It was Ted Trafford and Joe Leslie, the latter senior class president, who finally, calling for volunteers, attempted to put an end to hostilities. It was no easy task, however, for while many of the belligerents were fighting for the sheer love of it, keeping their tempers in check, there were others who were mad clear through and who had to be literally dragged apart. Pop Driver performed lustily for the peace party, his simple way of tripping up one adversary and holding the other proving peculiarly efficacious. But at that it is doubtful if the seniors could have ended the battle for a long time if Guy Murtha, who had intercepted a blow meant for someone else and was ruefully nursing a bruised cheek, had not hit on the expedient of raising the warning cry of “Faculty, fellows, faculty!” Fortunately, there was no truth in the announcement, but it did the business. Panting for breath, upper and lower middlers drew apart, searching the half-darkness with anxious gaze, ready to disappear as soon as they discovered from which direction danger threatened. Leslie took advantage of the lull to read the riot act and his words of counsel had effect. Upper middle bitterly laid the onus on lower middle and lower middle indignantly returned the charge.
“Never mind who started it,” said Leslie impatiently. “You fellows beat it to your rooms before you get caught. You’re a lot of silly idiots to do a thing like this, anyway, and it would serve you all right if you got what you deserve. Hanrihan, you ought to know better than to let this happen!”
“Someone jumped on me,” replied Tom Hanrihan cheerfully. “I didn’t start it, Joe.”
“Well, get away from here before anything happens. Come on, seniors.”
Nursing bruised faces and knuckles, holding handkerchiefs to bleeding noses, the participants in the recent fracas began to disperse, slowly, however, since neither side wished to be the first to withdraw. Still, the incident would have been closed there and then had not the juniors seen fit to throw open the gymnasium door at that moment and burst triumphantly forth. That was too much for the sore and smarting lower middlers to endure with equanimity. There was a murmur of displeasure and then a howl of rage and the lower middlers surged up the steps and literally crushed the juniors back through the portals.
“You like it so well in there you can stay there!” they shouted. “It’s all night for you fellows! You don’t get out! Keep ’em in, lower middle!”
But that was not so easy, since there were plenty of windows, and it didn’t take the juniors long to remember the fact. The sight of figures skulking away in the darkness soon apprised the guardians of the portal of what was happening and shouts of “Windows, fellows, windows!” was heard and half their number left the portico to intercept the escaping prisoners. That presented upper middle with an excellent opportunity to take a hand again and she seized it eagerly. In a twinkling the doorway was cleared of lower middlers and the juniors came forth. Lower middle, resenting upper middle’s interference, again rallied and tried to force the portico, only to be thrice hurled back before superior numbers. As occasion occurred, the juniors fled to the safety of Manning, or tried to, for not a few were caught and held prisoners by the enemy. Jeers and taunts were exchanged, while the seniors once more attempted to persuade the warring factions to cease hostilities. Finally upper middlers and such juniors as remained with them sallied down the steps in force and the battle broke forth again. It was a running fight now, for the juniors fled helter skelter for the nearby dormitory, protected by upper middlers, while the lower middlers tried to capture them. Confusion reigned supreme.
Hugh, who had taken part in the proceedings with zest and had sustained a lump as large as a bantam’s egg over one eye and a set of sore knuckles, became separated from his friends somewhere between Manning and School Hall. A minute before he had been battling with Nick at his side and his back against the rubbish barrel at the corner, but now Nick had disappeared and although the combat waged behind and before him, he was alone and unchallenged. That, thought Hugh, would never do. For the glory of upper middle he must find an adversary. So he raced down the bricks toward the steps of School Hall, where he could discern under the lamplight a group of fellows struggling strenuously. He slowed up as he approached in order to distinguish friend from foe, but, to his surprise, someone pinioned his arms from behind and he was thrust rudely into the group in front of the door.
“Here’s another, fellows!” panted his captor. “Get him!”
Before he knew it he was being forced up the steps and through the door of School Hall, struggling but helpless, someone holding his arms at his sides and someone’s hand gripped chokingly about his neck. Down the corridor to the stairs, up the stairs, along another corridor and, at last, into a classroom. Then the uncomfortable grasp on his neck was removed, the door slammed, a key turned outside and Hugh, breathless and dizzy but still unconquered, wheeled around with ready fists.