The far-off cry which the six Crows in the cupola heard coming from
the depths of the earth was raised by the eleven Crows in the cellar.
By dint of much yelling the two flocks made their misery known to each
other. The trouble with the cellar party was that it could not get up.
The trouble with the cupola crowd was that it could not get down. And
they seemed to be too far apart to be of much help to each other, for
the cupola Crows had lost little time in lifting the trap-door of the
belfry and finding that the ladder was gone, and none of them was
hardy--or foolhardy--enough to risk the drop into the uncertain dark.
So there they waited in mid-air.
The cellar Crows, when they had released each other's bonds, and
groped around the jagged walls, and stumbled foolishly over each other
and all the other tripping things in their dungeons, had succeeded in
forcing apart the wooden doors between their three cells and joining
forces--or joining weaknesses, rather, because, when they finally
found the cellar stairs, they also found that, for all the strength
they could throw into their backs and shoulders, they could not lift
the door, with all the heavy weights put on it by the Dozen. There
were a few matches in the crowd, and they sufficed to reveal the
little cellar windows. These they reached by forming a human ladder,
as the Gauls scaled the walls of Rome (only to find that a flock
of silly geese had foiled their plans). But there were no geese to
disturb the Crows, and the first of their number managed to worm
through to the outer air and help up his fellows in misery.
It seemed for a time, though, as if even this escape were to be cut
off; for a very fat Crow got himself stuck in a little window, and the
Crows outside could not pull him through, tug as they would. Then the
Crows inside began to pull at his feet and to hang their whole weight
on his legs.
But still he stuck.
Then they all grew excited, and both the outsiders and the insiders
pulled at once, until the luckless fat boy thought they were trying to
make twins of him, and howled for mercy.
He might have been there to this day had he not managed, by some
mysterious and painful wriggle, to crawl through unaided.
Before long, then, the whole crowd of cellar Crows was standing out in
the cold air and asking the cupola Crows why they didn't come down.
One of the Crows (Irish by descent) suddenly started off on the run;
the others called him back and asked what he was going for.
"For a clothes-line," he said.
"What are you going to do with it?" they asked.
And he answered:
"Going to throw 'em a rope and pull 'em down."
Then he wondered why they all groaned.
The word "rope," however, suggested an idea to the cupola prisoners,
and after much groping they found the bell-rope, and one of them cut
off a good length of it. They fastened it securely then, and slid down
to the next floor, whence they made their way without much difficulty
down the stairs to the ground. There they found the outer door firmly
locked. Then they felt sadder than over.
But by this time the hubbub they had raised had brought on the scene
several of the instructors, one of whom had a duplicate key of the
gymnasium. And they suffered the terrible humiliation of being
released by one of the Faculty!
On being questioned as to the cause of such a breach of the peace
of the Academy, all the seventeen Crows attempted to explain the
high-handed and inexcusable conduct of the wicked Dozen which had
picked on eighteen defenseless men and made them prisoners. The
instructor had been a boy himself once, and he could not entirely
conceal a little smile at the thought of the cruelty of the Lakerim
Twelve. Just then MacManus came by, and with one accord the Crows
exclaimed:
"Where did they tie you up?"
"Down at Moore's restaurant," said MacManus, sheepishly.
"Well, what has happened to the banquet?" they exclaimed.
"It's all eaten!" groaned MacManus.
"Who ate it?" cawed the Crows.
"The Dozen!" moaned MacManus.
And that was the last straw that broke the Crows' backs.
They threatened all sorts of revenge, and some of the smaller-minded
of them went to the Faculty and suggested that the best thing that
could be done was to expel the Lakerim men in a body. But, by a little
questioning, the Faculty learned of the attempted hazing that had been
at the bottom of the whole matter, and decided that the best thing to
do was to reprimand and warn both the Crows and the Dozen, and make
them solemnly promise to bury the hatchet.
Which they did.
And thus ended one of the bitterest feuds of modern times.