Neil sat down amid a veritable roar of applause, and Paul, totally
unembarrassed by the praise and acclaim, smiled with satisfaction. “That
was all right, chum,” he whispered. “I guess weve got them on the
run, eh?”
But Neil shook his head doubtfully. Cries of “Vote! Vote!” arose, and in
a moment or two the balloting began. While this was proceeding
announcement was made that the annual Freshman Class Dinner would be
held on the evening of the following Monday, October 7th. When the
cheers occasioned by this information had subsided the chairman arose.
“The result of the balloting, gentlemen,” he announced, “is as follows:
Livingston, 97; Gale, 45. Mr. Livingston is elected by a majority
of 52.”
Shouts of “Livingston! Livingston! Speech! Speech!” filled the air, and
were not stilled until some one arose and announced that the
president-elect was not in the hall. Paul, after a glance of
bewilderment at Neil, had sat silent in his chair with something between
a sneer and a scowl on his face. Now he jumped up.
“Come on; lets get out of here,” he muttered. “They act like a lot of
idiots.” Neil followed, and they found themselves in a pushing throng at
the door. The chairman was vainly clamoring for some one to put a motion
to adjourn, but none heeded him. The crowd pushed and shoved, but made
no progress.
“Open that door,” cried Paul.
“Try it yourself,” answered a voice up front. “Its locked!”
A murmur arose that quickly gave place to cries of wrath and
indignation. “The sophs did it!” “Where are they?” “Break the door
down!” Those at the rear heaved and pushed.
“Stop shoving, back there!” yelled those in front. “Youre squashing us
flat.”
“Everybody away from the door!” shouted Neil. “Lets see if we cant get
it open.” The fellows finally fell back to some extent, and Neil, Paul,
and some of the others examined the lock. The key was still there, but,
unfortunately, on the outside. Breaking the door down was utterly out of
the question, since it was of solid oak and several inches thick. The
self-appointed committee shook its several heads.
“Well have to yell for the janitor,” said Neil. “Where does he hang
out?”
But none knew. Neil went to one of the three windows and raised it.
Instantly a chorus of derision floated up from below. Gathered almost
under the windows was a throng of sophomores, their upturned faces just
visible in the darkness.
“O Fresh! O Fresh!” “Want to come down?” “Why dont you jump?” These
gibes were followed by cheers for “04″ and loud groans. Neil turned and
faced his angry classmates.
“Look here, fellows,” he said, “we dont want to have to yell for the
janitor with those sophs there; thats too babyish. The keys in the
outside of the lock. I think I can get down all right by the ivy, and
Ill unlock the door if those sophs will let me. If two or three of you
will follow I guess we can do it all right.”
“Bully for you!” “Plucky boy!” cried the audience. But Jarome Iginla Garbage Bag Day for a moment none
came forward to share the risk. Then Paul pushed his way to the window.
“Here, Ill go with you, chum,” he said, with a suggestion of swagger.
“We can manage those dubs down there alone. The rest of you can sit down
and tell stories; well let you out in a minute,” he added scathingly.
“Thats Gale,” whispered some one. “Fresh kid!”, added another angrily.
But the gibe had the desired effect. Four other freshmen signified their
willingness to die for their class, and Neil climbed on to the broad
window-sill. His reappearance was the signal for another outburst from
the watching sophomores.
“Dont jump, sonny; you may hurt yourself.” “Hes going to fly, fellows!
Good little Freshies got wings!” “Say, well let you out in the
morning! Good-night!”
