“Well, what do you want?” demanded the bully, halting.
“I want to know where you’re going,” replied Tom.
“I don’t know that it’s any of your affair.”
“Well, it is, and the affair of every member of this class. We want to know who is with us, and who against us. And it looks, the way you were sneaking off just now, as though you weren’t going to be with us.”
“I don’t care how it looks,” retorted Sam, and his tone was not as defiant as it had been, “I’ve got some studying to do, and I want to get at it.”
“Well, we’ve no objection to you doing all the studying you want to,” went on our hero, “but if things turn out the way I expect we won’t do much more Latin boning—until things are different.”
“That’s what!” came in a chorus from the others.
Sam Heller started to walk away, but Tom was not done with him yet.
“Look here. Heller,” went on his questioner.“What we want to know is, whether you’re with us or against us?”
“Why shouldn’t I be with you?”
“That’s not answering the question. We know how you trained in with the Sophomores at the hazing, and that doesn’t look as though you considered yourself a Freshman, though I know why you did it, all right,” and Tom looked at his enemy significantly.
“That’s what!” shouted Jack Fitch.
“Now, as I said,” went on Tom, “if we do strike, and refuse to recite to Skeel, it won’t amount to anything unless the class stands together. If even one member backs down it will look as though he didn’t believe our cause right and just, and we can’t afford to have that. Now, are you with us or against us? We want to know before we go any further.”
“And if you’re not with us, it won’t be healthy for you, Heller!” exclaimed Frank Ralston.
“Hold on!” cried Tom. “We mustn’t have any threats. If he doesn’t want to join he doesn’t have to, in which case, of course, he can no longer consider himself a Freshman in the real sense of the word.”
“Coventry for his, if he doesn’t join!” cried Jack.
Sam started. He knew what it would mean to be given the “silence” by every member of hisclass. He would be practically ignored. For, in spite of his mean traits, he had a few friends beside Nick.
“Well?” asked Tom. “What about it?”
“I—I’m with you—of course.”
“To the end?”
“Yes.”
“No matter what happens?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean will you chance expulsion if it comes to that in case we strike?”
“I—I suppose so.”
“That’s all I want to know,” went on Tom. “We will have a meeting to-night, and decide on a plan. Then we’ll make a mutual promise to stick together, and we’ll wait our chance. Meeting’s adjourned.”
“Say, Tom Fairfield is all right!” exclaimed Bert Wilson to Jack, as the two walked on together.
“That’s true,” agreed Tom’s special chum. “I’m glad we’ve got him to run things.”
“What makes him that way—always doing things?” George Abbot wanted to know.
“Because, Why,” spoke Jack, “Tom eats rusty nails for breakfast. They give him an iron constitution.”
“Really. Are you joking?”
“Of course not,” replied Jack with a soberface. “Run along now, and ask Demy Miller if he knows his ancient history.”
The studious janitor was observed coming over the campus, a book, as usual, under his arm. He saw the students and turned to meet them.
“What is it now, Demy?” asked Jack, as he saw an anxious look on the man’s face.
“Oh, it’s this proposition about constructing squares on the sides of a right-angle triangle and making the sum of them equal the one constructed on the—er—hippenuse, I think it’s called.”
“Hypothenuse—the hypothenuse!” laughed Jack, as he heard the odd pronunciation. “Why, that’s an easy problem, Demy. George Abbot here will show you how. We’re going for a skate.”
“Oh, I——!” began the human question box. He was going skating also, but now he had to stop and explain to the janitor. And it was well to keep in with the latter, for he often did the boys favors, and many a night he let them in before some prowling monitor could spy them. “Well, come over here, and I’ll do it for you,” ended George, as he saw his chums making appealing signals to him.
Soon he was explaining that comparatively simple geometrical problem while the others, including Tom, went down to the frozen river.
Early that evening there was secret meetingof the Freshman Latin class, and a solemn agreement was entered into that, if they had to strike, they would all stick together. Even Sam Heller was present, though with no very good grace, and he made the promise with the others.
“Now to await developments,” suggested Tom. “We’ll give that old taskmaster one more chance, and if he takes it, and bullyrags us any more, we’ll defy him, and go on strike.”
“Hurray!” yelled Jack Fitch.
“That’s the talk!” came from several.
“Meeting’s adjourned,” said Tom with a smile. “Come on, Jack, I feel just like running the guard.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Where you going?”
“What’s the matter with going into town, and seeing a moving picture show.”
“We may be nabbed.”
“What of it? Might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. If we go into this strike business we’ll get in bad with the powers that be, anyhow. And if we don’t, why I’ll feel so good at the change in Skeel, that I won’t mind a little rigging for being out after hours.”
“All right. I’m with you.”
The two chums went, with some other of their friends, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves at the show, for the pictures were of a high class. Coming back the boys were almost at their dormitory,when a friendly Senior warned them that some of the proctor’s scouts were on the watch.
“Go around by Skeel’s house, cut through his garden, and you can get in through the cellar, I think,” the Senior advised them.
“Thanks,” called Tom, as he and his chums moved off in the darkness. As they passed the residence of the disliked instructor, they saw a light in his study. The shade was drawn, but the shadow of two figures could be seen on the shade. And, as the lads came opposite it they made out one figure, which plainly was that of the professor, shaking his fist at the other.
“He’s laying down the law to some one,” murmured Jack. “Looks like he’d be in a sweet temper to-morrow.”
“I’m going to see who it is,” whispered Tom. “The shade is up a crack.”
“Better not,” advised Bert Wilson, but Tom was daring. He crept up to the window, and saw that it was Bruce Bennington who was with the professor.
“And it was him whom the professor was shaking his fist at,” thought Tom, as he stole back to his comrades with the information. “I wish I could find out what is up between those two, and what is troubling Bruce.”
Our friends managed to get to their rooms without being caught, though one or two of them had narrow escapes.
