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“Dance, freshies!” they repeated monotonously. “Dance!”

“Clear the pit for a rush,” yelled the president of the besieging freshmen, elbowing his way back into the mass.

A lull fell upon the room, as both sides gathered themselves together.

“Now–all at once!” yelled the president, and pandemonium broke loose.

“Rush ’em! Shove, behind there!” shrieked the struggling freshmen at the front.

“Dance, freshies! Dance!” challenged the seniors, as they locked arms across the narrow aisle.

“Hold ’em, fellows! Hold ’em!” encouraged the men of the upper seats, bracing themselves against the broad backs below.

The classes met like water against a wall. To go up was impossible; advantage of gravity and of position was all with the seniors. For an instant, at the centre, there were frantic yelling and pulling of loose wearing apparel; then, packed like cotton in a bale, they could only scream for mercy.

“Loosen up, back there! Back!” they panted, squirming impotently as they gasped for breath.

Slowly the reaction came amid the triumphant, “Dance, freshies!” of the conquering hosts.

The jam loosened; the seniors’ opportunity came. Like a big machine, the occupants of the front row leaned forward, and seized upon a circle of unsuspecting, retreating freshmen, among the number the class president.

“Pass ’em up! Pass ’em up!” insisted the men above, reaching out eager hands to aid; and with an irresistibility that seemed miraculous, the squirming, kicking, struggling freshmen found themselves rolling upward–head foremost, feet foremost, position unclassified–over the heads of the upper classmen; bumping against seats, and scattering the contents of their pockets loosely along the way.

“Up with them,” repeated the denizens of the front row as they reached forward for a fresh supply.

But there was no more material available; the besieging party had retreated. On the top row the dishevelled president was confusedly pulling himself together, and grinning sheepishly. The rebellion was over.

“Dance, freshies,” resumed the seniors mockingly; and once more the regular tap of feet and clapping of hands beat slow march-time.

One by one the freshmen came forward, and, shuffling a few steps to the encouraging “well done” of the seniors, mounted the steps between the rows of laughing upper classmen.

It happened that Landers came last. He wore heavy shoes and walked with an undeniable clump.

“He’s Dutch, make him clog,” called a man from an upper row.

The class caught the cry. “Clog! Clog!” they commanded.

A big fellow next the aisle made an addition. “Clog there, hayseed,” he grumbled.

Landers stopped as though the words were a blow. That one word “hayseed” with all that it meant to him–to be thrown at him now, tauntingly, before the whole class! His face grew white beneath the remaining coat of tan, and he stepped up to the big senior with a swiftness of which no one would have suspected him capable.

“Take that back!” he blazed into the man’s face.

The senior hesitated; the room grew breathlessly quiet.

“Take it back, I say!”

The big fellow tried to laugh, but his voice only grated.

“Damned if I will–hayseed,” he retorted with a meaning pause and accent.

Before the words were out of his mouth Landers had the man by the collar, and they were fighting like cats.

For a time things in that pit were very confused and very noisy. Both students were big and both were furiously angry. By rule they would have been very evenly matched, but in a rough-and-tumble scrimmage there was no comparison. The classes made silent and neutral spectators, as Landers swung the man around in the narrow pit like a whirlwind, and finally pushed him back into his seat.

“Now will you take it back!” he roared breathlessly, vigorously shaking his victim.

The hot lust of battle was upon the farmer, and he forgot that several hundred students were watching his every motion.

“Take it back,” he repeated, “or I’ll–” and he lifted the man half out of the seat.

The senior seized both arms of the chair, and looked up in a dazed sort of way.

“I–” he began weakly.

“Louder–” interrupted Landers.