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.