"So, one noon after lunch at the training-table, Schaefer winked at me and a couple of other choice spirits. We went to our rooms and got out our favorite paddles, carved from barrel-staves and lettered over with fraternity emblems and wise-cracks. Then we tramped up to the third floor and knocked loudly at Varduk's door.
"He didn't answer. We tried the knob. The lock was on, so Schaefer dug his big shoulder into the panel and smashed his way in."
Davidson stopped and drew a long breath, as if with it he could win a better ability to describe the things he was telling.
"Varduk lifted those big, deep eyes of his as we appeared among the ruins of his door. No fear, not even surprize. Just a long look, traveling from one of us to another. When he brought his gaze to me, I felt as if somebody was pointing two guns at me, two guns loaded to their muzzles."
I, listening, felt like saying I knew how he had felt, but I did not interrupt.
"He was sitting comfortably in an armchair," went on Davidson, rocking on his feet as though nervous with the memory, "and in his slender hands he held a big dark book. His forefinger marked a place between the leaves.
"'Get up, frosh,' Schaefer said, 'and salute your superiors.'
"Varduk did not move or speak. He looked, and Schaefer bellowed louder, against a sudden and considerable uneasiness.
"'What are you reading there?' he demanded of Varduk in his toughest voice.