"They didn't particularly like the prospect; but they were game, especially a little bantam of a rooster called Waring, who'd been putting us through our stunts.
"'I'm going in after that bug myself,' said he, with a yelp. 'Come on!'"
"Well, what happened, Buck?"
"Did they give it to him?"
"About fifteen minutes after the bouncers had swept us into the street with the rest of the débris, as the French say," said the speaker, with a far-off, reflective look, "one dozen of the happiest-looking sophs you ever saw went reeling back to the campus. They were torn and scratched, pummeled, bruised and bleeding, soaked from head to foot, shot to pieces, smeared with paint, not a button left or a necktie—but they were happy!"
"Why happy?"
"They had given Regan the shampoo."
Stover and McCarthy rose and made their way out past the group where Buck Waters, enthroned already as a natural leader, was tuning up the crowd.
"I came up in the train with Regan," said Stover, thrilling a little at the recital. "Cracky! I wish I'd seen the scrap."