HITTING A BULLY
Blank looks of surprise, astonishment, relief and anger at the manner
in which they had been deceived, struggled for mastery over the faces
of the Freshmen. The two seniors walked in, looked coolly about,
as though the whole affair had been arranged for their especial
entertainment and inspection, and then calmly took two vacant seats
near the head of the improvised banquet table, which is to say the bed.
“Ah, very cozy and comfortable here; eh Ward?” observed Merton.
“Indeed yes. The old Romans weren’t in it with these chaps. They don’t
recline at table, but make their table on the recline! Ha! Ha! Joke!
Everybody laugh!”
There was a grim silence, at which the Seniors seemed surprised. They
looked around at the banqueters.
“Well, why don’t you laugh?” demanded Ward. “Don’t you Freshies know
what’s good for you?”
“Ha! Ha!” burst out Bill, as much in relief at not finding McNibb in
their midst, as at the alleged joke.
“Laugh!” commanded Merton sternly.
“Laugh!” ordered Ward sharply.
It was instruction that could not be disobeyed, for the Freshmen,
under certain circumstances, were by the unwritten, but none the less
stringent rules of the school, bound to do certain things commanded
by their class superiors. Thereupon there ensued a series of snickers,
more or less forced.
“Not so loud!” ordered Merton. “Or you _will_ have McNibb here. Sorry
if we gave you fellows heart-failure, but we smelled out this little
feed, and thought we’d better show you how easy it is to get caught.
Pass the cheese.”
“And I’ll have some of those pickled lambs tongues,” added Ward. “I
say, boys, you _do_ know how to get up a grub-fest. Who’s doing?”
“The Smith boys,” murmured Whistle-Breeches.
“Might have known,” declared Merton. “Say, you fellows are cutting
things loose at Westfield. Well, it’s good for the old school. Here,
Ward, are some prime macaroons.”
The seniors helped themselves and each other to what was best on the
table, making more or less funny remarks, while their unwilling hosts
looked on, not daring, because of another unwritten law, to eat with
them.
“Here, get busy, you fellows,” ordered Ward. “Pass things up toward
this end. We’re hungry, and it isn’t often that you have two noble
Roman senators to grace your banquets. Get busy.”
“What appetites!” murmured Cap in whispered admiration. “I thought I
could eat, but they have me beaten a mile.”
“Never mind, as long as it wasn’t McNibb. They’re welcome to all that’s
left—we had a good share,” spoke Bill.
The Seniors seemed to be having a good time, but they could not keep
on eating, and even in their hearts was the fear lest they be caught.
So, with a mock farewell, they took their departure, promising to send
some of their fellows around to enjoy the feast of good things.
But no more of the fourth-year men arrived, due to the fact, probably,
that the meeting at which were the entire faculty, was nearly at
an end, and soon the college and the grounds would be infested by
professors. Then, too McNibb might come around at any moment.
“Hurry, fellows,” suggested Bill and his brothers. “Eat what’s left and
then cut out of here. It _might_ be McNibb next time.”
“Say, I thought it was all up with us, when that knock came,” remarked
Pete.
“Same here,” added Whistle-Breeches. “Are there any stuffed olives
left?”
“Nary a one,” answered Cap. “Those chaps stuffed themselves on ’em.”
“Stuffed Seniors instead of stuffed olives,” observed Bill grimly.
The feast was over, the remains cleared away and, one by one, or in
couples, the guests departed, with intervals between the leavings, so
that too much noise might not be created.
The last one had gone—the room was in fairly good shape, albeit
bottles and cans had been piled into closets until the recesses were
almost overflowing—there to stay until such time as they could be
smuggled out.
“Well; how about it?” asked Bill.
“It was all right—even the interruption,” replied Cap.
There came a sudden knock on the door. The brothers, who were not the
only occupants of their adjoining rooms looked at each other with fear
in their eyes.
“Gentlemen, are you in bed?” demanded the unmistakable voice of the
proctor.
“Ye—yes!” exclaimed Bill, making an appealing motion to his brothers.
With a single motion they threw themselves, dressed as they were, upon
the covers, while Bill extinguished the single candle. “We’re in bed,
Mr. McNibb.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” was the grim retort. “I thought I saw a light
through the key hole.”
