"Yes," answered Joel with a wondering frown.
"West?"
"Yep. What in thunder do you want? And who in thunder are you?"
"Freshies, aren't you?" continued the inexorable voice. The maskers had closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid inquisitorial postures between it and the table.
"None of your business," answered West crossly. "Get out, will you?"
"Not until our duties are done," answered the mask. "You are freshies, nice, new, tender little freshies. We are here to initiate you into the mysteries of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. Stand up!" Neither moved; they were already standing, West puzzled and angry, Joel wondering and amused.
"Well, sit down, then," commanded the voice. Joel looked meaningly at Outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. But the latter were prepared. Over went the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the two roommates. The battle was short but decisive, and when it was done, Joel lay gasping on the floor and Outfield sprawled breathless on the couch.
"Will you give up?" asked the first mask.
"Yes," growled West, and Joel echoed him.
"Then you may get up," responded the mask. "But, mind you, no tricks!" Joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire. "Freshman March will favor us with a song," announced the mask.