Tom’s thoughts, as he dropped off to sleep, were on what might happen the next day. Would it be necessary to strike? He imagined that it would, for it could hardly be expected that Professor Skeel would change his nature in a day.
It was not without a little feeling of nervousness that Tom and his associates filed into their Latin recitation the next morning. There was a grim smile on the face of Professor Skeel as he looked over the lads in their seats, and there was grim menace in the manner in which he opened his book, prepared to go on with the doubly-imposed task.
“Well,” he began, omitting the usual “young gentlemen,” with which jolly Professor Hammond, and the others of the faculty, used to greet their students. “Well, I trust you are all prepared; for if you are not, I warn you all that it will go hard with you.”
There was a subdued murmur. Clearly there was to be no let-up in the manner of conducting the Latin class.
“Silence!” snapped Mr. Skeel. “I have had enough of this insubordination.”
“You’ll have more before we’re through with you,” thought Tom.
“You may recite, Fitch,” spoke Professor Skeel. “And I want a perfect recitation from you to-day.”
Jack began. He did well enough for the firstfew lines and then began to stumble and hesitate.
“That will do!” snapped the professor. “You try, Fairfield.”
There was an indrawing of breaths. If the clash was to come, it would be with Tom, all thought.
Tom had the one day’s lesson perfectly. He rapidly translated that and stopped.
“Well, go on,” ordered Mr. Skeel, obviously ill-pleased that the student he suspected had done so well.
“That’s as far as I’m going,” said Tom quietly.
“What?”
“That’s as far as I’m going. That is all that is ever assigned to us for one day.”
“But I told you all to learn a double lesson.”
“And I refuse to do it. We all refuse to do it!”
This was the signal Tom had agreed upon as marking the defiance and revolt, in case there was no change in the professor’s manner.
For a moment Professor Skeel was dumb—as if he could not believe what he had heard.
“Will you kindly repeat that?” he asked Tom, in a quiet, menacing voice.
“I said,” began our hero, “that we have agreed that the double lesson was unfair. We have agreed that if you insisted on it that we would not recite. We will go no farther. Eitherwe get better treatment, or we will not come to your class any more.”
“Wha—what?” gasped Professor Skeel, turning pale.
Tom repeated what he had said.
“What does this mean? Have done with this nonsense!”
“It means a strike!” cried Tom, turning to his classmates. “Boys, are you with me? A strike for better treatment in the Latin class! Are you with me?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” came the cries from all parts of the room.
“Silence! Sit down!” shouted Professor Skeel, as he saw the students rise in a body. “Sit down!” He banged his rule on the desk.
“Come on!” ordered Tom, and the boys—every one—followed his lead.
For a moment amazement held Professor Skeel motionless. Several boys were filing through the door before he could manage to make a move. Then he sprang to the portal.
“Stop!” he commanded. “I demand that this nonsense cease. Return to your seats, and continue the recitation!”
“Will you hear us on just one day’s lesson—the usual length?” asked Tom, turning back.
“No! Certainly not! You will do exactly as I say, and recite the double lesson. I will make no compromise.”
“Then it’s a strike,” replied Tom. “Come on.”
The boys continued to follow him. For a moment it looked as if Professor Skeel would resort to physical measures and hold the boys in his room, but he did not.
He scowled at them, but the fact that there were several large lads in the class, lads who had a reputation as boxers, probably deterred him.The last student filed out, and under the leadership of Tom they all stood in the corridor.
“Well, we did it,” remarked Jack, and there was a trace of awe in his voice. It was the first time, in his experience that a class had “struck,” against a disliked teacher. He was a little doubtful of the outcome.
“Of course we did it,” replied Tom. “It was the only thing to do.”
“And what’s the next thing?” asked Bert Wilson.
“Go to history lecture, as soon as it’s time,” declared Tom. “We’ve half an hour yet. I suggest that we act quietly and as if nothing had happened. Report as usual in history class.”
“But what will Skeel be doing?” inquired Jack.
“We’ll have to wait and see. It’s up to him now. I know one thing, though, I’ll never go back to his class until he admits that he was in the wrong, and releases us from double lessons. That’s what I’m going to do, and I don’t care if they suspend me!”
“The same here!” came from several, and then the lads dispersed to their rooms, to do a little studying on history, or to various parts of the campus.
As for Professor Skeel, that worthy did not know what to do at first. Clearly he had beenoutwitted, and by Freshmen! He must recover and maintain his reputation as a disciplinarian, somehow, but how?
“I’ll—I’ll suspend every one of them until they beg my pardon!” he exclaimed. “As for that Fairfield, I’ll see that he is expelled! The insolent puppy!”
But mere words never did any good yet, and Professor Skeel knew this. He must act, and he resolved to hit on some plan that would give him the victory. But first blood had been drawn by the students, and he realized that.
He decided to remain in his lecture room until the period was up, in order that he might think, and so that none of his fellow members on the faculty would not ask embarrassing questions as to how his class had disappeared.
“I’ll get even with them,” he declared. “They shall beg my pardon, and do more work than ever before.”
He decided that he must first lay the matter before Doctor Meredith, for he could not act on his own initiative. He would ask that stringent measures be taken. With this in view, at the time when Tom and his chums were filing into history class, as if nothing had happened, Professor Skeel sought the head master.
There was a little feeling of nervousness on the part of our hero and his associates as they facedProfessor Whitely, who had ancient history at his finger tips, but, though he had heard some rumors of trouble in the Freshman Latin class, he did not refer to it, but plunged at once into the work of the day.
Nor did anything take place during the remainder of the lectures which filled up time until about two o’clock. In the meantime, however, Professor Skeel had placed the matter before Doctor Meredith.
“They went on strike, you say?” asked the head master. “Bless my soul! I never heard of such a thing! I have known laboring bodies to refuse to work, but how can students strike?”
“By refusing to recite, or to remain in class,” answered the Professor.
“And did the Freshmen do that?”
