And the seniors and juniors, themselves delighted by the cleverness of the freshmen, helped rush the sophomores into the pass by crowding upon them as if eager to see the fun, giving no chance to break through and escape.
The slaughter was something terrible to behold. The freshmen were merciless. Starbright, the blond giant, led them on, with Morgan, equally fierce, taking active part.
But the new leader among the freshmen was the marvel of that night. Rolf Boltwood, the poet, his long hair flying about his head, was a perfect cyclone. No one could stand before him. He hurled men right and left as if they were mere children. He piled them up in heaps of four or five, laughing as he did so. He swept them aside as if possessing the arms of a Samson.
They were astounded, for till now no man had ever fancied Boltwood possessed such strength. Some had imagined that he was too timid to do anything but run away on an occasion like this. His own class had not trusted him, and now the sight of him mowing the enemy down in such an irresistible manner set them wild with joy, and made them a hundred times more fierce.
For once in his life, Jack Ready was bewildered. He could not tell just what had happened.
“For the love of goodness!” he gasped. “My, my, my! Where are we at?”
“We’re trapped, you thundering fool!” roared Bingham. “The freshies have played it on us!”
“Oh, lud! oh, lud!” murmured Ready. Then he shouted: “Charge, fellows! Rip a hole through ’em! Come on!”
Slosh!—down came a bucket of water on his head, making him gasp.