Off to the right could be seen a confused mass of shadows moving toward the chapel. They were the sophomores, who in some mysterious manner had heard of the attempt to take the clapper, and who now determined to prevent it.
“They’re coming,” said Kerr ominously.
“I know it,” answered Langridge desperately. “Keep still about it, can’t you?” he asked fretfully. “You make me nervous, and I can’t throw well.”
“Humph! He must be a fine pitcher if he gets nervous,” declared Clinton.
Langridge glanced at the circle of freshmen about him. There were enough of them to stand off the rush of the sophomores, who, as they came nearer, were observed to be rather few in number.
“Here it goes!” exclaimed the rich youth, and he threw the lead weight with all his force. It struck the cross, but did not carry the cord over the arm.
“At ’em, fellows! At ’em!” yelled the leading sophomores. “Tear ’em apart! Don’t let ’em get the clapper!”
There was a struggle on the outer fringe of freshmen, who crumpled up under the attack of the second-year lads.
“Hold ’em back!” yelled Langridge. There was no longer any need of caution.