“Well, if any of you young gentlemen have any more powder to scatter around, you had better do it, and have done with it,” remarked Professor Skeel a day or so later, when Tom and his chums came in to recite. “Only if you do,” he added sarcastically, “the punishment I meted out before will be doubled, and, in case the offense is repeated a third time, I will go on doubling the task, if necessary in arithmetical progression.”
He looked at the lads, with a sneering smile on his face. There were mutterings of discontent from all, save perhaps Sam Heller, for the lads felt not only the injustice of the uncalled-for remarks, but the former punishment still rankled in their minds.
“No one seems inclined to take advantage of my offer,” went on Professor Skeel, “so we will go on with the lesson. Fairfield, you may begin. We’ll see if you are prepared.”
Tom was, fortunately, and it seemed not onlyto him, but to some of the others, as if the teacher was displeased. Very likely he would have been glad of a chance to punish Tom. But he did not get it—at least that day.
“Unmannerly brute!” murmured Tom, as he sat down. “I’ll pay you back yet. Not because of what you did to me, but because you’re unfair to the rest of the class.”
Tom hated unfairness, and he also felt that, in a way, he was to blame for the punishment the class had unjustly suffered. He had not been able to learn anything about how the powder came to be put in his pocket, though he suspected Heller more than ever, as he saw how vindictive the Freshman bully was toward him.
“I almost wish he’d pick a fight with me,” thought Tom. “Then I could give him what he deserves.”
But Sam saw no chance of doing any further harm to the lad whom he hated with so little cause.
“Why can’t you think of something to help me out?” Sam asked of his crony.
“Think of something yourself,” retorted Nick. “I’ve got my own troubles. We’re going to haze the Freshmen tonight, and I’m on the committee of rules and regulations,” and he laughed.
“You are? Then this is my chance! Comeover here where we can talk,” and the bully led his crony to one side.
This talk followed the dismissal of Professor Skeel’s Latin class, during which nothing had occurred save that the instructor took every chance of insulting the students.
“Say, if this keeps up much longer, we’ll have to do something, Jack,” declared Tom, as they proceeded on to another recitation.
“That’s right. But what can we do?”
“Oh, I’m going to think of something. I wish we could haze him.”
“So do I. But I guess we’ll be hazed ourselves first.”
“How’s that?”
“Why it’s this week that the Sophs get after us. We may expect them any night now. Going to crawl?”
“I am not! Might as well have it over with.”
“That’s what I say.”
Though Tom and his Freshmen chums rather expected the advent of their traditional enemies, the Sophomores, they hardly looked for visits that same night, and so, when a knock came on the door of the room occupied by Tom and Jack, they opened it unsuspectingly.
“Here are two!” exclaimed a voice, as several masked figures entered. “We’re in luck! Grab ’em!”
The orders of the ringleader were obeyed. Tom and Jack could not tell who their captors were.
“I say, Tom, shall we fight ’em?” asked Jack, always ready for a battle.
“No, what’s the use—in here?” asked Tom significantly.
“Ha! Scrappers, eh?” remarked another Sophomore. “You’re the kind we’re looking for!”
“And maybe you’ll get more than you want!” exclaimed Tom. Neither he nor Jack resisted as they were led forth. It was a sort of unwritten rule that no fighting against the hazers should take place in the dormitories, as property was likely to be damaged.
“Wait until we get in the open!” whispered Tom to Jack, as they were being led down stairs. “Then we’ll upset ’em if we can, and run. They don’t look to be very husky.”
“That’s right,” agreed Tom’s chum.
“Ha! No plotting!” cried the ringleader, giving Tom a dig in the ribs.
“I’ll give you that back with interest when I get the chance,” murmured our hero.
Other parties of hazers made their appearance in the corridor, some leading Bert Wilson and George Abbot.
“Where are you taking me? What are yougoing to do? Is this allowed?” fired George at his captors.
“Sure it’s allowed, you little question mark!” exclaimed a Sophomore. “Trot along now.”
Tom and his chums were led over the campus. They could see other little groups of prisoners in like plight, and the Sophomores, all of whom wore masks, gathered together with their captives.
“To the river!” ordered the ringleaders. “We’ll make ’em wade a bit.”
“Oh, they’re going to duck us!” whimpered George. “I wonder why they do it?”
“Oh, there goes Why!” exclaimed Jack. “He can’t keep still.”
“They’re not going to duck me!” murmured Tom. “Come on, Jack, now’s our chance. Make a break!”
It was the best chance Tom had seen, and, with a sudden push, and a putting out of his foot, he tripped the lad who had hold of his arm. Then, with a well-directed punch, he paid him back for the dig in the ribs. Tom was free to run.
“Come on, Jack!” he called. His chum, performing a like trick, was also free, and their two captors were down on the ground. But the flight did not go unnoticed.
“Two are loose! Grab the two Freshies!” yelled the lads who had held Tom and Jack. Thecry was taken up, and some of the Sophomores, who had no Freshmen to take care of, ran after the two chums. Our heroes might have gotten away but for the fact that two lads, masked, who were coming across the campus to join their fellows, saw them, and waited to catch the two fleeing ones.
Tom and Jack tried to dodge, but could not. There was a clash, and Jack was caught. In a moment other Sophomores came up, and had him. Tom was struggling with his captor.
“Take that!” cried the latter, when, finding he could not subdue Tom, he struck our hero a blow in the face.
“I won’t take that from any one!” cried Tom fiercely. “Hazing customs or not!” He retaliated, and with such good measure that he knocked the other down. The black mask came off in the fall, and it was light enough for Tom to see Sam Heller.