“They certainly did.”
“Dear, dear! What a situation!” exclaimed Doctor Meredith. “What a peculiar position! I really never heard of one like it.”
“Nor I,” admitted Professor Skeel dryly. “But something must be done.”
“Oh, assuredly; most assuredly,” Doctor Meredith answered his colleague.
“And something drastic!” went on the Latin instructor.
“Oh, yes,—er—I suppose so. Really it is rather a novelty—a strike of students.”
“Novelty!” puffed Professor Skeel.
“Yes. I never heard of such a thing. Really I think some sort of psychological study might be made of it—the causes and effects you know. What peculiar action of the brain cells brought it about. The reason for it. I think I shall write a paper on it for the International society. It will create a sensation, I think.”
“I think so myself. But, in the meanwhile, something must be done—something drastic. The strike must be broken.”
“Oh, of course. I—er—I perfectly agree with you,” and Doctor Meredith spoke dreamily. He was already forming in his mind the chief points for a paper he determined to write on students striking. “We should have to begin with the cause,” he murmured. “Ah, by the way, Professor Skeel, what was the reason the Freshmen walked out, and refused to recite?”
“They declared they would not do the lessons I had set for them.”
“Why not?”
“They said they were too long—or rather, their leader, Tom Fairfield, did.”
“Ah, and so they have a leader, just as in an industrial strike. Very interesting, very.”
“Interesting!”
“Yes—er—that is from a psychological standpoint, of course.”
“Oh, I see. But something must be done. Even though, as a punishment for careless work, I doubled the usual lesson, that is no excuse for striking.”
“Oh, and so you doubled their lessons? Well, I suppose they naturally resented that. But, of course, as you say, I presume that was no excuse. But I will do something. I will act at once. I have thought of the best plan.”
“What is it?” asked Professor Skeel, hoping it was the suspension of the entire class, and the expulsion of Tom.
“We will treat with the strikers, just as is done in industrial strikes,” said Doctor Meredith with an air of triumph, as if he had discovered a most unusual way of settling the trouble. “We will arbitrate. That is the best way. I will send them a personal communication, when they have assembled. I must make some notes. If you will kindly post a bulletin, requesting the class to assemble in, say, the gymnasium, I will send a communication to them. That, I believe is the usual way the authorities treat with strikers. I will personally communicate with them,” and with a delighted air, and a childish eagerness, Doctor Meredith took out pen and paper.
“I am to post a bulletin, calling the students together, am I?” asked Professor Skeel, not altogether relishing his work.
“Yes, and I will communicate with them. Wait, better still, I will speak to them in person.”
“And what will you say?”
“I will ask them to return to your class room, and resume the interrupted session and lecture,” spoke the head master with an air of triumph, as though he had made a most astounding discovery. “I will point out to them how foolish it was to strike, I will assure them that there will be no more double lessons in the future, and I will talk with them, and get at the reasons that impelled them to strike. I can use their answers in the paper I propose to write.”
“Is—is that all you will do?” asked Professor Skeel, much disappointed.
“That is all that will be necessary,” replied Doctor Meredith mildly. “You will see, Professor Skeel, I will soon break the strike. I think that ‘break’ is the proper word; is it not?”
“Yes, but it will not be broken that way, Doctor Meredith. Drastic measures are needed. Very drastic!”
“We will try my way first,” decided the head master quietly. “Write out the bulletin, Professor.”
Much against his will, and very much opposed to the mild method proposed by Doctor Meredith, Professor Skeel wrote and posted the following bulletin:
“Members of the Freshman Latin Class will assemble in the gymnasium at once, at the request of Doctor Meredith, to receive a personal communication from him.“Burton Skeel.”
“Members of the Freshman Latin Class will assemble in the gymnasium at once, at the request of Doctor Meredith, to receive a personal communication from him.
“Burton Skeel.”
It did not take long for it to be discovered, for some student or other was always on the alert for notices, athletic or otherwise, posted on the common bulletin board.
Bert Wilson was the first Freshman to know of it, and he darted off, post-haste, to tell Tom, who was in his room with Jack.
“I say, Tom!” exclaimed Bert. “Come on! Something doing in the strike!”
“How?”
Bert told of the notice, and soon the board was surrounded by a curious throng of students. From his window, where he was still in communication with Professor Skeel, Doctor Meredith saw the throng.
“There, you see!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “They are interested at once. They will listen to reason, surely. I wish you would come in person, and tell them that if they will recite to you the double lesson, you will impose no more.”
“But I refuse to make any such agreement as that. And I don’t believe they will listen to reason. Moreover, I shall have something to say to you after the meeting,” snapped Professor Skeel.
“Very well. See, they are filing off to the gymnasium now. I will soon go there to speak to them.”
Tom and his chums were indeed hurrying to the athletic building, and tongues were freely wagging on the way.
“What do you suppose is up?” asked George Abbot.
“Don’t know,” replied Jack shortly.
“Doctor Meredith is going to take a hand,” commented Luke Fosdick.
“And he’ll listen to reason,” spoke Tom. “But, even if he requests it we’re not going to knuckle down to Skeel; are we?”
“Surely not,” came in a chorus.
“The strike ends when he stops imposing double lessons on us for no reason at all, but because he is ugly,” went on Tom. “How about that?”
“We’re with you!”
“And if he doesn’t give in,” proceeded our hero, “we’ll——”
“Burn Skeel in effigy, after we hang him!” came the cry from some one.
“That’s it,” assented Tom, glad to see that his chums were with him.
They filed into the gymnasium, and the buzz of talk continued until some one announced that Doctor Meredith and Professor Skeel were approaching.
“Ah, young gentlemen, good afternoon!” greeted the head master, as he walked in and took his stand on the platform, where the secretaries and officers of the various athletic committees presided, when there was a class or school session. Professor Skeel, with a grim look in his face, followed, and sat down.
