CHAPTER XX.

THE FIGHT FOR THE FENCE.

The freshmen were overjoyed and triumphant; the sophomores were downcast, battered, and gloomy. But of all the battered and gloomy sophs, Jack Ready was the “batterdest” and the gloomiest.

“It’s awful!” he groaned. “The fall of Jericho was nothing beside this! Talk about the sun and moon standing still! Great cats! This will turn the whole universe backward and set the planets to capering along in the wrong direction. My, my! but I’m very, very tired!”

He held both hands to his head and looked sick.

Having escaped from the terrible pass, the sophomores fled to the fence, where they gathered and excitedly talked over what had happened. They were united in their denunciation of the freshmen. They felt that the freshmen had committed something worse than a crime in thus breaking all precedents.

“It’s the work of Morgan!” declared one.

“No; Starbright was at the head of it,” said another.

“All wrong!” put in a third. “It was that infernal, long-haired freak of a poet, Boltwood. He led the half of the freshies that came round the Lyceum and caught us in the trap.”

“What did he ever do, anyhow?”

“Write doggerel.”

“Well, that doesn’t make a man a leader at anything. How did they happen to follow him?”

That was a mystery. It had been one of the surprises of the evening, and others were to follow.

Bingham found Ready. The big sophomore’s coat was ripped up the back, and one sleeve had been torn out at the shoulder. His nose was bleeding, and there was fire in his eye.

“Say!” he growled.

“What?” asked Jack.

“We’re a couple of diddling-danged fools!”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” urged Ready.

“You’re a chump!”

“That makes two of us.”

“Did we kidnap somebody?”

“I thought so.”

“Well, there is another think coming to you.”

“Then we must have dreamed it.”

Bingham wiped his nose with a blood-stained handkerchief.

“Where is Carker?” he asked.

“Here,” answered a doleful voice, and Greg appeared. His necktie and collar had been ripped off, his shirt was torn open at the neck, his face was scratched, his hat was gone, and he was dripping wet.

“Carker,” said Ready, with a rueful smile, “I believe that earthquake must have bunted into us.”

“Look here,” said Greg fiercely; “what did you let that blinkety-blanked, long-haired doggerel-writer escape for?”

“Who did it?”

“You must. He was here. You locked him in, and you said he couldn’t get away.”

“Well, I thought so,” confessed Jack meekly. “That dungeon cell has held many a freshmen before this, and held them fast and safe.”

“This one got away, and he got me by the collar right here--see! That’s about all I remember. He spun me round in the air as if I was a two-pound Indian club. It makes me dizzy to think of it.”

“He gave me this nose,” confessed Bingham. “I grabbed him round the body from behind, but the chump butted backward with his head and smashed my nose out flat on my face. I dropped him. Then he turned round and had fun ripping up my clothes.”

“I believe I ran across him, too,” sighed Jack. “Why, the fellow must have been everywhere!”

“Or else there is four or five of them,” said Carker. “He threw me down and stepped on me.”

“Then you know how the downtrodden poor feel. It will be a good thing for you to work into your next lecture.”

“Don’t try to be funny, Ready!” said Carker. “Sometimes I can stand it; but just now I think I shall have to kill you if you try to be funny!”

“Kill him,” urged Bingham cold-bloodedly. “I’m too tired to do it, but I shall enjoy the murder very much.”

“What’s the matter with you both that you want to spit your spite out on me?” asked Jack. “You act as if you think me all to blame for the trouble.”

“After I pushed him into the cab!” growled Carker.

“And after I blistered my hand spanking him into submission!” growled Bingham.

“Then to have him handle me in such a manner!”

“I’ll never get over the disgrace!”

“Where is Merriwell?” asked Jack. “I believe he let the fellow free.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Just to have fun with me. He’s trying to get square for that time I fooled him by pretending madness.”

“By the looks of you, I should say he’s pretty near even.”