“You!” he cried. “You’re not a Sophomore! You have no right to haze!”
“This is my second year here. I’m a Sophomore by rights!” growled Sam, much put out that his trick had been discovered. “I’ll get even with you, too!”
In his rage he leaped up and rushed at Tom. It was just the chance the other wanted, and our hero promptly knocked Sam down again. Hewas wild with rage. By this time a knot of Sophomores surrounded Tom.
“Hold on there, Fresh!” cried some one who seemed to be in authority. “This won’t do, you know. You shouldn’t fight back when you’re being hazed.”
“Has a Freshman the right to help the Sophs haze us?” demanded Tom, as he recognized Bruce Bennington in the objector. “Here’s Sam Heller, of our class, joining against us.”
“Is that so?” asked Bruce in surprise. With some other Seniors he had come out to see the fun. “That’s not allowed, you know, Wendell,” he said, turning to the leader of the Second year lads.
“I didn’t know Heller was here,” replied Wendell. “That’s straight. He has no right. We beg your pardon, Fairfield. Sam, how did this happen?” Wendell was justly indignant.
“Well, I claim I’m a Sophomore, and I would be if I had a fair show. I thought I had a right to help haze.” Sam was whining now, like all cowards when found out. His trick, which he had formed with the aid of Nick, had failed. The two had planned to get Jack and Tom off alone, during the general excitement over the hazing, and thrash them.
“You’re not a Soph, and you can’t do any hazing,” declared Wendell decidedly. “Youought to be hazed yourself, and you would be, only you got yours last year. Come along now, Fairfield, and take what’s coming to you.”
“All right,” agreed Tom good-naturedly. He was satisfied with what he had done to Sam. The crowd of Sophomores was now so large that there was no chance for our hero and his chum to escape.
“Take your medicine, Fairfield,” advised Bruce with a laugh. “It won’t be very bad.”
“All right,” said Tom again, and he and Jack were led back to their luckless mates, the little group of Seniors following.
The hazing was not very severe. The Freshmen were made to wade in the river up to their knees, and then, with coats turned inside out, forced to dance in a ring, while the Sophomores laughed their delight, and played mouth organs. Some few were tossed in blankets, and much horse play was indulged in. But the discovery of Heller’s trick rather discomfited the second year lads, and they felt that there was a little blight on their class. Otherwise the hazing might have been more severe.
“Now then, form in line, and give three cheers for the Sophs, and you can go home to your beds,” declared Wendell. “Only remember, every Freshman must wear his cap backwards every time he comes on the campus, for the nexttwo weeks, and salute every Sophomore he meets, under penalty of being hazed over again. Remember! Now for the cheers!”
They were given, and the hazing was over. No one had been much annoyed by it, save perhaps Sam Heller.
“It didn’t work,” he grumbled to Nick, later that night. “We had a fight, though.”
“Did you lick him?” asked Nick, who had been separated from his crony during the fracas with Tom.
“I sure did.”
“How’d you get that bruise near your eye?” asked Nick.
“Oh—er—I—sort of fell,” stammered Sam. The bruise was where Tom had hit him.
And thus the hazing of Tom’s Freshman class passed into history.
Several weeks passed, and our hero came to like the school more and more. He made many new chums, and no more enemies, though Sam and Nick disliked him more than ever, and thought bitter thoughts, and devised endless schemes to “get even,” as they expressed it, though the debt was on their side. But, though they annoyed Tom and his chum often, the latter as often got back at them in hearty fashion.
Tom heard from his parents, that they had arrived safely, and they said the business was goingon satisfactorily. The weather was getting colder each day, and the boys began to have thoughts of skating and ice boating as soon as the river should be frozen over. The football season had closed.
Then, unexpectedly, there came another clash with Professor Skeel. In Latin class one day several students came unprepared, and failed in reciting.
“We’ll stop right here!” exclaimed the professor. “It is evident to me that an organized attempt to miss in Latin is under way. I shall double the usual number of lines that you are all to write out. Perhaps that will teach you not to trifle with me.”
Several protested at this, saying that the reason for their failure was additional work in other classes. Others, who had not failed, declared that it was manifestly unfair to make them suffer with the rest.
“Silence!” snapped the professor. “You may stay here until your tasks are done,” and he prepared to leave the room, intending to send a monitor to take charge of the lads.
“Say, this is rank injustice!” exclaimed Jack.
“It sure is,” came from Tom. “And the ice on the river is thick enough for skating, I believe. If we didn’t have to stay here we could cut the next lecture and have some fun.”
“We sure could. What’ll we do?”
“Let’s haze Skeel!” suggested Bert Wilson, for there was no one in authority in the room now.
“Let’s send him a warning,” suggested Tom. “We’ll write it out in Latin, and threaten to go on a strike, or burn him in effigy if he doesn’t act more fair. How’s that?”
“Good!” exclaimed several. “Tom, you write out the notice.”
“I will!” agreed our hero, and then a monitor came in, and silence was enforced. But Tom, after hurrying through the prescribed number of lines of prose, began work on the warning.
“How are we going to get it to him?” asked Bert Wilson, as the Latin class, its members having finished their punishment, filed out on the campus.
“Mail it to him,” suggested Jack.
“No, leave it at his door,” advised Henry Miller.
“Huh! Who’d do it?” asked George Abbot.
“There you go again, Why!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh, as he passed around the warning he had composed.
“Well, I mean who would have the nerve to go up and leave that at Skeel’s door?” went on the small lad. “I wouldn’t.”
“I would!” declared Tom. “I’m tired of being imposed upon!”