“I am informed that you are on a strike,” began Doctor Meredith. “Very interesting, I’m sure—I mean of course it is altogether wrong,” he added hastily. “You should have tried arbitration first. However, since you have decided to strike, I am glad to be able to speak to you—to reason with you.
“I understand that you object to having to do a double lesson as a punishment. Now I dislike to have a strike in the school, and, though I do not, for one minute, admit that you are in the right, I wish to know, if Professor Skeel agrees to give out no more double lessons, will you return to your class?”
“I will make no such agreement!” shouted the irate instructor.
“Then the strike is still on!” exclaimed Tom, springing to his feet.
“Silence!” stormed Professor Skeel.
Doctor Meredith held up his hand. The commotion that had started, at once ceased.
“I will hear what Fairfield has to say,” spoke the head master, quietly.
“We have stood all we can,” went on Tom. “We do not think Professor Skeel treats us fairly. We protested once, and——”
“By an anonymous letter!” broke in the Latin teacher.
“Yes, that was hardly right,” commented the doctor, gently.
“It was the best way we could think of,” spoke Tom. “We wanted better treatment. We want it yet, and we are going to get it, or we will continue to refuse to recite to Professor Skeel. We will continue to strike.”
“Strong words,” said the head master. “Butmay I ask how you came to hit on—er this—er—rather novel form of rebellion? I am anxious to know,” and he prepared to make some notes in a book. Professor Skeel fairly snorted with rage.
“It began from the very first,” explained Tom, and he went over the different steps in their trouble with the unpopular professor. “Now we can stand it no longer. We will leave school, if necessary, to gain our rights.”
Doctor Meredith looked surprised at this. The loss of the Freshman Latin class would mean a serious blow to the finances of the institution of learning. Still he would have done his duty in the face of this if he saw it clearly. But he was not at all in sympathy with the methods of Professor Skeel, and the boys probably realized this.
“And so we struck,” ended Tom, concluding the history of the rebellion.
“And it is my duty to end this strike,” declared the head master. “I ask you to return to your recitation in Professor Skeel’s room, and I—er—I have no doubt but what matters will adjust themselves.”
“We will not—we feel that we cannot—return and end the strike, unless we receive some assurance that we will be treated like gentlemen, and not imposed upon in the matter of lessons,” declared Tom.
“That’s right!” chorused the others.
“Silence!” commanded the professor, but he was not in command now, and the lads realized it. “Then you will remain on strike?” asked Doctor Meredith, as if surprised that his request had not been complied with.
“We must, sir,” replied Tom respectfully.
“Then—er—then this ends the negotiations, I presume, young gentlemen,” spoke the doctor, rather sorrowfully. “I shall have to consider what further will be done.”
“We’re ahead—so far,” commented Tom to his chums as they filed out.
“I knew it would end this way,” spoke Professor Skeel to Doctor Meredith. “You will have to be firmer. You must take the most stringent measures possible.”
“What would you suggest?” asked the head master, evidently at a loss. In fact he was thinking more of writing the paper on the strike than he was of ending it.
“I will tell you my plan,” spoke Professor Skeel, as he followed the doctor into his study.
“Well, what do you think will be the next move?” asked Jack, as he trudged along beside his chum as they came from the gymnasium.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. It’s up to them now, and we can only saw wood, and see what happens.”
“Do you think they’ll punish us?” asked George Abbot.
“Oh, there you go again!” cried Bert Wilson. “Can’t you do anything but ask questions, Why?”
“Of course I can, but I want to know what’s going to happen to us.”
“There can’t much more happen than has happened already,” said Lew Bentfield, grimly.
“That’s right,” agreed Tom.
“They will probably suspend us until we give in,” come from Jack.
“What of it?” asked Tom.
“Nothing, only if we’re suspended we can’t go to any lectures or recitations, and we’ll fall behind in our work, and be conditioned when thisthing is over. That means we may lose a year.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Tom. “Besides, we agreed to stick this thing out.”
“Oh, I’m not going to back out!” cried Jack quickly. “Don’t imagine that for a second. Only this is a serious matter.”
“I know it,” admitted Tom, quietly. “And it’s a serious matter to be treated as we have been treated in class nearly every day by Professor Skeel. I’m tired of being bullyragged. This strike is for principle, not for any material advantage.
“But, anyhow, if they do suspend us it can’t last for long. Why, nearly every Freshman is in with us. That is, all but those who don’t like Latin, and they’re mighty scarce.
“Now practically the whole Freshman class of a college can’t be suspended for any great length of time, and the ban will soon be raised.”
“You mean we’ll win?” asked Bert Wilson.
“Of course we will!” declared Tom stoutly, “and the lessons we miss, if we are suspended, we can easily make up. But I don’t believe Merry will suspend us.”
There were various opinions about this, and the talk became general as the boys separated, going their different ways. Tom and a group of his particular chums went to his room.
“We ought to do something to celebrate thisstrike,” declared Jack, when there was a lull in the talk.
“That’s right!” cried Tom. “I’m for something to eat. I’m going to give a little dinner here to as many as we can crowd in. Let’s get busy, Jack.”
“A spread!” cried Tom’s chum. “Where are the eats to come from?”
“Oh, I’ll sneak out and get ’em as soon as it’s dark enough. You can work it so as to get some stuff from our worthy matron; can’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“Then leave the rest to me, and ask as many fellows of our particular crowd as you can squeeze into the room. Pack ’em in like sardines. The more the merrier. We’ll make this a record spread.”
“Jove, a spread just after you’ve organized a strike!” exclaimed Bert Wilson, admiringly. “Say, you do do things, Tom Fairfield.”
“Oh, what’s the use sitting around like a bump on a log?” asked our hero. “Now we’ll go to supper, and mind, every fellow is to stow away in his pockets anything not in a liquid form that he can. Bring it to the feast, for I can’t lug in any too much all by my lonesome.”
“I’ll go with you,” volunteered several eagerly.
