Every other Friday night, it's all freshmen and nothin' else.

You get a postal card on Monday morning in your mail, and it says 'Assignment' on it, and then it's got written underneath what you haf to do the next Friday night--oration or debate, or maybe just read from some old book or something.

I guess we got to stand up there and _try_, anyway." "All right," said Ramsey.

"If they want me to commit suicide they can send me one o' their ole 'Assignments.' I won't need to commit suicide, though, I guess.

All I'll do, I'll just fall over in a fit, and stay in it." And, in truth, when he received his first "Assignment," one Monday morning, a month later, he seemed in a fair way to fulfil his prophecy.
The attention of his roommate, who sat at a window of their study, was attracted by sounds of strangulation.
"What on earth's the matter, Ramsey ?" "Look! Look at _this!_" Fred took the card and examined it with an amazement gradually merging into a pleasure altogether too perceptible: ASSIGNMENT TWELVE-MINUTE DEBATE, CLASS OF 1918.