"Come on," called another, "this time we get the cannon!"
Without waiting for all the class to collect, or for perfect formation, the Freshman column dashed down at the thick of the Sophomores who now stopped giving "This-way" shouts and started forward to meet their opponents. They knew that to be caught napping meant to be rushed, and then the Freshmen would gain the coveted cannon.
Again the two columns met like two big waves, and like spray the front lines were dashed on high. Young was up there this time, literally face to face with the Sophomores. He could see them straining and grunting and pushing like himself. The little fellow that had fallen in rank beside him was up there too, being tossed about like a cork.
The Sophomores were only half prepared for the attack, and were being charged back; Young felt them giving way before him. It felt good.
"Hold them, hold them, fellows!" shouted the Seniors, and some of them pitched in to help their allies, the Sophomores.
But they could not hold them, and the little fellow beside Young began screaming, "We're rushing 'em! we're rushing the Sophs," in the Sophomores' very faces.
A big Sophomore in the front rank got one arm free, reached up and struck the little fellow in the face, then got hold of his coat and began to jerk the little one down.
Young reached over, grabbed the big Sophomore's wrist and freed his little classmate. "Hi! Deacon!" cried a disagreeable voice somewhere in the rows of Sophomores before him. Young was devoting all his energy to the little fellow whose nose was now bleeding; this did not seem to bother the latter, for he wriggled around, nimbly clambered up on Young's big shoulders, then kneeling on them and having free play for his arms he began to strike right and left at the Sophomores beneath him as fast as he could, and he seemed to be able to strike both fast and hard.
Seeing his pluck those behind him now plunged forward harder than ever.
"Yea-a-a—the cannon—the cannon, we've got it!" cried the little fellow.