“And so am I!” exclaimed Jack. “I’m with you. Let’s get a lot of Freshmen, tog up in masks, or with pillow cases over our heads, and leave the warning at his door. That’ll make him be more decent, I guess.”
“All right,” agreed Tom. “We’ll do it.”
That same night Tom, and several bold spirits, with pillow cases, or white cloths over their coats, slipped from the dormitory where the Freshmen lived, moved and had their being. Tom carried his warning.
It was in Latin, more or less accurate, and in plain terms demanded on the part of Professor Skeel a more tolerant attitude toward the Freshman class, or, failure would be met with a burning in effigy of the disliked instructor. And the boys meant it, too.
“All ready now?” asked Tom as he and his chums, in the dark shadows of a thick hedge around Mr. Skeel’s house had adjusted their head-coverings. “All ready?”
“Lead on!” whispered Jack. “Who’s going to knock at the door?”
“I will,” agreed Tom. “We’ll go around to his ‘study,’ as he calls it. It’s got a door opening directly into the garden, and he’ll answer the knock himself.”
Advancing from amid group of his chums a little later, with the warning held in the cleft end of a long stick, Tom knocked on Mr. Skeel’s door. The professor was in his study, poring over some book, and laying new traps, in the way of difficult questions, for his pupils.
“Who’s there?” he cried sharply, at the sound of Tom’s rap.
A groan was the answer.
“What nonsense is this?” demanded Professor Skeel, as he rose from his chair.
“If those are students they’ll pay dearly for this nonsense!” he was heard to exclaim, as he opened the door. The sight of the white-robed figures, with one standing out from the others, holding forth a letter in a cleft stick, was a distinct surprise to the professor.
“What is the meaning of this?” he cried. “Who are you? I demand to know!”
Groans were his only answer, and Tom waved the letter before the professor’s face. In very wonderment the instructor took it and then, with a final series of groans, Tom and the others turned and hurried away.
“Come back. I demand that you return. Take those silly cloths from your heads, and let me see who you are!” cried Professor Skeel, but our hero and his chums knew better than to tarry.
“Halt!” cried the professor. He started after the lads, but, as he reached the bottom step he tripped on a stick, and fell and, as he had on light slippers, the contact of his toes with the ground was anything but comfortable.
Uttering an exclamation of anger, the professor went back into his study with the letter, while Tom and his chums hurried to their rooms, getting to them undetected.
“What’s this?” burst out Professor Skeel, as he read Tom’s Latin warning. “They demand better treatment! Burn me in effigy, eh? Why this is a threat! A threatening letter! I’ll have the entire Freshman class suspended! I shall see Dr. Meredith at once!”
In his anger he did go over and see the head master, showing him the letter.
“Hum! Well,” mused Doctor Meredith. “That is a sort of threat, Professor Skeel, but—er—would not it be well to—er—to grant the class a few more privileges? Remember they are first year lads, unused to the discipline of a college, and, therefor, not to be dealt with too harshly. Could you not grant their request?”
“What? My dear sir! Grant a request coupled with a threat? Never! I demand the suspension of the entire Freshman class, until the perpetrators of this outrage are discovered, and then I demand their expulsion. Why, Doctor Meredith, they had the audacity to call onme, disguised. Onme! They had the effrontery to threatenmein a miserably composed Latin scrawl.Me!I demand the suspension of the entire class!”
“Hum! Well, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said the head master. “I shall take this under advisement, and act in the morning. But I can’t suspend the whole class. They are not all guilty,I’m sure,” and nothing the irate professor said could change this decision.
In the morning Doctor Meredith referred to the matter, not half as strongly, however, as Professor Skeel thought should have been done. There was no threat to suspend the class, and all the doctor did was to suggest that different measures be taken in the future. He also asked those engaged in the affair to make themselves known.
“As if we would!” exclaimed Tom, later. And I hardly believe Doctor Meredith expected that the lads would. He had been a college master for many years, and he knew boys, which Professor Skeel did not.
“Oh, but we’ll get it in Latin class,” predicted Jack. “We’d better all be prepared today.”
And they all were, very well prepared, but that did not save them from an angry tongue-lashing, in which the professor, on his own account, demanded to know those who had been instrumental in writing and bringing the warning.
Of course no one answered, and, as Tom had taken the precaution to print out the letter, his handwriting was not recognized. Every device, however, that an angry and bullying teacher could bring to bear, was used on the class. But no one failed, and no punishment could be inflicted. Though had the professor been able to use hispower he would have administered corporal punishment to all the Freshmen.
The result was, however, that the Latin recitation was perfect, and, in his heart the instructor was just a little bit afraid of the threat of burning him in effigy. So, in a few days he did mend his ways somewhat, and the class began to feel that Tom’s plan had worked wonders. But the end was not yet.
“Well, Tom, I’ve had enough of this!” exclaimed Jack, one cold afternoon, when the two chums had been “boning” away in their room for some time. “Let’s go hire that iceboat you were talking of, and have a sail on the river. I guess she’s frozen over thick enough.”
“I’m with you!” and Tom tossed his book to one side. “Let’s get George, Bert and some of the others.”
Some days before Tom had discovered that the man of whom the lads hired their rowboats, had a couple of ice craft for rent, and he had engaged one for the first good day.
A little later Tom and several of his chums, including Jack, were on their way to the frozen river, lessons being over for the day.
“Well, where are you bound for?” asked Bruce Bennington, as he met Tom and the others near the stream.
“Ice boating. Come along,” invited Tom.
“Thanks. I believe I will. I was going for a skate, but somehow, I don’t feel like exerting myself.”