“No—no, sir,” declared Pete. The room was in darkness but the smell of
a recently extinguished candle was only too evident.
“Very well,” and the proctor passed on, leaving the Smith boys to
recover of near-heart-failure as best they might.
The banquet given by our heroes was the talk of the school for several
days—wireless talk, of course, for it would never do to have it come
to the ears of those in authority. Those who had not been favored with
an invitation were wondering how they could cultivate the good graces
of our friends, and the lucky ones who had attended were wondering when
there would be another spread.
There was hard baseball practice the day following the little affair,
and, for some reason Bill was a little off in his pitching.
“You’ll either have to get a new pair of glasses,” grimly remarked the
coach, “or you’ll have to cut out your midnight suppers, Smith.”
“All right,” agreed the pitcher, for the word of Mr. Windam was law.
The scrub, on which Mersfeld was pitching was close to beating the
Varsity, over which fact the deposed twirler was gloating.
“If things go on this way,” he said to his crony North, as they left
the field, the two again being friendly, “I’ll be back in the box once
more.”
“I’d be glad to help you,” was the answer, for though North did not
exactly care for Mersfeld, whom he felt was not in his “class,” yet the
bully had formed an unreasoning hate toward our heroes, and would have
been glad to see them run out of the school. “If anything turns up by
which we can get back at those fellows, count me in.”
“All right,” replied Mersfeld, duly grateful.
The two strolled across the campus, and, as they got behind a clump
of bushes, North saw a small, timid boy, one of the students at a
preparatory school connected with Westfield, passing along. He called
to the lad, whom he knew slightly:
“Here, Harvey, carry my glove and bat, I’m tired,” for North had been
playing on the scrub.
“Oh, please, I can’t,” replied Harvey. “I’m in a hurry. I—I will next
time.”
“I said now!” exclaimed North putting out a hand, and catching the
small chap roughly by the shoulder. “_Now_, do you hear! Not next week,
but _now_. What’s getting into you fellows from the prep, anyhow? Take
that bat!” and the bully brought it down with considerable force on
Harvey’s shoulder.
The little lad gave a cry of pain, and started to run, breaking from
North’s hold. With a coarse expression the larger student threw his
heavy glove at the little boy, catching him on the back of the head.
Then, with a quick jump North was at his side again, and had the little
fellow’s arm in a cruel grip.
“Try to run away from me; will you?” he demanded. “I’ll show you that
it won’t do to fool with me—you prep. kids are getting too fresh. Now
you get down on your knees and beg my pardon, and then take my glove
and bat, and Mersfeld’s bat too.”
“Oh, North—” began the pitcher, who was a fairly decent chap.
“Let me manage him,” exclaimed the bully. “These kids have to be taught
their place. Get down on your bones, now!”
He seized the frail lad’s hands in his strong ones, and bent them over
backward.
“Oh, Mr. North! Please don’t. I—I won’t do it again! I’ll carry the
bat! Oh, you’re breaking my hands!”
He cried out in agony, and Mersfeld took a step forward half intending
to interfere. But he did not get the chance.
Some one with blazing eyes leaped from behind the clump of bushes and
confronted the bully. A clenched fist was drawn back, and then shot
forward. Right on the point of North’s aristocratic chin it landed with
a sound that could be heard for some distance.
Backward the bully was hurled, almost turning over, and then he slumped
down on the grass. He stayed there for several seconds, and then got up
slowly.
“Who—who did that?” he asked thickly, for he was a bit dazed.
“I did,” answered Cap Smith quietly, “and if you want any additional
just try some more of your bullying tactics on boys smaller than
yourself.”
North staggered to his feet, and rushed at Cap.
“Not here! Not now!” cried Mersfeld, throwing himself in front of his
crony. “Meet him later! There’ll have to be a fight, of course?” and
the pitcher looked at Cap.
“Of course,” was the grave answer.
“All right. I’ll see one of your friends,” for these matters were
rather scientifically arranged at Westfield, on certain occasions.
“See Bill or Pete,” answered Cap, as he turned aside and strolled up
the campus.