On the farther side of the river from the village, and near the junction with the lake, was a sort of park, or summer resort. A trolley line ran from it to the town of Haddonfield, but the students more often preferred to walk to the village, rather than wait for the cars, which ran on uncertain schedules.

At the lower end of Lake Tonoka, just over the line in another State, was Boxer Hall, a college somewhat smaller than Randall, while to the west, fifteen miles away, was Fairview Inst.i.tute, a co-educational school that was well patronized. The three inst.i.tutions had a common interest in sports, and there was a tri-collegiate league of debating clubs that often furnished milder, if more substantial, excitement.

It was an evening in early April, of the new term after the Easter vacation, that a number of freshmen, who had taken part in the lively scene of the afternoon, and some students who had not, met silently and stealthily back of the boathouse on the back of Sunny River. The night was cloudy, and thus it was darker than usual at that hour.

"Have you fellows got the rope?" asked Langridge in a whisper, as he took his place at the head of the little force.

"Of course," answered Phil Clinton.

"There's no 'of course' about it," retorted Langridge arrogantly. "I've seen the time it's been forgotten."

"What are we going to do with it?" asked Sid Henderson.

"Use it to hang a soph with," spoke Holly Cross. "Prepare to meet thy doom!" he added in a sepulchral voice.

"Cut it out, Holly," advised Langridge. "I'm afraid the sophs are on to us as it is."

"Then we'll rush 'em!" exclaimed Phil Clinton aggressively.

"No, that won't do any good. We'd never get the clapper, then."

"I know a good way," spoke Fenton. "My uncle says----"

"Say, you and your uncle ought to be in a gla.s.s case and in the museum,"

called Holly. "Dry up, Fenton!"

"Where's the Snail?" asked Langridge.

"Here," replied Sam Looper, who, from his slow movements, and from the fact that he loved to prowl about in the dark, for he could see well after nightfall, had gained that nickname. "What do you want?"

"Will you climb up the rope after I get it in place?"

"Sure."

"Then come on," whispered Langridge. "I guess it's safe now. There don't appear to be any one stirring."

The mysterious body of freshmen moved off in the darkness toward the Booker Memorial Chapel. Their object, as you have probably guessed, was to climb to the steeple and remove the clapper from the bell, a prank that was sanctioned by years of custom at Randall College. Once the big tongue of iron was secured, it would be taken to a village jeweler, who would have it melted up and cast into scores of miniature clappers.

These, when nickel-plated, made appropriate watch charms for the freshmen cla.s.s, and suitably, they thought, demonstrated their superiority over their long-time rivals, the soph.o.m.ores. For it was the duty of the second-year students, if possible, to prevent the taking away of the clapper. The purloining of it must always be done the first week after the Easter vacation, and if this pa.s.sed by without the freshmen being successful, the clapper was safe, immune and inviolate. Hence the need of haste, as but two more nights were left. Once the clapper was taken the cla.s.s had to contribute money enough to buy another for the voiceless bell.

Silently, as befitted the occasion, the lads made their way from the rendezvous at the boathouse toward the chapel. Their plan was simple. On top of the cupola which held the bell was a large cross. It was the custom to tie a stone, or some weight, to a light cord, throw the weight over the cross, and by means of the thin string haul up a heavy rope. Up this rope some freshman would climb, remove the clapper, and slide down again, while his comrades stood guard against any attack of soph.o.m.ores.

"Who's going to throw the stone?" asked Ed Kerr, as he walked along beside Langridge.

"I am, of course."

"Oh, of course," repeated Clinton in a low voice. "You want to run everything."

"Well, Fred Langridge is a good pitcher," spoke Sid Henderson. "He's likely to make the 'varsity this year."

"Um!" was all Phil said.

The boys reached the chapel, and, under the direction of Langridge, the cord and rope were made ready.

"Got a good stone?" asked the leader.

"Here's a hunk of lead," replied Ed. "I made it on purpose. It's not so likely to slip out as a stone."

"That's good. Hand it over."

The lead was soon fastened to the cord.

"Look out, now, here goes!" called Langridge. "I'm going to pitch it over. Be all ready, Snail."

He stepped back, and tossed the lead, intending to make the cord fall across one arm of the cross. But either his aim was poor, or he could not discern well enough in the darkness the outlines of the cross.

"Missed it!" exclaimed Clinton.

"Well, so would you," growled Langridge. "Some one stepped on the cord."

"Let Snail try," suggested Henderson.

"I'm doing this throwing," declared Langridge curtly.

"It doesn't look so," murmured Phil.

Langridge tried again, but with no success.

"Hurry," spoke Kerr. "The sophs will be out soon."

Langridge made a third attempt, and failed. Then Snail Looper called out in an excited whisper:

"Here come the sophs! Cut it!"

"No!" cried Langridge. "Hold on! I'll get it over now. Fight 'em back, boys!"

CHAPTER II

A GOOD THROW

There was excitement in the ranks of the freshmen. They formed in a ring about Langridge, who once more prepared to throw the weight over the cross.

"Hold 'em back, boys!" he pleaded. "We can do it. It won't take five minutes to get the clapper after the rope's up."