The three Smith brothers allowed themselves to be led close to the edge of the pond. On either side of each lad stood a hazer, with one hand on a collar and the other grasping the seat of the trousers.
“All ready!” again called the leader. “I’ll count three and in they go!”
“One!” came the tally, and the throwers swayed their victims slowly to and fro.
“Two!” came the count.
But before the third signal could be given there came a whistle from Cap. At that instant the hazers had eased back ready for the forward motion at the word three!
But it did not come. Instead Pete, Cap and Bill seemed to slip down. In an instant they were loose. But they did not run.
Instead they put out their feet, one after the other gave vigorous shoves, and six forms, dextrously tripped, lay prostrate on the sod. They were the forms of the lads who had expected to toss into the pond the three Freshmen.
“In with ’em!” cried Cap, and before the astonished hazers knew what was up, one after the other had been rolled down the sloping bank of the pond, into the water.
The tables had been turned most effectively, and, as our heroes fled off through the night they heard some one call:
“For the love of tripe, what are we up against? Who were those fellows?”