When I go aviating on my airy aeroplane.
Such was the song that sounded below the windows of Hike and Poodle, as they sat studying in their room, at ten of the evening.
“This is getting to be too much,” growled Hike. “Some one’s going to get hurt.”
Poodle looked at him shyly. He scarcely knew this savage, stern young man, this new Hike.
There was a sound as of many boys talking all at once, below; then Pink Eye Morrison, president of the Senior Class, rushed in.
“The Seniors below,” he panted. “You fellows are to come down and get hazed—good and plenty!”
“Say, this is a little too much,” said Hike, quietly. “I’m getting pretty fairly tired of this being kidded for having done fairly decent work with a machine that most of you fellows would be scared to look at. Come ahead, you fellows, and I’ll lick as many of you as I can. But hazed—us, Sophomores? No, indeed. Ring off—you’ve got the wrong number.”
“Why, you poor nut—” began Pink Eye, when Poodle interrupted.
“Say, Hike, you’ve got the wrong idea. This is a Hazing Extraordinary, isn’t it, Morrison?”
Pink Eye nodded. Poodle went on: