peremptorily.

"I can't wrestle," said Jimmy.

"Get out here and learn then. Come on," and the Captain reached a big hand over the heads of the squatters in the ring. Jimmy felt compelling hands pushing from behind, and with the eyes of everyone on him, there was nothing to do but go forward. A path was cleared for him and he stepped into the ring.

"Good boy, Red. You've got to even this thing up."

"Show us you have the goods!" yelled someone whose sympathies were with the Freshmen.

The Freshman and Sophomore took their corners after the referee had satisfied himself that the pair would be well matched as to weight, and soon they were down to wrestling condition with bare backs and sock feet, because a wrestler is never allowed to wear anything that might in any way injure his opponent.

"Does your friend know anything about the game?" inquired the news-heeler of Frank.

"Not much, he did a little of it at school, but he is very strong," was Frank's reply.

"Well, he'll need it. That fellow who is pitted against him is Francis who won the lightweight event for his class last year, and is one of the best men in his class at the wrestling game."

When the Sophomore got to his feet, it was seen that he was a head taller than his opponent, but not so heavily built. His slender body was finely muscled, and his face wore a smile of confidence which said quite plainly what his opinion was of the outcome.

"Middleweights—Sophomore Francis, weight 148; Freshman Turner, weight 154," bawled the announcer. Then the whistle shrilled and the boys sprang forward to shake hands. That preliminary over, they backed away from each other and circled around, sparring for an opening. Francis rushed, but Turner cleverly evaded him. Again he tried and was thrown off by Turner, the "spat" of the meeting bodies sounding sharp and clear in the night air.

"Good boy, Turner. Don't let him get that grip on you," yelled a Senior as Turner eluded another bull-like rush which carried both the contestants in among the torches. It was Francis' method of wrestling to carry the fight fast and furious from the beginning. More skirmishing, and finally a savage rush, and Francis got a hold on Turner's leg, lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards. Both crashed to the ground. There was a twisting, squirming struggle with Turner at the bottom, but not downed yet for he managed to break away from Francis' hold and got to his hands and knees with Francis across his back.

The picture at this point was one worthy of the brush of an artist. Riding in a clear sky, a round moon looked down through the branches of the big elms to where the boys fought it out on the grass, panting with their exertions. Most of the torches had by this time burned themselves out and lay smoking at the feet of the human circle. For a background to the picture hundreds of lights twinkled on in the dormitory windows facing the Campus, and in the dim light of the moon could be seen scores of people who had taken advantage of the Dwight Hall porch from whence they could get a distant view of the struggle.

But the boys struggling on the ground and those crowded around the ring were not interested in the pictures. Back and forth the wrestlers went, the advantage first with one and then with the other. Francis could not get his famous holds on Turner for the latter, with extraordinary strength, either evaded or broke them before he was caught irrevocably. Time was up for the bout before either had scored a fall.

"Keep him off, Turner," counseled one of his seconds, while he pummeled the wrestler's arm and shoulder muscles. "Tire him out in this next bout, and you will get him in the last one."

"Don't let him get that half-Nelson on you or you are going sure as shooting," advised the man who fanned the panting Turner with a towel. "You've taken some of the confidence out of him already."

Francis in his corner was getting the same kind of advice.

"You'll get him this time," cheered his advisers. "Carry it right to him and don't let him get out of your grips."

"He's strong," said Francis. "He nearly broke my arm, but I'll get him. Don't worry." But the confident smile had gone from his face. It was going to be a bitter struggle in which his skill was pretty nearly evened by the Freshman's unusual strength.

"Ready," shouted the referee, and once again the boys sprang at each other. Francis was more cautious this time; Turner watchful and wary. Round and round they circled until Turner seeing what he thought was an opportunity rushed with such a tremendous drive that Francis, unable to escape, was borne off his feet. He managed to save himself from a bad position by driving Turner's head down, and mounting his back, rode half way round the ring like an old man of the mountains, while the crowd yelled and laughed. The laughter seemed to madden Jimmy. With a herculean effort he freed himself from Francis who dropped to the ground on hands and knees firmly braced. Using all his strength to turn him over without success, Jimmy relaxed his muscles, rested for a moment, and then putting every pound of energy into one supreme effort, picked his opponent up by the middle and threw him backwards over his head. Francis struck on his shoulder, rolled over on his back and lay still. He had been stunned by the fall.

A little fanning brought Francis back to consciousness, but he had enough for that night, and the referee awarded the bout to Turner. A few moments of conference and the announcer cried:

"Turner wins the middleweight bout for the Freshmen. The third bout will not be pulled off."

The Freshman cheer that went up rattled the windows in Durfee Hall. As Turner was putting on his clothes, and while calls were going out for heavyweight candidates, a man wearing the 'Varsity Y stepped up to him.

"Do you play football?"

"Yes, a little," said Turner, rubbing tenderly a red welt across his right forearm, which had been raised by one of the Sophomore's love taps.

"Report to me at the Field next Monday. I'm the Freshman football coach. Maybe I can use you."

Turner thrilled. "So the old Codfish didn't get me in wrong after all. I'll forgive him," he thought to himself. Finished with his dressing, he was allowed to pass through the thinning wall of spectators, and was picked up by Frank who had wriggled from his position with difficulty.

"Great stuff, Jimmy," cried Frank. "It was worth real money to see you in action!"

"I don't deserve any credit for it," said Turner. "I happened to get a lucky lift on him. He knows more about the game than I'll ever learn. I hope I didn't hurt him."

"Never fear, his pride was hurt more than his body," returned Frank. "I wonder where Hercules Gleason went to. He disappeared after his meteoric burst of wrestling form."

"As I'm a sinner, there he is now," exclaimed Jimmy, pointing to a dejected figure leaning against the bole of a huge elm tree. The boys pranced up to him, and sure enough it was the Codfish, mussed and bedraggled. Great blotches of green grass stain ornamented his beautiful light gray trousers, and one knee peered out through a six-inch rent which had been made when his overzealous opponent dragged him along the ground in the second bout. His usually sleek hair was all awry and a zigzag scratch beautified the side of his face.

"How did you like my début?" he asked weakly.

"Great, but how in the name of Mike and the rest of the family did you come to get roped in?"

"They noticed my special fitness for the job, I guess," murmured