“No, if two of us go out together it will create suspicions, and all eyes are on us now, as Napoleonsaid to his soldiers in Egypt, or was it in South Africa? Anyhow, I’ll sneak out as soon as it’s dark enough, and get what I can.”
There was a subdued air of expectancy at the Freshman supper that night, and many whispers ran around. It was noticed, too, that many of the lads had unusually large appetites, but they did not seem to be eating as much as they asked for. There were sly motions which some of the waiters could not understand, for they were caused when the diners slipped food into their pockets.
“Assemble in my room one at a time, as soon after the signal ‘lights out’ as possible,” explained Tom, when the meal was over. It was a rule that the boys must have their rooms in darkness after 9:30 o’clock, unless special permission for studying was obtained. “Don’t go in bunches,” advised our hero, “but a few at a time. I’m off to town.”
Watching his chance, Tom managed to elude a monitor, though, truth to tell, so amazing had the strike seemed to all the college authorities, that they were dazed, and really did not keep as close a watch over the Freshmen as usual.
Tom was in town, buying a lot of indigestible, but toothsome, dainties, dear to the palates of himself and his chums, when most unexpectedly, he met Bruce Bennington coming out of a pawnshop.
“Why, Bennington!” exclaimed Tom. “Oh, how are you?” and he quickly tried to change his first astonished tone, which had said, as plainly as anything: “What are you doing in such a place?”
“Oh, hello, Fairfield,” greeted the Senior, after a first start of surprise. Then, in a cool voice, he added: “I suppose it looks rather odd, to see me coming out of this place, but the truth of the matter is——”
“Not at all!” interrupted Tom, determined to make amends for his seeming surprise. “I’ve done the same thing when I’m temporarily embarrassed. Besides, for all I know you may have been making a psychological study of the pawnbroker, eh?”
“Oh, of course,” laughed Bruce uneasily. “But say, youngster, you fellows are making names for yourselves. Jove! We Freshmen never went on a strike. You’ve got us beaten a mile, even if we did drive a cow up on Merry’s doorstep. But a strike! Never!”
“Maybe you hadn’t any need,” spoke Tom. “Was Skeel as bad in your time as he is now?”
“Worse, if anything. And he’s a——” Bruce hesitated. “Well, I’ll not say it,” he concluded. “What’s up, anyhow?”
“Oh, I’m going to give a little spread.”
“Oh, I say now! That’s adding insult to injury,as the Irishman said when the parrot called him names after biting him. You Freshies are laying it on rather thick.”
“Might as well get all we can while it’s coming our way,” explained Tom. “No telling what may happen to-morrow.”
“No, that’s so. Well, I wish I was a Freshman again,” and, with something like a sigh of regret, the Senior passed on.
“There’s something wrong with him,” mused Tom, as he caught a car that would take him near the school. “And I wonder why, with all the money he is supposed to have, that he had to go to a pawn shop? Why didn’t he come to me, or some of the college boys? Too proud, I guess.”
There was snow on the ground and the weather, though cold, bore a promise of more as Tom cautiously made his way by a roundabout course over the campus and to a side door.
“Well, you’re all here, I see,” he remarked as he entered his room, and saw a crowd of congenial lads assembled there. The door communicating with the apartment of Bert Wilson, which portal was seldom unlocked, had been opened, making a fairly large apartment in which to have a forbidden spread.
“Make out all right?” asked Jack.
“Sure, I’ve got a choice assortment of grub. Let’s set the beds,” for they were to serve astables, covered with large squares of newspapers for table cloths.
“I’ve got the windows and keyholes covered,” explained Jack, pointing to blankets tacked over the glass.
“Good! Now let the merry feast go on, and joy be loosed. For we’ll eat to-day and starve to-morrow.”
“Starve to-morrow?” gasped George Abbot. “What do you mean, Tom?”
“Nothing. I was just getting poetical, that’s all. You needn’t stare at the sandwiches and olives, George, my boy; they are substantial, if my poetry isn’t, and they won’t disappear. Come on, fellows, get busy.”
The feast was soon under way, and though the boys could have had nearly everything displayed on the “bed” at their regular meal, they all agreed that the viands tasted ever so much better served in the forbidden manner that they were.
“Pass those pickles, Jed, my boy!” commanded Tom to a lanky Freshman.
“And keep that mustard moving,” ordered Jack. “Those frankfurters are prime, Tom.”
“I thought you’d like ’em,” remarked our hero.
“Put some more on to cook,” pleaded Jack.
“Sure,” assented Bert Wilson, who presided at the “stove.”
This was an arrangement of wires, ingeniouslymade by Tom, so that it fitted over the gas, and on which a saucepan could be set over the flame. In this pan the sausages were simmering.
Bert put in some more, and stood anxiously watching them, fork in hand, while George buttered rolls, and passed them around.
“I propose a toast!” exclaimed Frank Carter, rising, a bottle of ginger ale in one hand, and a big piece of chocolate cake in the other.
“Hush! Not so loud!” cautioned Jack.
“Well, then, a silent toast to our host, Tom Fairfield!” went on Frank.
“Tiger!” whispered Jack, waving his Frankfurter fork in the air.
“Thanks, one and all,” replied Tom, bowing. “I will——”
“Hark!” suddenly cautioned Jack.
The boys were silent on the instant.
“I hear footsteps,” whispered Bert.
There was no doubt but that some one was out in the corridor, but as silence replaced the rather noiseless celebration of the feast, the footsteps could be heard retreating.
“A spy sent to make a report,” was Tom’s opinion. “Well, we can’t be any worse off than we are. Keep things going, fellows,” and the spread proceeded.
Meanwhile a curious scene was being enacted in the study of Doctor Meredith. All the membersof the faculty were present, and were being addressed by Professor Skeel.
“I think it is dueme, as an instructor in this school, that this class be punished,” he said.
