“Gee, that was great!” Poodle caroled as he trotted back, beside Hike. “How you did lam—”
“Sorry I had to do it,” growled Hike, most impolitely. “Fighting—like hoodlums. ’Course it’s better than keeping ill-feeling going all year; but it’s still better, strikes me, to wade into football, and that’s what I’m going to do, to-morrow. I’m not goody-goody about the foolishness of fighting—I think it’s a whole lot better than keeping up a grouch against a fellow. But when I think of men like General Thorne, that get along by keeping their tempers—why, that cute little scrap under Fig Tree Major looks awfully kiddish to me. But why I should be giving you a lecture on fighting, I don’t know. How do you feel after the jamboree, old Poodski? Great idea of the Seniors, wasn’t it? to end the kidding this way.”
They were in their room, by this time, reflectively pulling off their clothes. “So you liked the idea of the hazing, did you?” Poodle asked.
“Why, sure. ’Course. Wonder who thought it up—probably Gimlet Jones.”
“He did not,” declared Poodle.
“How do you know? Who did get it up?”
“I did.”
“What? You’re crazy, Pood’.”
“I planned it, and fixed it up with Pink Eye Morrison, and he got the Seniors to do it, as his idea. Why, I even wrote that cutely insulting song they sang. Sure, I had us hazed.”
“Well I’ll be—” began Hike, utterly amazed. Poodle retreated behind a chair, and picked up a shoe for defense.