men are supposed to be gentlemen, and we talk like a lot
of gutter-pups." Winsor was a sophomore, a fine student, and thoroughly
popular. He looked like an unkempt Airedale. His clothes, even when new,
never looked neat, and his rusty hair refused to lie flat. He had an
eager, quick way about him, and his brown eyes were very bright and
lively.
"Yes, that's what I want to know," Hugh chimed in, forgetting all about
his desire to leave. "I'm always sitting in on bull sessions, but I
think they re rotten.
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