“But now I’ve got a score to settle with Boltwood. I was not prepared for him, else he’d never been able to cuff me round the way he did.”

“Hear those freshmen singing!” muttered Bingham. “Isn’t that enough to make a man’s blood hot?”

“It is, indeed!” confessed Ready. “I’ll never get over this night if I live to be a hundred!”

The freshmen could be seen massing in the distance.

“By the gods!” grunted Bingham; “I believe they are going to try it!”

“Try what?” asked Carker.

“To take the fence!” said Bingham.

“That’s just what’s up!” palpitated Ready. “Boys, we must get ready for them. They are drunken with success, and they’re going to bear down on us.”

“Here is where we get even!” Carker almost snarled. “My fighting-blood is up! Naturally, I am a peaceful man, but the limit of endurance has been passed!”

“Amen!” said Ready. “I’m another! I shall strew the ground with corpses! I shall wade knee-deep in gore! I pray that I may again encounter that long-haired freak!”

“Get the men ready!” ordered Bingham. “Let’s give them a hot reception when they do come!”

Then the three set about getting the sophomores ready for the expected attack.

“We must defend the fence to the last!” was the cry. “Don’t give way an inch!”

“We won’t!” declared the rallying sophs. “Let ’em come!”

“It’s to a finish!” said Ready, through his teeth. “If they get the best of it this time, I’ll go jump off the earth!”

“Here they come!” was the thrilling cry.

The freshmen came with a rush. They were full of confidence and enthusiasm, and they felt able to do almost any old thing to the sophomores.

“Stand firm!” roared Bingham.

The compact mass of onrushing freshmen looked formidable enough, and, to tell the truth, the sophomores were not quite prepared for them.

“Down with the sophs!” was the war-cry of the freshmen. “Soak ’em! soak ’em!”

And in the lead came the long-haired poet, Boltwood, running like a deer, calling for the others to follow him.

Morgan and Starbright were also at the head of the freshmen, but somehow since the affair in the pass Boltwood had suddenly been recognized as a bold, strategic, and skilful leader.

“He’s the chap I’m looking for!” cried Ready, and he sprang out to grapple with the new leader of the freshmen. Ready cast himself forward to make a head-on tackle about the freshman’s hips, intending to bring Boltwood to the ground with a jolt that would settle him for a while.

Then, to the astonishment of everybody, Boltwood leaped into the air and went clean over the head of the crouching sophomore.

Then came the clashing shock of the two classes meeting, and in the furious struggle that followed not a few fellows were hurt more or less. The freshmen tried to sweep the sophomores away with the vigor of their onset, and they did hurl them back somewhat.

Then, rallied by the cries of their leaders, the sophs braced and held their ground. Those in the front ranks of both classes received a squeezing that drove the breath from their bodies and seemed to flatten them out like pancakes.

“Ow-wow!” gasped a fat soph. “I’m being squoze to death!”

“Squoze!” panted the freshman against whom he was jammed, “is no--name--for--it! I’m being squashed!”

Both sides cheered and pushed and jammed. From a distance the juniors and seniors looked on and laughed and urged each class to keep at it.

This was sport, indeed, for the two upper classes.

The voice of Boltwood sounded clear and loud, urging those behind him to shove the harder.

“Somebody hit that long-haired jake with a brick!” cried an angry soph. “He’s made the whole thing a fizzle to-night!”

“’Rah for Boltwood!” roared Dick Starbright, without the least show of jealousy.

“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah!” yelled Dade Morgan.

That was the most singular part of it all. Those men, so long rival leaders of the freshman class, seemed ready and willing to surrender the leadership to this new man, who had never before done anything to distinguish himself.

But there was no time to wonder over that now. There was little time to give it a passing thought. Harder and harder pressed the freshmen, and the sophs began to sway and waver. A moment later the soph line broke, and then those on the outside began to jump in and try to yank the freshmen out, to tear up in this manner the compact mass of rushers.

