“It’s your best chance to get even with them for making fun of you, Ford,” Bascome was urging the lad whose uncle had once been a coach at Randall. “It will serve them right.”
“But I hate to give their plans away,” objected Ford. “I’m a sophomore, and——”
“They don’t treat you as one,” urged Henry Delfield, Bascome’s crony. “It will be a fine chance to get back at them.”
“Suppose they find out that I told?” asked Ford.
“They never will. We’ll see to that,” promised Bert eagerly. “All we want you to do is to tell us where the dinner is going to be held. We’ll do the rest. There’ll be a fight, of course, when we arrive, to break it up, and, just so Parsons, Clinton, Henderson and that crowd won’t be suspicious, you can pitch into me—make believe knock me down, you know, and all that. Then they won’t have any suspicion of you.”
“Think not?” inquired Ford.
“Sure not. All we want is a tip, and when you’ve given it you’ll be in a position to laugh at those fellows who are laughing at you so often.”
“That’s right, they do make a lot of fun of me,” said Ford weakly. “All right, I’ll let you know, as soon as I find out where the dinner’s going to be held. But don’t squeal on me,” and the prospective traitor looked apprehensively at the plotting freshmen.
“Not for worlds,” Bascome assured him solemnly, and Ford left, promising to deliver his classmates into the hands of their traditional enemies.