stick," said the junior.

He put his big fists about it and found himself flying across the room. He landed against the door and beside him lay a table, which never arose.

"Now, that is cane-spreeing," said the junior casually, as one would say, "Down there is the new Art building," "and I want all you fellows to meet me at eight o'clock back of chapel."

That night they gave Hill a cane and said, "Take hold of this and don't let go." He held it for an hour against every one except the junior that was sophomore heavy weight the previous year. But he had never yet been quick enough to take it away from anyone, even the light weights. And that was the reason he was a substitute waiting in Montie Cunningham's room wrapped in two sweaters and a blanket. His eyes were closed and he was thinking about what a bully time his younger brother Ike must be having among the chestnuts this month.

The big leather chair was soft and he might have fallen asleep had not at that moment a tremendous yell burst into existence down below—a loud, shrill, fiendish yell which lasted nearly a minute before it was shaken down to an organized cheer. Hill stretched.

The others were out on the balcony. "Tell us which has it! For heaven's sake, tell us!" they cried to every one below; and no one below answered. So all they could do was to bite their lips and wait until the yelling became cheering, and then they knew from the exultant tones of the sophomores what they did not want to know.

Just then they caught a glimpse of the victor waving the cane in his hand as he was borne high on the shoulders of his class-mates to West Witherspoon.

Then they had a confused view of the rush. The upper classes fell to one side and the other two fell upon one another. This was the fiercest sort of rushing known to the proctors. The two sides were not, as in the cannon rush, evenly lined up four abreast. Not a bit of it. There were two thickly massed bodies of men, one running up a grade, the other charging down, and the roll of their footsteps was as the sound of much cattle, running. For a moment each tried to keep in solid form. But only long enough for some one to be knocked down and run over by the rest. After the first crash it was mixed fighting. In the moonlight one could not invariably distinguish friend from foe. So each man doubled up both fists and let drive at everyone he saw. It was glorious.

As soon as they became hopelessly mixed and each class had cheered itself hoarse and the proctors had carried off an armful of sophomores to appear before the Discipline Committee the next day, and to be cheered off at the depot by lamenting classmates later on, everyone turned up his coat-collar and helped form the ring again.

Those on the balcony, who had been panting and chafing like tied deer-hounds, now heard the feet of them bearing bad tidings and the defeated freshman up the entry stairs. The door was kicked open and three winded juniors laid their burden gently on the bed, which had been dragged in from the other room for this purpose. With them many others pushed in who did not belong there, and the room was full of people once more. Many voices were explaining how it all happened.

Ramsay, the little freshman, was completely done. He had fainted as they brought him upstairs. His face was set and white, and he lay there with his tough little resiny hands hanging limp at his side while his classmates poured brandy down his throat and told each other what to do. Through the window came a sharp freshman cheer with "Runt Ramsay" on the end.

Meanwhile the middle weight had stripped to the waist. He was bending forward with his forearms upon the mantel-piece and his forehead resting on them, as one bows during prayers in chapel. Two men were vigorously rubbing his long strong back with whiskey. The coach was standing beside him, giving final admonitions in a quick, tense manner. "Now, if he does this, you do this. See? He can't get you on that shoulder-throw of his. And if he tries this trick you know how to meet it. Why, you can do him dead easy. I won from him last year, and you can take it away from me," and so on. As they started from the room, he added, "Now remember your whole class is watching you and——" But the door closed and they hurried down the stairs, and in a moment the wild cheering announced their entrance in the ring. Hill was sorry, because he thought it right funny.

He went out on the balcony and looked down on the crowd. The noise and the moonlight and the specks of cigarlight had a grotesque effect. He had never seen anything like it before.

"Oh, cork up that laugh, Farmer Hill," said Bushforth, the heavy weight, who was also centre of the freshman team and had a right to patronize. "It's bad enough as it is, without that bark of yours."

Hill stopped laughing. He grinned instead. His feelings were not hurt. He had none.

Again the cheering was hushed. It was so still that those on the balcony might have heard the hard breathing or the whimpering of the freshman on the bed. The farmer heard it and went inside.

The liquor and exercise had made Ramsay warm. He had thrown off the blankets and lay half naked with his hands clasped across his eyes. Drops of sweat were running off his palpitating chest. Hill looked at his prettily developed arms and at the slender, well-turned wrist and at the tough little hands, which, Hill decided, had never done much farm work. Then because he liked what he saw, he laughed.

The light weight uncovered one eye and then covered it again.

"There, there," said the farmer, patting the black curly hair, which looked "pretty" against the white pillow. "I wouldn't take on so, little one, we'll get some of those canes yet."

Brandy and defeat had made Ramsay cross. He said: "Oh, go to the devil, won't you please?"

"All right," replied the big fellow. "Only you'll catch cold that way. Let me fix them." He carefully tucked the blankets around his classmate, who said, "That's so. Much obliged." Hill smiled at his uncomfortable tone.

When, after seven hard-fought rounds, Murray, the middle weight, was brought up breathless and caneless, there was great discouragement in the freshman camp. The middle weight was the one above all others upon whom they had relied to defend the honor of the class. Murray, the long-winded, himself had felt confident of winning; and probably he would have by sheer endurance had not the sophomore taken him unawares by a very easy finger trick as they lay together on the ground resting.

But it was all over now, and the middle weight was stretched out on the bed beside Ramsay. He had not, however, fainted, and he was sullenly chewing a piece of gum he had had in his mouth during the struggle. He looked unconcerned. He made no excuses to those who told what a nervy fight he had made.

All the week previous the betting on the heavy weight had been two to one on the sophomore. But now three seniors from the enemy's camp swaggered into the room shouting, "Here's four to one on Parker. Who wants it? Why don't you back your man?" They smiled at the junior coachers. "Drake don't want any of it," said another, in a dry tone; "he knows Parker too well."

Drake was the man who met Parker, unsuccessfully, the year before. "Wait a moment," he said. His sporting blood was stirred. "I'll take all you have, at four to one. Charlie, will you hold it, please?"

All of this must have been soothing to the nerves of the freshman heavy weight who was taking off his clothes for a final rub and trying not to hear the class cheers outside.

"Now then," said Montie Cunningham, slamming the door as the seniors hurried down the