“Up with them,” repeated the denizens of the front row as they reached forward for a fresh supply.
But there was no more material available; the besieging party had retreated. On the top row the dishevelled president was confusedly pulling himself together, and grinning sheepishly. The rebellion was over.
“Dance, freshies,” resumed the seniors mockingly; 48 and once more the regular tap of feet and clapping of hands beat slow march-time.
One by one the freshmen came forward, and, shuffling a few steps to the encouraging “well done” of the seniors, mounted the steps between the rows of laughing upper classmen.
It happened that Landers came last. He wore heavy shoes and walked with an undeniable clump.
“He’s Dutch, make him clog,” called a man from an upper row.
The class caught the cry. “Clog! Clog!” they commanded.
A big fellow next the aisle made an addition. “Clog there, hayseed,” he grumbled.
Landers stopped as though the words were a blow. That one word “hayseed” with all that it meant to him––to be thrown at him now, tauntingly, before the whole class! His face grew white beneath the remaining coat of tan, and he stepped up to the big senior with a swiftness of which no one would have suspected him capable.