"Pretty good looking Freshman class, Harry," said one fellow whose face Young couldn't see in the dark.
"Um," said the one addressed, nodding. "There's a fellow, looks——" Young lost the rest of it.
Up the gravel driveway the black mass crept toward the opening between the dark Library and darker Dickinson Hall.
Young was grabbing tight hold of the Freshman in front of him and wondering what would come next.
They were just through the opening and were about to turn toward the quadrangle. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound, like distant thunder.
Then shouted Jack Stehman, the big Junior: "Here they come! here they come. Now then keep together, fellows, keep together, keep together—come at 'em hard!"
Now the many feet of the Freshman column began to rumble. On they plunged, increasing their speed every second.
The spectators on either side sprang back. On came the Sophomores with still more momentum, showing a front row of hardened football men with football suits. A distant light shone on them and Young had a vivid glimpse of their determined faces.
Then, with the Juniors crying, "Come faster! come faster! stick together!" and the Seniors who coached the Sophomores shouting, "Rush 'em, rush 'em, rush 'em!" the two lines came together.
Young was conscious of a dull crunching "thrump." It sounded as if bones were breaking, though none was. Then he saw the two rows in front of him lifted up in mid-air. The front rows of Sophomores were squeezed up also. It was like colliding trains of cars. Young could see them up there struggling, could hear them straining and grunting and pushing and shouting while the distant light gleamed on their dishevelled hair.