“According to your own account they have been already—with extra lessons,” remarked jolly Professor Hammond.
“That was for other breaches of discipline,” declared Professor Skeel. “They have not been adequately punished for sending me the anonymous letter, nor for this strike. I think an example should be made of them.”
“Well, perhaps something should be done,” admitted Professor Hammond. “But I should favor a mild lesson, and then—a change of programme for the future.”
“And I demand a severe lesson, and a firm hand in the future!” insisted Professor Skeel. “Unless the Freshmen are punished I shall at once resign, and the punishment I demand is the plan I first mentioned. Is it to be done, Doctor Meredith?”
“Ah—er—ahem!” stammered the mild head master. “I dislike exceedingly to take such a step, but, I suppose something should be done.”
“Itmustbe done!” demanded Professor Skeel.
“Very well then,” sighed Doctor Meredith.“But it is a very strange state of affairs. However,” he added more brightly, “I will have some additional matter for my paper on a strike in school,” and he seemed quite delighted.
The faculty meeting broke up. So, too, in due time did the feast in Tom’s room. The boys sneaked to their respective apartments. And, rather strange to say, none of them was detected. But they did not know that a special order had come from the head master to Monitor Blackford, in charge of Opus Manor.
“Humph! It was all too easy,” said Jack, as he and Tom were ready to turn in at nearly midnight.
“What was?”
“This spread. Aside from that sneaking footstep we heard we were not disturbed once. I’m afraid it’s the calm before the storm. And it may be a bad one. But we’ll weather it.”
“Of course we will,” declared Jack. “Say, talk about a storm,” he added, as he peered from the window, from which the blanket had been removed, “it’s snowing to beat the band.”
“Good,” answered Tom. “We can get up a sleighing party to-morrow, if we can’t go to Latin class.”
When the Freshmen filed down to breakfast the next morning there was a look of surprise on every face as they glanced at the table. For ateach place was a glass of water, and on each plate two slices of bread.
“What’s this?”
“Is it April Fool?”
“Who thought of this joke?”
These were only a few of the remarks and questions.
“I say!” called Tom to Mr. Blackford, who came into the room, a quizzical look on his face. “Where is our breakfast?”
“On the table.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. Orders from Doctor Meredith.”
“Oh, I see. He’s trying to starve us into submission. I’ll not stand for that!” cried Tom. “Fellows, come on!” he added. “We’ll go to town to a restaurant!”
He moved to the front door.
“You can’t go out, Mr. Fairfield,” said the monitor firmly.
“Why not, I’d like to know.”
“Because you, and all the others, in fact all the Freshmen in this dormitory, are prisoners!”
“Prisoners!” cried a score of voices.
“That’s it,” went on Mr. Blackford. “You are to stay locked in this building, on a diet of bread and water, until you give in!”
Surprise, for a moment, held the boys dumb, and then a storm of protests broke out.
“We’ll not stand it!”
“Let’s raid the pantry!”
“They’re trying to starve us into submission!”
“It’s a relic of the dark ages, boys!” cried Bert Wilson. “A prison diet of bread and water.”
“Let’s break out, and go over to the Seniors’ place in Elmwood Hall!” suggested Jack. “They’ll feed us.”
“That’s right!” cried several.
“Hold on, fellows,” called Tom.
At the sound of his calm voice the rush that had begun toward the door of the dining room, was halted. A look of relief came over the face of Monitor Blackford.
“Fellows!” said Tom, “this thing has come to a crisis. They’re trying to break this strike by unfair means. I’ve no doubt that the suggestion came from Skeel. Doctor Meredith never would have done it of his own accord. Skeel has a badinfluence over him. Now then, it’s up to us to beat ’em at their own game!”
“But we can’t live on bread and water!” declared Ned Wilton. “At least I won’t. I’m not used to such fare. I always want fruit in the morning, and eggs.”
“So do lots of us,” said Tom quietly. “But we’re not going to get it this morning, at least. Now then, let’s look at this thing quietly. Let’s accept it. It can’t last forever. Sooner or later the story will get out, and the college faculty will have to give in. Our cause is right, and we’ll win. All we ask is civil treatment, as the old sailor said after the whale chase, and blamed little of that. Here’s for a hearty breakfast of bread and water.”
He made a move toward his place.
“But there’s not even butter on the bread!” cried Jack.
“Prisoners aren’t usually furnished with luxuries,” commented Tom, quietly.
“Oh, say, I’m not going to stand for this!” burst out Bert Wilson. “I’m going to leave, and wire home for permission to resign from Elmwood Hall.”
He strode toward the front door, intending to see if he could get out, but Mr. Blackford stood on guard, and he was not a small man.
“It’s no use, Mr. Wilson,” said the monitor,quietly. “The door is locked, and you can’t go out unless you break out. And it’s a very strong door,” he added, significantly.
With a gesture of impatience Bert turned toward a window. To his surprise he noted that the usual fastenings had been replaced by new ones, and, in addition, the casements were screwed down. Then, to the astonishment of the boys, who had not noticed it before, they became aware that bars of wood had been screwed in place across the outside of the frames.
“By Jove! They have us boxed in, all right!” cried Tom, as his attention was called to the precautions taken to keep the lads in Opus Manor. “This is what they were doing last night when we were having our fun. I’ve no doubt but that the spy came into the hall to see if we were likely to stay up there eating, while they got in their fine work. Oh, but we were chumps not to think of this!”
“No one would,” said Jack Fitch. “I say, though, I believe if we all go together we can break out. We can handle Blackford!”
Tom shook his head. He did not intend to submit quietly, but he knew better than to act before he had a good plan.
At that moment several of the men monitors from the other dormitories were seen in the lower hall, and one or two were at a rear door.
“They’re prepared to meet force with force,” said Tom to his chums. “Just wait a bit, and there may be something doing. Meanwhile, eat your grub.”
“Hot grub this!” exclaimed Jack. “I wish we’d saved some from last night. Any left, Tom?”
