“Th—those—those Smith boys!” was the spluttering answer of one who crawled out of the frog pond.
CHAPTER VII
MOVING THE SENIOR STONE
“It occurs to me,” remarked Cap Smith one evening about a week after the hazing, when his two brothers and Whistle-Breeches had foregathered in the elder Smith lad’s room for a talk, “it occurs to me, fellows, that we’re not doing much to uphold the honor and dignity of the Freshman class. What about it?”
“Not doing much?” demanded Bill. “Say, didn’t we put it all over the fellows who tried to haze us?”
“Yes, for the time being, but they caught us later, and man-handled us about twice as badly as if we’d let them carry out the original program,” answered Cap musingly.
“Well, didn’t we win the cane rush, and can’t we carry our sticks?” asked Pete as he mended a broken bat in anticipation of spring.
“Yes,” admitted Cap, “we did win the rush, and we ought to have, for the Freshman class is big this term. That’s what I’m complaining of, it’s so big, and there are such a lot of fine fellows in it—not to mention ourselves—that it ought to do something to make its name known and feared for generations to come in the annals of Westfield.”