“Hop in that car, Peterson,” ordered Andy, to a freshman who could operate an auto. “Run it out to the street and leave it. Then we’ll rush these chaps out to it and chuck ’em in. We’ll show ’em what it means to run over our campus.”
All this time Andy had kept hold of the collar of the youth whom he had pulled from the car. Then the latter turned about, and raised his fist. He had been taken so by surprise that he at first had seemed incapable of action.
At this moment the big bonfire flared up brightly, and by its glare Andy had a look at the face of the lad with whom he had clashed. The sight caused him suddenly to drop his hold and exclaim:
“Mortimer Gaffington!”
“Huh! So it’s you, is it, Andy Blair? What do you mean by acting this way?” demanded Mortimer, the shock of whose rough handling had seemed to sober temporarily. “What do you mean? I demand an apology! That’s what I do. Ain’t I ’titled to ’pology, fellers?” and he appealed to his chums.
“Sure you are. Make the little beggar ’pologize!” leered one. “If he was at Yale, now, we’d haze him good and proper.”
“Yale!” cried Tom Hatfield. “Yale fires out such fellows as you!”
“Mortimer Gaffington!” gasped Andy. “I rather wish this hadn’t happened. Or, rather I wish it had been anyone but he. I can see where this may lead.”
“You goin’ ’pologize?” asked Mortimer, trying to fix a stern gaze on Andy.
“Apologize! Certainly not!” cried Andy, indignantly. “It is you fellows who ought to apologize. What would you do if some one ran an auto over Yale Campus?”