There was a look of worriment still on the Senior’s face, and he talked as though the trouble that was worrying him had not passed away. Tom wanted to help him, but knew it was best to say nothing.
A part of the river, where the water was not so deep, nor the current under the ice so swift as elsewhere, had been set aside by the school authorities as the place where the students might skate. They were forbidden to use the steel runners elsewhere, as a matter of safety, and, as the skating course was plenty long enough, none of the lads ventured on the part of the river where the ice boats were used. In fact the presence of those craft, of which there were several, made it necessary that the numerous skaters keep clear of them.
The place where Tom hired the iceboat was quite a distance from the skating course, and, in consequence of a bend in the river, none of the other pupils, who were indulging in sports on the steel blades, were in sight. There was one iceboat out on the broad surface of the river as our hero and his chums arrived.
“Know how to sail one?” asked Bruce, as he took his place in the shallow box that served as asort of cockpit, while some of the boys perched on the runners.
“Fairly well,” replied Tom, and soon they were skimming over the slippery surface, with Tom at the helm. It was great sport, and they liked it immensely.
“This is fine!” exclaimed Bruce, with sparkling eyes, and something of a return of his old manner. “It beats skating!” and he kicked his skates that he had tossed into the box near him.
“Oh, skating’s all right!” declared Tom, as he changed the course slightly. “We’ll have some skating races soon, won’t we?”
“Yes, it’s about time for them,” answered the Senior.
After sailing for several miles Tom decided to put up a sort of auxiliary sail on the boat, to get more speed. It was fitted to a short bamboo mast, about five feet high.
“You’ll all have to get out while I fix it,” suggested Tom, as he let the wind spill out of the big sail, and brought the boat up with a turn, while it gradually came to a stop.
They piled out, stamping up and down to warm their rather benumbed legs and feet. Tom and Jack were soon putting up the little sail.
“I’ve got to whittle down the end of the mast to make it fit in,” declared Tom after a trial. “Lend me your knife, Jack.”
Bruce had put on his skates for a little turn while he waited, and the others were racing up and down. Tom and Jack were working over the auxiliary sail, standing a short distance away from the iceboat, when there came a sudden puff of wind. The main sheet became caught, the big sail filled, and a moment later the empty iceboat was racing over the smooth, frozen river at dangerous speed!
“Look at that!” cried Jack.
“See it go!” shouted Bert.
“How did it happen to get away?” the ever-questioning George wanted to know.
“By Jove!” murmured Bruce. “He’d ask questions if it was the end of the world. He’d want to know why it hadn’t happened before.”
“Wow!” came from Tom, as he started after the disappearing iceboat. “That’s bad! I’m responsible for it.” He started off on a run, as though he could catch the skimming craft.
“You’ll never get her!” yelled Bruce to him. He had taken off his skates, and hurried up beside Tom.
“I’ve got to get her!” cried our hero. “She may run against the bank and go to smash.”
“You can’t stop her. She’s too far off. Look at her veer! She’ll capsize in another minute!”
Indeed the unguided craft was slewing about, making quick turns and big circles as the wind blew her. Then Tom cried out:
“I’m going to catch her. Lend me your skates, Bruce.”
“You can’t skate as fast as that boat is going!”
“I can try. Besides I’m not going to do all skating.”
“What then?” asked Jack, curious to know what scheme his chum had in his mind.
“This!” and Tom pointed to the small sail he had been going to rig on the craft when she went off by herself. “I can hold this at my back by the mast, and the wind will blow me along.”
“Good!” cried Bruce, who understood. “That’s the idea Fairfield, here are my skates.”
Tom soon had clamped them on his feet, and then, holding the improvised sail at his back, he headed for the runaway iceboat. The sail was almost like the regular ones skaters use.
Tom soon developed great speed, for the wind was strong and directly at his back. The others started to run after him. The iceboat was some distance ahead, but Tom was rapidly overhauling her.
“I’ll get her before she goes to smash,” he murmured hopefully. The boat suddenly heeled over, and Tom thought surely she was going to capsize. But she righted, and then went off on a new tack. Tom saw his chance.
“I can quarter across and get aboard, if shedoesn’t veer again!” he cried, and he altered his course. Nearer and nearer he came to the iceboat, until he saw that he would soon pass her. “If only she doesn’t veer around,” he murmured hopefully.
Fortunately, however, the wind held in that direction for a few minutes, and the main sheet of the sail was caught in such a way as to hold the craft steady.
“Now to do some skating on my own hook!” cried Tom, as he cast aside the little sail. He struck out with all his strength and speed, and, as he came close to the boat, with a leap and a spring he hurled himself into the blanket-covered cockpit, landing with a thud.
It was the work of but a moment to seize the rudder, and put the boat about, so that she was in control, though even as Tom did this she nearly capsized.
“Whoa, now!” he called, as to a restive horse, and then, settling himself down, he sent the boat back on a series of tacks to pick up his chums.
“Say, did you see him skate!” exclaimed Bert Wilson in admiration, as he called attention to the burst of speed on Tom’s part.
“I should say yes,” admitted Jack. “If we have a race I’ll back Tom.”
“He looks like a winner,” commented Bruce quietly.
Tom brought the iceboat up to his chums, and they got aboard. Jack steered while Tom took off the skates he had not had time to remove, and then he went to where he had dropped the little sail.
“I guess we’ll get along without it,” he remarked. “We’re going fast enough.”
“I never thought you’d get the boat in time,” spoke Bruce admiringly. “Where’d you learn to skate, Fairfield?”
“Oh, I could make pretty good time ever since I was a small lad, but I sort of broke my record today, I guess.”
They were soon back at the boathouse, having talked on the way of the little accident and of Tom’s skill.