“Not a crumb. Never mind, this is good for a change,” and Tom proceeded to munch the dry bread, and sip the water.
Monitor Blackford’s face showed relief. He had been prepared to carry out the orders of the faculty with force, if necessary, but he rather hoped he would not have to do so, for he knew how lads can fight when they want to. Still he was glad they had submitted quietly. And he was not altogether on the side of the faculty, either.
“I guess it won’t be for long, young gentlemen,” he said, as he passed around the table. “I’m sure I’m very sorry to have to do it, but I’m a poor man, and my living——”
“That’s all right,” interrupted Tom good-naturedly. “We’re not blaming you. And, as you say, it won’t be for long.”
“Then you’re going to give in?” asked the monitor eagerly.
“Not much!” exclaimed Tom. “The faculty is, and we’ll make Skeel beg our pardons. Then we’ll have a roast turkey feast on Merry.”
“I’m afraid you never will,” spoke the monitor. “The professor is very determined. I expect he’ll be over before long.”
“We’ll be ready for him,” said Tom grimly.
Once they had made up their minds to accept the situation the boys made merry over the meager breakfast.
“Anyhow, we can cut all lectures!” exulted several who were not fond of study.
“And we’ll have to pull our belts in a few holes if this sort of grub keeps up long,” commented Jack.
“Yes, a fine sort of strike this is!” sneered Sam Heller. “I never agreed to starve, Tom Fairfield.” He glared at his rival.
“You can starve with the rest of us,” spoke our hero, grimly. “Besides, you can live a long time on bread and water. I forget the exact figures, but I think it is something over a month.”
“A month!” cried Jack. “I’ll never last that long.”
“Neither will the strike,” answered Tom, coolly. “I have something up my sleeve.”
“What is it?” clamored half a dozen.
“I’ll tell you later. Now to get what amusement we can. Come on up to my room, and we’ll talk it over.”
They did talk it over, from all standpoints, but they could not agree on what was best to be done.It was a cold, blowy, blustery day outside, the storm being not far short of a blizzard.
The dormitory was warm, but soon the healthy appetites of the lads asserted themselves, and they felt the lack of their usual good breakfast. Still, save for Sam Heller, no one thought of giving in. All stuck by Tom.
During the morning, groups of students from other dormitories, the Senior, Junior and Sophomore, came past Opus Manor, and cruelly made signs of eating, for of course the story of the imprisonment of the Freshman class was known all through the college.
“Say, I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Jack, as he saw some of his friends in the upper classes standing under his window in an angle of the building. “Why can’t they smuggle us something to eat? We can let down a basket or a box, and haul it up.”
“That’s the stuff!” cried Bert Wilson. “Let’s drop ’em a note.”
One was written and tossed out to Bruce Bennington and some friendly Seniors. They nodded assent as they read it, and hurried off.
“Now to make a basket of some sort!” exclaimed Jack.
“Take our fishing creels,” suggested Tom, who seemed to be busily engaged in thinking out something. Accordingly the fishing baskets were tiedto strings, which the boys collected from many pockets, and were made ready to be lowered for food.
In due time, under cover of the storm, which had grown so bad that the swirling flakes hid objects ten feet away, the Seniors returned with food which they had somehow obtained. There were also bottles of cold coffee and soft drinks.
“This is great!” cried Jack, as he hauled up the creels, several times, well laden. “There isn’t going to be a feast, but it’s something.”
“And it has given me the idea I wanted!” cried Tom.
“What is it?” demanded several.
“We’ll escape from the second story windows to-night! We can make ropes of the bed clothes, in real story-book fashion, lower ourselves down, and hie into town. We’ll put up at some hotel or boarding houses there, and the school can get along without us until they recognize our rights.”
“Good!” came in an enthusiastic chorus. “Let’s start right away,” added Jack.
“No, not until after dark,” advised Tom. “We will be caught if we go before.”
The sandwiches and other things which the Seniors had provided made a welcome addition to the slim dinner. Professor Skeel came in as the boys were about to arise from the table, probablyto gloat over them. He was received with a storm of hisses.
“Stop that, instantly!” he cried, his face pale with anger.
“Keep it up,” ordered Tom, and keep it up the boys did, until the discomfited instructor had to withdraw, vowing vengeance on the lads whom even a diet of bread and water, and the humiliation of being made prisoners, could not subdue.
“But I’ll break their spirit yet!” said the professor, grimly.
The preparations for the escape went on. Several ropes were made from torn sheets and light blankets, and fastened to heavy objects as anchors, in various room whence the lads were to take French leave. Several were to drop from Tom’s window.
The storm grew worse, and the boys put on their heaviest garments. Night approached, the bread and water supper was served, and Mr. Blackford remarked to his wife:
“I don’t see what makes the boys so cheerful.”
“Maybe they are up to some mischief,” she suggested.
“How could they be?” he asked. “They can’t get out to get anything to eat, for the doors and windows are all fastened.”
“Well, you never can tell what boys are going to do,” she said. “I’d be on the watch.”
“I will,” agreed her husband, and he and the other monitors looked well to the fastening of the doors and casements.
“All ready now, boys?” asked Tom, as it grew darker.
“All ready,” answered Jack. “I don’t believe they can see us now.”
“Go easy,” advised Tom. “Hold on tight going down, and don’t slip. One at a time, and we’ll meet at the twin oaks on the far edge of the campus, and tramp into town. The car line is blocked, I guess, with all this snow.”
One by one the boys slid down the improvised ropes, going from rooms where they could drop to the ground unobserved from any of the lower windows.
“Are we all here?” asked Tom, when the escape was finally concluded, and the crowd of students had assembled under the oak trees, the few brown leaves of which rustled in the wintry blast.
“I guess so,” answered Jack. “But I didn’t see Sam Heller.”
“I saw him slide down a rope from Pete Black’s room,” remarked Bert Wilson, “and then I noticed that he sneaked off by himself.”
