From what Doctor Field said, Bill and Gus knew better. Hazing would be broken up on pain of expulsion, as it should be in all schools where the attendance is for business purposes, the getting of a technical education as a means of livelihood. The boys felt that perhaps in a college art course, where education becomes much play on the part of well-to-do lads, class fracases, bowl fights, initiations and the like may not be amiss, but they did not intend to let open brutality rob them of their chance to study. And, however sure they felt that Siebold’s threat was idle, there would be a satisfaction in winning their own fight.
“Now, that’s just what we want to talk to you fellows about,” Bill declared. “You don’t want to think about ‘getting’ us. We want you to call this all off and for good; we want you to give your word on it; see?”
“No; we can’t—” began Siebold.
“Won’t, eh?” Bill’s words came sharp and clear. “Well, then, take a little more treatment for your blamed foolishness.” And Bill touched another button.
The contortions, the writhings, the shrieks and cries that followed quite surpassed the former exhibitions. The well-worn woolen rug that fitted from wall to wall across the end of the room where stood the seven seemed to be charged with red hot needles. Suddenly these ceased to leap and jump and burn; the old rug and the hidden wires under it were again quiescent. But the strident voices of the afflicted prisoners were not silenced, though the late lamentings were given over to a medley of condemnations, appeals and pleadings.
“Say, go a little slow on this!”
“Call it off, confound you!”
“Are you trying to electrocute us?”
“Say, Brown, please——”
“Let’s call it quits, fellows!”