“You’ll enter for the class races, won’t you?” inquired Reddy Burke of Tom, a little later, when Bruce had told of the Freshman’s skill.
“I’ll be glad to.”
“They’ll come off in about a week if the ice holds,” went on the red-haired athlete.
Practice for the skating races was soon under way. The affair was to settle the championship of the school. Later, intercollegiate contests would be held.
“Going to try?” asked Nick of his crony, when the notice of the ice sports was posted. “I hear Fairfield is a wonder.”
“What do I care? I can skate some myself, and if I can’t win, maybe I can spoil his chances.”
“How?”
“Oh, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
It was a cold, clear day, the ice was firm and smooth, and it was just right for a skating race. The elimination trials had been held, and the representatives of each class selected. There were four each from the Freshmen, Sophomore, Junior and Senior divisions. Tom, of course, was picked, and so was Jack, and, somewhat to the surprise of many, Sam Heller also represented the first year lads.
“Look out for him,” advised Jack to his chum, when they were getting ready. “If he skates near enough to you he may try some mean trick.”
“I’ll watch out, but I’m not worried.”
“I wonder if he’d be mean enough to squeal to our Latin prof. about the warning letter you wrote?” went on Jack. “I’ve often thought of that. He’s equal to it.”
“Oh, I don’t believe Heller would dare do a thing like that,” spoke Tom. “I’m not alarmed. There, I guess my skates are sharp enough,” for the two had been putting an extra edge on the steel runners in anticipation of the contest.
There was a big crowd present to watch the skaters, who were lined up, receiving their lastinstructions from the officials. Clamps were being tightened, straps made more snug, and the last little attentions being given.
“All ready?” called the starter.
“Ready!” answered the lads in turn.
“Look out for Sam. He’s quite near you,” warned Jack to his chum, in a low voice. Tom nodded and looked across at the bully, who had his head turned away.
“Go!” cried the starter, and his pistol cracked out on the frosty air.
The skaters were off together, almost like a line of well-drilled soldiers on the double-quick, and, as they glided forward, there came a shrill burst of cheers from the student spectators.
“Rah! Rah! Freshmen! Elmwood Freshmen!” cried the members of that class, to urge on their comrades.
“Boom! Boom! Boomity-boom Seniors! Siss!” came the peculiar cry of the four-year lads.
“Sophomore! Sophomore!Rah! Rah! Rah!Going like a trolley car!”
“Sophomore! Sophomore!Rah! Rah! Rah!Going like a trolley car!”
That was the second year boys cheering.
Then came the call of the Juniors:
“June! June, beautiful June.We’ll win the race and win it soon.Siss!Boom!Rah!Juniors!”
“June! June, beautiful June.We’ll win the race and win it soon.Siss!Boom!Rah!Juniors!”
The line was a trifle broken now, as one or two forged ahead of the others, and among them was Tom. Yet he was holding himself in check, and narrowly watching the others, for the race was not a short one, and he knew the danger of getting winded too early in it, and spending his strength so that he had none left for a final spurt.
Jack was even with his chum, though he was not as good a skater as was our hero. Sam Heller was a little behind, but in practice he had done well, and Tom knew that in his enemy he had a dangerous rival.
Bruce Bennington was skating well, the only one of the Seniors who seemed to stand a chance, while a member each of the Junior and Sophomore class was up in the front now.
“Everyone is holding back,” said Jack to Tom.
“Yes, waiting for a break. I’ve a good notion to give it to ’em, and take a chance.”
“Don’t you do it. Let some one else set the pace. Hold back. We want to win this race for the Freshman class, and we’re depending on you.”
“Hope I don’t disappoint you. There goes Blaisdell for the Juniors. Come on!”
One of the skaters had spurted and at once the others increased their speed to keep up to him. The race was now on in earnest, and soon half thedistance was covered, with no one markedly in the lead. Several had dropped out, hopelessly distanced, but there were enough of each class left to make the result doubtful.
“I wonder what Sam is going to do?” mused Nick Johnson, as he watched his crony. “He’d better get busy.”
The skaters had turned, and were coming back toward the starting point. They could hear the cheers of their comrades, and the cries of the followers of the various classes could be distinguished.
“Better hit it up, Tom,” advised Jack.
“I will. Here goes!”
Tom struck out with more speed and power than he had previously used. He imagined he was once more chasing the runaway iceboat, and he gripped his fists and clenched his teeth as he made up his mind to win.
But, even as he spurted, others glided up, almost beside him, and one of them was Sam Heller. Tom watched out of the corner of his eye, and it seemed to him that Sam was edging over toward him.
“I wonder what he’s doing that for?” mused Tom.
So near were they to the finish line now that the calls of the class cheerers came clearly through the cold, crisp air.
“Come on, Freshmen! Come on! Win! Win!”
“Don’t let ’em beat you, Seniors!”
“Skate. Skate. Oh you Sophs!”
“Juniors forever. Juniors to the front!”
Thus the students cheered.
“I’m going to win!” whispered Tom fiercely to himself.
The finish line was a hundred feet away. Tom looked ahead, and saw a confused mass of excited spectators, waving flags and banners, tossing caps in the air, dancing about and uttering yells at the tops of their voices. He looked to left and right and saw on one side of him, Bruce Bennington, and, on the other, Sam Heller. Jack Fitch was not in sight.
“I guess Jack’s out of it,” mused Tom, regretfully.
He gathered himself for a final effort, and, just as he struck out with increased force he saw Sam lurch over toward him.
“Look out!” Tom yelled.