But, with a twisting movement, the freshmen swept on and bore the sophomores back from a part of the fence. This partial victory seemed to give the attacking-party greater vim, while it literally maddened the sophomores.

“Yank ’em! yank ’em!” cried those who were working on the edges, and they would catch the freshmen by the arms or collars, and drag them out from the rushing body, fling them down, sometimes hit them. In fact, both sides were beginning to use their fists, and the rush was degenerating into a free fight.

And the seniors and juniors roared with laughter, still urging the mad combatants on. Not for years had there been such hot times on Omega Lambda Chi anniversary as there was to-night. If the faculty did not interfere, the riot might result in a large collection of beautiful black eyes on the morrow.

Through the thickest of the fray stalked Boltwood. Man after man tackled him, and man after man went down before him. He seemed to have the power of a Hercules, and he soon became a perfect terror for the sophs.

Jack Ready had been dazed when he failed to bring the fellow down by a tackle. It was wonderful that Ready was not trampled under foot by the oncoming freshmen, but he managed to straighten up, finding himself caught in the rush and whirled along like a feather.

In vain he had tried to break away; he was hurled against his own class, and seemed to help in the work of beating back his friends, to his unspeakable disgust. But through all the wild times that followed, Ready’s one thought was to find Boltwood and meet him again.

“I’m done for if I don’t!” he thought. “I’ll be the guy of both classes! Oh, mama! why was I ever born into this world of strife and worry?”

And when the fighting became general, Ready finally found Boltwood. They were face to face. At the same moment Bingham came up behind the poet.

Both sprang at him. Boltwood seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, for he kicked out cleverly and struck Bingham in the pit of the stomach, doubling the big sophomore up instantly. Then he somehow caught hold of Ready, twisted Jack round, grasped him by the neck and the slack of his trousers, and lifted him with a swinging movement clean off his feet.

Up into the air went Ready, struggling and kicking, gasping with astonishment, bewildered and angry. Having swung Jack up thus, Boltwood seized him firmly by the belt, and held him aloft with one hand, high above his head.

“See that!”

Freshmen and sophomores uttered the shout, and it seemed that the fighting lulled for a moment, in order for the astounded men to witness this remarkable feat of strength.

Boltwood laughed!

“Why,” he cried, “I always knew the fellow was a lightweight as far as his brains went; but now I find him a lightweight in every way.”

Down came Ready, being lowered and tossed aside. Bingham had just recovered enough to attempt to come to the rescue of his classmate, but he was too late. Boltwood dropped Jack, caught Bingham by the wrist, gave him a twisting wrench and a trip, and sent him spinning end over end.

As long as he lived Bingham never forgot how he felt just then. It seemed that his arm had been wrenched out of the socket and something had caused the earth to whirl like a top. He came down flat on his back and lay there, while the uproar continued, looking at a calm, white star that he could see through an opening in the trees.

“I didn’t come out here,” muttered Bingham thickly, “to study astronomy.”

Boltwood soon became the terror of the sophomores, who were afraid to stand up before him. As a consequence, the freshmen had things their own way in a very short time, and the sophs were driven from the fence.

Then the freshmen piled onto the fence and sang and whooped and had a glorious time. This was their night, and Boltwood was their pride. They wondered how it happened they had never known the fellow was such a perfect whirlwind.

“Why, he’s a match for Merriwell!” some of them declared.

Others, however, and there were more of them, declared that Merriwell would handle Boltwood just as easily as Boltwood had handled Jack Ready.

They patted Boltwood on the back and told him he was “it.” They shook his hand, and wanted to hug him, but he told them not to slobber. He seemed a really modest fellow, who was not at all anxious to be praised and applauded. They decided that it must be his natural modesty that had kept him in the background so long. And yet, had they paused to think it over, they must have known that the poet was not nearly as modest about some things.

But the freshmen were in no condition to think. All they could do was cheer and sing and laugh and taunt the chagrined and mortified sophomores.