“I’ll settle with you for this!”
“Any time,” gasped Joe, and then his voice was stopped as someone’s elbow caught him in the jaw.
“Say, what’s the matter with you fellows?” demanded a voice in the doorway. “Can’t you do up two Freshmen? Come on, give ’em what’s coming and let’s get out of this. There’s been too much of a row, and we’ve got lots to do yet to-night. Eat ’em up!”
Thus urged by someone who seemed to be a leader, the Sophomores went at the attack with such fury that there was no withstanding them. The odds were too much for Joe and Spike, and they were borne down by the weight of numbers.
Then, while some of their enemies held them, others smeared the paste over their heads, rubbing it well in. It was useless to struggle, and all the two Freshmen could do was to protect their eyes.
“That’s enough,” came the command.
“No, it isn’t!” yelled a voice Joe recognized as that of Weston. “Where’s that mush?”
“No! No!” expostulated several. “They’ve had enough—the paste was enough.”
“I say no!” fairly screamed Weston. “Hand it here!”
He snatched something from one of his mates, and the next instant Joe felt a stream of liquid mush drenching him. It ran into his eyes, smarting them grievously, and half blinding him. With a mad struggle he tore himself loose and struck out, but his fists only cleaved the empty air.