The bully returned no answer. He seemed to have lost control of himself. Nearer and nearer he glided toward Tom.
In vain did our hero try to get out of the way of what in a flash he knew to be an intentional attempt to foul him. But he could not escape without swerving so far to one side as to mean the loss of the race.
“Look out for yourself!” warned Tom, determined to give way no longer, and he braced himself for the shock.
It came an instant later, when Sam’s skate struck Tom’s, staggering him.
“Excuse me!” panted the bully, unnecessarily loud. “I couldn’t help it!”
Tom said nothing, but he thought a lot.
Then he felt himself falling. There was but one thing to do, and Tom did it. He was staggering forward, trying in vain to remain upright long enough to cross the line. The only way he could do it was to gain more momentum than that caused by Sam’s foul interference. That was to jump, and Tom did it.
Up in the air he rose, remembering the time he had cleared barrels on the ice in an obstacle race.
Up and up he went, fairly hurling himself forward. As he did so he had a confused glimpse of Sam Heller sprawling on the ice, and tumbling over and over. Tom also saw Bruce Bennington looking at him in astonishment. Our hero also had a glance at representatives of the Junior and Sophomore classes fairly doubled up in a desperate effort to win the race.
“But I’ll do it! I’ll do it, if I don’t break a skate when I come down, or trip,” thought Tom, desperately.
The jump had accomplished the very purposefor which the plucky Freshman intended it. Just as when you trip, and fall forward, if you can suddenly jump, and equalize the momentum given the upward part of our body, while overcoming the inertia of your feet, caused by the contact with some obstacle—just in this way Tom had jumped.
He saw the finish line but a few feet ahead. The next moment, amid a perfect riot of cheers, he came down with resounding force on the ice, his steel runners ringing out in the frosty air.
For a second he feared that he could not keep his balance, but by a desperate effort he did, and with great speed he slid across the mark, and fairly into the crowd of students bunched beyond it. Tom was unable to stop himself.
A quick glance showed that he was alone when he crossed the finish mark. He had won the race against big odds!
“Freshmen win!”
“Rah, Freshmen! Elmwood forever! Freshmen win!”
“Hurray for Tom Fairfield!”
“And after a foul, too. He won after a foul!”
“Never mind. We won’t claim it. Maybe it was an accident. Heller may be hurt!”
“Seniors Second! Bruce Bennington is second!”
These were only a few of the cries that greeted the achievement of our hero as he won the school race. He had come to a stop amid a knot of his classmates, who gathered about him, clasping him by the hand, clapping him on the back, and generally congratulating him.
“Great work, old man!”
“Magnificent jump!”
“How in the world did you do it?”
“I don’t know myself,” confessed Tom, with a laugh. “I just had to—that’s all.”
“Are you hurt, Tom?” demanded Jack, anxiously,as he skated up to his chum. “Did his skate hit your ankle?” for well he knew the agonizing pain that follows the blow of the point of a skate against that tender part of the foot.
“No, not a bit,” replied Tom. “His skate just glanced off mine, but I’d have gone down if I hadn’t jumped. Is Heller hurt?”
“I guess not much, though he’s limping to the finish. It would serve him right if he was. He deliberately fouled you.”
“I think so myself, but I’m not going to say anything.”
“Well, maybe it’s best. Class honor, you know.”
The officials of the race were marking down the time, and formally declaring Tom the winner, with Bruce Bennington second and Peter Ranson, of the Sophomore class, third. The Juniors were not in the race at all, much to their disappointment.
“I—er—I presume your collision with Fairfield was anaccident—was it not, Heller?” asked Professor Livingston Hammond, the fat and jolly professor who had acted as one of the officials. “We saw it from here.”
“It was an accident—certainly,” replied Sam, sharply. He had taken off his skates, and came limping up. “I could not help it. My skate struck a small piece of wood, and I slid over towardhim. I tried to warn him, but it was too late. If anyone doubts my word—”
“No one dreamed of doubting you—or even mentioned it,” interrupted Mr. Hammond with a smile, yet he looked at Sam narrowly.
“Three cheers for Professor Hammond!” called someone, and they were given with a will. Out on the fringe of spectators stood Professor Skeel, with a frown on his face. No one had cheered him, and he felt no elation that a member of his Freshman Latin class had won the race. In fact, there was a sneer on his face as he saw the ovation accorded to Tom.
“I more than half believe that he wrote that insulting and threatening letter to me,” Professor Skeel muttered. “I must find out, and if he did—” a cruel smile played over his features. “Ah, there is some one else I must have a talk with!” he exclaimed as he saw Bruce Bennington walking along, swinging his skates. “Come here Bennington,” he called, and the face of Bruce went rather white, and there was a nervous air in his manner, not to say a tinge of fear, as he approached the unpleasant instructor.
“Well, sir?” he asked.
“Are you ready to settle with me?” asked Professor Skeel, in a frosty tone.
“No, Professor, I’m sorry to say I am not.”
“When will you be?”
“I can’t say. Really, I am having it harder than you can imagine.”
“Harder? Don’t you suppose that I have my own troubles, too? Have you appealed to your folks?”
“No, and I’m not going to!” Bruce spoke fiercely.
“You may have to,” and the Latin instructor’s tone was threatening. “I shall not wait much longer, and if you do not make the appeal I shall do so myself.”
“Oh, Professor Skeel, surely you wouldn’t do that!”
“I certainly shall, unless you settle with me soon. I will wait but a little longer.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” spoke Bruce, wearily.
“You’d better,” answered the professor significantly, as he turned aside.
Tom, coming along with Jack and some of his chums, heard the last words, though no one else seemed to have done so. He also noticed the threatening attitude of the Latin instructor, and was aware of the despondent attitude of the Senior student.