“Let him go,” suggested Tom. “We’re better off without him.”
“Unless he’s going to squeal on us,” came from Jack, suddenly.
“That’s so!” exclaimed Tom, after a moment’s consideration. “I never thought of that. It would be just like Sam. Oh, but what’s the use worrying, anyhow? They’ll know, sooner or later, that we’ve escaped, and anything that sneak Heller can tell them won’t do us any harm. Come on to town.”
They headed into the storm, which seemed to become worse every minute, with the wind whipping the stinging flakes into the faces of the lads, who bent to the blast.
“I say!” cried Horace Gerth. “This is fierce!”
“The worst ever!” cried Jack.
“You can turn back, if you want to,” commented Tom, grimly. “Back to bread and water.”
“Not for mine!” exclaimed Bert Wilson.
“Me for a hot meal in town,” declared Tom. “I’ll stand treat if any fellows are short of cash.”
“Good!” cried several, as they trudged on.
It did not take very long to make the ladsaware that they were in for a bad time. The snow was drifted heavily and the road to town, never good at the best, was almost impassable. As Tom had predicted, the trolley cars had long since ceased running, and there was not a vehicle track to be seen in the darkness, that was but faintly relieved by the white snow.
“We’re going to have a hard pull of it,” commented Jack, as he floundered to Tom’s side.
“That’s right. I wish we had had a better night for the escape, but we had to take our chance.”
“Oh, of course. But it will be all right when we strike the town, and get some hot coffee. How far is it, anyhow?”
“Oh, about two miles, I guess.”
“Two miles of this!” groaned Jack, as he bent his head to a particularly fierce blast. “It’s heavy going.”
On and on the boys floundered. The first enthusiasm was wearing off, and they became aware of the stinging cold and the fierce wind that cut through even the heaviest coats. But they did not think of giving up.
After an hour of tramping, during which the storm seemed to be doing its best to drive the boys back, and during which time several began to murmur discontentedly, Jack suddenly exclaimed:
“I say, Tom, do you think we’re on the right road?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
A halt was called.
“I can’t make out anything,” declared Jack. “It’s as dark as a pocket, and, even in day time, with this storm, we couldn’t see very far. My private opinion is that we are lost.”
“Lost!”
“Yes, that is, not seriously lost,” went on Tom, with a trace of jollity in his voice, “but just lost enough so that we can’t strike town to-night.”
“Then what are we going to do?” asked George Abbot.
“There you go again—the eternal question!” complained Jack. “We’ll have to go back, that’s all, I guess.”
“I don’t like to,” said Tom. “Let’s have another try for the road. That row of trees over there looks like it.” He pointed to a row dimly visible through the storm.
“Well, come on, one more try,” assented Jack, and though there was some grumbling, none of Tom’s followers deserted him.
On they floundered through the snow, only to find, when they go to the trees, that they were on the edge of a gully.
“But I know where we are, at any rate,” declared Bert. “I believe I can find our way backto school from here, even if I can’t lead you to town.”
“All right, then do it,” assented Tom wearily, for he was tired, and rather chagrined at the failure of his plan. “But, one thing, fellows, if we do go back we’ve got to make a showing.”
“How?” asked several voices.
“We’ll burn Skeel in effigy before we go in, and then they can do as they like to us.”
“Hurray!”
“That’s what!”
“We’ll have a demonstration,” went on Tom, “and the whole school will come out. We’ll take advantage of it to ask the fellows to contribute something to our support. We’ll get more food and then—well, we’ll see what happens in the morning.”
“We’re with you!” cried his chums.
They turned back, hardly any but what were glad to get the wind and stinging flakes out of their faces, and, led by Bert, they were soon on familiar ground.
“There’s Elmwood Hall,” said Jack to Tom, as they tramped on together through the storm, when a dull mass loomed up before them. “What’s the programme?”
“First to make the effigy.”
“How you going to do it?”
“Oh, I’ve had it planned for several days. Inthe barn I’ve got some old clothes hidden, and a hat just like Skeel wears. All we’ve got to do is to stuff the coat and pants with straw, tie a rope to it, hoist it on the flag pole halyards and set fire to it. Then things will happen of themselves.”
“I guess they will!” exclaimed Jack, admiringly.
It was quiet around the college when the Freshmen came back after their partly unsuccessful escape. That their going had been discovered no one doubted, but there seemed to be no one on the watch for them, and no undue excitement in Opus Manor.
“Now for the effigy!” exclaimed Tom, as he told the others his plans. “Jack and I, and a few of us are enough. The rest of you stand ready to give our yell as the fire starts.”
It did not take long, in the barn, and with the light of several lanterns which Tom had hidden, to make the effigy of Professor Skeel. It did not look much like him, but the hat added the necessary identification.
None of the school employees was about the stable, and the boys had easy sailing.
“Now to string it up, and set fire to it!” cried Tom.
“How you going to burn it when it’s up in the air?” asked Bert.
“I’ll make a sort of fuse of twisted straw thatwill hang down, and I can touch that off from the ground,” was the answer.
With their mates crowding around them, Tom and his chums brought out the effigy. A rope had been provided by our hero, who seemed to think of everything, and soon it was attached to the flag halyards and the image was mounting the pole through the blinding storm and darkness.
“Here we go!” cried Tom, as, with some difficulty he struck a match and set the straw fuse ablaze. “Now for the yell!”
It was given with a will as the fire slowly enveloped the effigy, and, in response, there was a rush from the dormitories of the various classes, for it was not late yet.
“Three hisses for Professor Skeel!” called someone, and it sounded as if a den of snakes had been loosed.
Brighter and brighter grew the flames. The effigy was shown in bold relief. All the college seemed pouring out, heedless of the storm.
A figure came running over the snow. A voice called out—a harsh voice:
“I demand that this outrage cease at once!”
It was Professor Skeel himself.