“Fresh on fifth!” yelled a student in one of the lower benches.
“Fresh on fifth!” bawled another at the top of his lungs.
Ken's muddled brain could make little of the matter. He saw he was in the fifth row of benches, and that all the way around on either side of him the row was empty. The four lower rows were packed, and above him students were scattered all over. He had the fifth row of benches to himself.
“Fresh on fifth!”
Again the call rang up from below. It was repeated, now from the left of the pit and then from the right. A student yelled it from the first row and another from the fourth. It banged back and forth. Not a word came from the upper part of the room.
Ken sat up straight with a very red face. It was his intention to leave the bench, but embarrassment that was developing into resentment held him fast. What a senseless lot these students were! Why could they not leave him in peace? How foolish of him to go wandering about in strange lecture-rooms!
A hand pressed Ken's shoulder. He looked back to see a student bending down toward him.
“Hang, Freshie!” this fellow whispered.
“What's it all about?” asked Ken. “What have I done, anyway? I never was in here before.”
“All Sophs down there. They don't allow freshmen to go below the sixth row. There've been several rushes this term. And the big one's coming. Hang, Freshie! We're all with you.”