“I wish I knew what was up between them,” mused Tom. “I would do a lot to help Bruce. Maybe it’s some trouble about examination papers. And yet I know Bruce wouldn’t beguilty of cheating, or anything like that. I wonder what it is?”
But Tom had little time to think by himself quietly, for his chums were jostling all about him, talking of the race, congratulating him over and over again, while some spoke significantly of Heller’s action.
“Oh, forget that,” advised Tom. “He came out of it worse than I did.”
“I should say yes,” agreed Jack. “He might have broken his leg trying a trick like that.”
Tom’s chums crowded into his room, and that night there was an impromptu and surreptitious little spread, held there in violation of the school rules.
Professor Skeel got word of it through one of the monitors, and went to notify Doctor Meredith.
“Hum, some of the Freshmen eating in the room of young Fairfield, eh?” murmured the good doctor.
“Yes. In direct violation of rule twenty-one. If you come with me now, we can catch them in the act.”
“Hum. Yes! Let me see, didn’t Fairfield win the skating race today, Professor Skeel?”
“He did, certainly, but I don’t see what that has to do with it,” snapped Mr. Skeel.
“Well, perhaps it has. I—er—I think—well,on the whole, I think I won’t disturb the boys tonight, Professor Skeel.”
“What! You will suffer a rule to be broken?”
“Well, in view of the facts, and under the circumstances, I guess it won’t do the rule much harm,” spoke the doctor dryly.
Professor Skeel threw up his hands helplessly, and walked off, muttering to himself. And Tom and his chums were not disturbed that night.
“But I’ll take that Fairfield lad down a peg,” the irate Latin instructor muttered as he went into his house. He sat up late that night, evolving a plan to discover who had sent him the threatening letter, and at last he exclaimed:
“I believe I have it. That will give me a clew. And then—!”
He smiled sourly as he took out the screed Tom had printed, and looked closely at it.
“I will find out who composed that!” he went on, “and when I do he shall suffer for it!”
The Freshman class little realized what it was in for at the hands of Professor Skeel.
It was a day or so after the great skating race, when the Freshmen filed into Latin recitation, that they became aware of something unusual in the air. Professor Skeel looked at them individually and collectively with a mocking smile on his face.
“He’s got it in for some of us,” murmured Tom to Jack.
“Silence!” exclaimed the instructor, banging a ruler on his desk. “I will permit no levity!”
The boys filed to their seats more than usually silent. The professor opened his book, and some one sneezed. It was a perfectly natural and unavoidable sneeze, yet it set off the mine that had been smouldering in the professor’s breast for many days.
“Stop that!” he cried. “If I find that any more of that abominable powder has been scattered about I will, on my own responsibility, personally chastise the guilty student!”
He paused and looked about. Suspiciously he sniffed the air, but there was none of the powder in evidence.
“It was well for the entire class—the entire class I repeat,” he said, “that there is none. Now we will proceed!”
He was unusually severe that day. The slightest slip was noticed, and the culprit was made to sit down with a lesson to write out. Scarcely one escaped, and when an error was made the professor, instead of correcting it in a gentle manner, referred sarcastically to the “imbecility” of the lad, and, in bullying language, demanded to know where he had received his early instruction.
There were murmurs of discontent. Tom flushed angrily when he was needlessly insulted, and there came a look on his face that made Jack Fitch think:
“Tom won’t stand much more of this. There’ll be a blow-up pretty soon, and I’ll be glad of it. So will the rest of the class. Tom has something up his sleeve against Skeel, and the sooner it comes out the better. I’m going to sit tight and watch. It’s time for an eruption!”
The recitation went on, from bad to worse. Student after student was rigged and browbeaten, until even those who had come to class well prepared felt their knowledge slipping from them, and they floundered, and made all sorts of wild answers and impossible guesses as to the right translation.
“It is just what I should expect of a class of cowards who would write an anonymous letter!” snarled the professor. “You must have had nice bringings-up—all of you!”
There were one or two hisses.
“Stop!” exclaimed the teacher. “I’ll not permit that! I will have silence in my classes. Now, Fairfield, try again, and see if you can make any more errors than the last boy!”
Tom, with flushed face, began to recite, but he was stopped almost before he had begun.
“How many times must I tell you that yourpronunciation of that word is hopelessly wrong?” snarled Professor Skeel.
“I don’t believe that you ever told me so,” answered Tom quietly.
“Sir!” The professor fairly glared at our hero.
Tom repeated his remark respectfully.
“That’s enough!” cried the teacher. “I will not be insulted by you! Nor by any one in the class! It is evident that none of you know this lesson. You will have it again tomorrow, and, in addition twice the usual amount of Latin to do. I will hammer some knowledge into your heads in spite of yourselves!”
It was a most unfair and unjust task to inflict, and every boy resented it. Yet what could they do? All eyes seemed turned on Tom, and our hero bit his lips to keep back his temper.
“We will pass over this part of the lesson,” went on the professor. “I now want you to print out for me—print out, mind, the following sentences in Latin. You will not write them, but you will print them!”
A gasp of surprise ran around the room.
“Silence!” proclaimed Professor Skeel, as he heard the indrawn breathing. “Not a word!”
No one seemed likely to utter it under the circumstances, but the lads were doing some hard thinking.
“As I stated, you will print this lesson,” went on the instructor. “I want to see if you canprintas well as youwrite,” he added with a mocking smile.
In a flash it came to Tom and the others what the object of the queer task was. It was to gain some evidence, or clew, to the printing in the threatening letter. All eyes were turned on Tom, and then, as if aware that this might implicate him, the lads looked in various directions.
