a cheer. Hill felt it. He liked the feeling. "Now that means me," he said to himself, and he recalled what Drake had said to the middle weight: "Now remember, your whole class is watching you." It was in that moment that Hill caught class spirit.

The heavy weight spree was usually the shortest and most exciting contest of the evening. Everyone eagerly pressed forward on the wet grass.

The sophomores were barking and guying and quacking exultingly. The freshmen were cheering hard.

"Get ready, boys," said Jim, the athletic trainer, acting as referee. He held out the stick.

The sophomore ran out briskly. Hill spat on his hands and took his time about it. They grasped the cane. "Down in front, please!" a voice pleaded. The cheering had ceased as suddenly as you turn off the gas.

Hill was cool. He looked about at the theatre of faces on all sides. Just over the sophomore's shoulder, down on the ground with moonlight on his face, he spied an important-looking senior, with glasses, who on the campus had always seemed oblivious to the existence of freshmen. He was rocking back and forth and chewing a cold cigar to bits.

"Are you ready, Hill?"

The freshman spread his legs apart and said, "Yep."

"Ready, Parker?"

"Yes."

A ghastly silent second. "Spree!"

As the referee spoke the word, Hill felt the sophomore drop. He knew what was coming. Over his opponent's head he went sprawling on the grass, as he expected. But just then, in some manner, quick as a flash, Parker doubled and threw both legs in between Hill's body and the cane, and began, with all his strength, to strain, and push, and wrench.

Hill had expected something, and thought he was guarding against it. But this was a new trick—a variation on the old one—which the sophomore had invented himself.

Now, if it had been an ordinary man, with ordinary Christian shoulders, the strain would have been too great, and the sophomore would have won the cane in ten seconds, as he counted on doing.

But you see Hill was somewhat deformed as to his shoulders. He grunted and clung on, and the sophomore's coachers were yelling fiendishly: "You've got him, Park! you've got him!"

The next instant, while the sophomore was trying to better his advantage, Hill quietly turned, slipped out of the perilous position, and drew himself up close to the sophomore's body. He lay there panting, while his coachers cried, joyfully: "Good one, Hill! good one!" and his classmates left off feeling sick at their stomachs, and began to cheer him by name. This he did not hear.

He had been taken by surprise at the fall, but now he was entirely alive to what he was about. Every nerve was at tension, each muscle set at hair-trigger. There was just one thing in all the world to him now, and that was the cane. And when, a moment later, Parker began a quick series of furious jerks, back and forth and sidewise, Hill said, half aloud: "No, you don't, old man," and smiled confidently to himself as he felt how firm the cane was in his hand.

The sophomore, on top, now tried working Hill's hands off with his fingers. But the freshman had lived on a farm all his life. Then he tried something with his legs. But Hill's big supports were as hard as the columns of Whig Hall, though not as symmetrical. Then, waiting awhile, he tried to surprise Hill with more quick, sharp wrenches. It was unsuccessful. He waited, and tried it again. Then time was called. The two class-cheers burst forth simultaneously.

The contestants were dragged to their respective corners, wrapped with blankets, and sponged with water.

During the interval, a buzz of voices began suddenly, as in a racing grand-stand after the winner has been announced. The college had expected an easy thing for Parker, the champion, and when they heard of Bushforth's absence, they were sure of it. Everyone was saying: "Who is this Hill? Hasn't he shoulders! Wasn't that a narrow hole he crawled out of?"

The coachers were whispering, "You're doing well, Hill. Stick to him, and you'll get him yet. You'll tire him out."

Two or three freshmen came into the ring and shook Hill's hand, saying, nervously, "Good boy, Hill, good one." He was already a distinguished man, having held the cane for a round against Parker. But Hill only grinned and had his own opinion. The honor of the class depended upon him. He thought he was going to win the cane.

When the referee called them up, one of the sophomore's coaches called out, in an easy tone, "Remember, now," and Parker replied, in a cool way, "Very well." The silence was worse than ever. People felt that this would be the last round.

The two spreers were the coolest on the campus. But they also felt that this would settle it, and as they grasped the cane each looked the other over and then gazed straight into his enemy's eye. Very much, no doubt, as knights of old used to size each other up before they fell to cutting each other to bits, of a quiet afternoon by the sea-side.

Hill did not like Parker, nor would he have fancied him even if the sophomore had not been a brutal and unreasonable hazer. However, he appreciated his athletic abilities, and even in the tense moment of waiting for the referee's word, he could not help admiring the way his opponent's neck fitted his body, and the clean cut of his limbs, which Hill himself so lacked.

The sophomore looked him back in the eyes, and said, sneeringly, "You damned freshman!" which was entirely uncalled for.

When the word was given both kept their feet for a few minutes. They held their arms down stiff, keeping the cane close to their bodies in order to prevent the other from jumping in between. Neither seemed inclined to begin the attack, and they danced cautiously about the circle with their faces close together. There was something impressive in the sight of these two, pounding about in the moonlight. They were so ponderous, and it all seemed to mean so much. Parker tried the right hip throw.

He was partially successful. They were both on the ground now, and the timer snapped his stop watch. Time is not counted when the men are erect.

The sophomore was on top again. Again he tried his jerking manœuvres, and again Hill smiled to himself and thought, "I guess not."

He lay perfectly still on the wet grass, as if comfortable and quite content to remain there. He heard a voice from the crowd say, "Spread out, you coachers. Give us a show." He could feel the sophomore's breath on his neck and the beating of the heart against his back. He felt the cool wet grass on his cheek flattened against it, and he became aware that his nose was bleeding, and then said to himself, "Oh, yes; I must have bumped that on Parker's elbow when we came down."

Now, up to this point, the freshman had been on the defensive entirely, and he had been so successful that one of the coachers began giving the signals to begin a little offensive work. "No, no, Hammie," cried Drake. "Let good enough alone."

Hill had regained his wind by this time. "Please don't bother me," he said, in a muffled tone. "I'm doing this thing. I'll get this cane in a minute." This was loud enough for some of those in the crowd to hear. Somehow it sounded horrible.

And it seemed to enrage Parker. He began a furious onslaught, as if he were tired of playing with a freshman so long and meant to end the thing right there.

He wrenched and jerked this way, he tugged and pulled that way, he turned over and then back, he tried all the manœuvres he knew, and took desperate chances, which the freshman was too slow to take advantage of. Twice the sophomore seemed to have the cane, and the freshman still