Fortunately Professor Skeel was at the board setting down the sentences he wished copied, or he might have noticed the glances turned toward our hero, and have guessed the secret. Then he would have been at no pains to try his little trick. As it was he proceeded with it, chuckling to himself as he thought that it would give him the information he desired.
But Tom was wise in his day. It was not the first time he had matched his wits against some unfair instructor, and he at once resolved on his plan.
He had printed the threatening letter in the usual, straight up and down characters. As he now began to print out the Latin exercise he used, in part, letters that sloped forward, and others that sloped backward. Not once did Tom use an upright character.
“There,” he thought, as he neared the end of the short exercise, “if he thinks he can compare any of the words in this, with the words in the letter I handed him on the end of the stick, he’s a good one.”
Tom noticed, as did some of the others, that the words in the exercise were, in many cases, the same ones used in the letter. The professor had been enough of a detective to think of this, and he chuckled to himself many times as he thought of his cuteness. But it was not to avail him.
“You may hand in your papers as you finish,” he said, “and leave the room. Don’t forget—to-day’s lessons, and two additional ones for to-morrow.”
One by one boys filed up to his desk, laid their papers down, and passed out.
“Humph!” exclaimed Professor Skeel, asTom passed over his exercise. “Is this your usual style of printing, Fairfield?”
“I am not used to such work, and I have no decided style. I vary it, I suppose, not having had much practice at it.”
“So I see,” remarked Professor Skeel, with a sharp glance at our hero—a glance that Tom returned unabashed.
“Say, what do you think of it?” asked Jack of his chum a little later, when both were in their room.
“Think of it? That it’s getting worse and worse,” remarked Tom bitterly. “I’ve had about all I can stand. Elmwood would be a perfect school, and a most jolly one, if it wasn’t for Skeel.”
“That’s what we all think, I guess. But what’s to be done?”
“Something, and that pretty soon,” declared Tom with energy. “I’m not going to stand it much longer.”
“Neither am I. Say, he wanted us to print that lesson so he could compare the letter with it.”
“Of course. But I fooled him,” and Tom told of his scheme.
“Good! I was afraid you’d be caught. We all ought to have printed part of that ultimatum, and then the responsibility would have been divided.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that. But if things don’t turn for the better soon we’ll either burn Skeel in effigy, or——”
“What?” asked Jack, as Tom paused.
“I’m not quite ready to tell yet, but it will be something rather new, I think. Now let’s get at this Latin. We don’t want to give him an excuse to bullyrag us any more.”
“No, that’s right.”
While his students were working hard, and denying themselves well-earned recreation, in order to complete the unjustly imposed tasks, Professor Skeel was in his study, poring over the printed exercises turned in.
“I can’t seem to identify any of the hands with the one that made up the insulting and threatening letter,” he murmured, as he stared at the papers. “I thought surely Fairfield was the guilty one, and yet his printing is totally different from that in the note.”
He compared the two papers—Tom’s and the letter—and shook his head.
“Unless Fairfield purposely disguised his print this time!” the professor exclaimed. “I wonder if that could be it? I must get another sample from him—a natural sample. Let me see; how can I do it?” and he fell to scheming.
“There’s that Bennington, too,” continued the professor. “I must put the screws on him morestrongly before he begins to suspect. And if I should be found out——”
The professor looked guiltily at the windows as if to make sure the shades were drawn, and, finding that they were, he listened as if fearful of hearing approaching footsteps.
He rather hoped his class would not be prepared in the unusual task he had set for them, and he was not disappointed. Few students could have prepared so much Latin in one day, with their other tasks, and many failed.
“Just as I expected!” sneered the professor. “Well, you may all remain in one hour and a half after the last lecture today, and study. Remember, the entire class remains ninety minutes after the last lecture, no matter by whom. You may go now, but return here to remain after hours.”
There were gasps of dismay, for many lads had formed pleasure-plans for the afternoon. Now they could not be carried out. More than this, there were one or two students, Tom among them, who, by remaining up late the night before, and studying unusually hard, and by cutting a safe lecture, had recited perfectly. Yet they were punished with the others.
“Fellows, we’ve reached the limit of endurance!” exclaimed Tom to his classmates, as they filed out on the campus, and got a safe distanceaway from the listening ears of Professor Skeel.
“That’s right!” came in a chorus.
“But what’s to be done?” asked Jack.
“Hang him in effigy, and burn the scarecrow afterward!” suggested Bert Wilson.
“Can you do both?” asked George Abbot.
“Dry up, Why!” came from several.
“Let’s hear from Tom,” suggested Jack.
“Hear! Hear!” came the shout.
“Fellows, we’ve stood all we’re called on to stand from Skeel,” went on Tom. “I’m sick and tired of being bullyragged.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Strike! Rebel!” declared Tom daringly. “I suggest that we demand better treatment from him, or we’ll all go on a strike, and refuse to recite to him any more, or enter his classroom!”
“Good!”
“Great!”
“That’s the stuff!”
“Hurray for Fairfield!”
“Are you in earnest, Tom?” asked Jack, who stood near his chum.
“I surely am. I’ve stood more from him—and so have all of us—than I would from anyone else. I say let’s strike!”
“And we’re with you!” came in a chorus.
“All of you?” asked Tom, looking around onthe Freshman Latin class. “Remember a strike is no good unless we’re all in it.”
“We’re all with you!” came the cry.
Tom looked around, and saw Sam Heller sneaking off.
“Here, come back, Heller!” he cried, and Sam turned, facing Tom with a sneer on his face.