Garvey Gerhart, by virtue of the "boosting" which Langridge had given him, had secured command of the first-year forces. As soon as it was dark he had assembled them on "gym hill," as the knoll was called. There was a large crowd of freshmen, almost too large, it seemed, for the sophomores were outnumbered two to one. But Tom, Sid, Phil, Dutch Housenlager, Ed Kerr and others of the second-year class were strong in the belief of their power to oust their rivals from the hilltop. They had a moral force back of them--the conscious superiority of being "veterans," which counted for much. "We're going to have our work cut out for us," commented Tom, as, with his chums advancing slowly to the fray, he surveyed the throng of freshmen. "My, but there's a bunch of 'em! And we've got to clean every mother's son of them off the hill." "We'll do it!" cried Phil gaily. "It will be good training for us." "Of course!" exclaimed Dutch, as he put out his foot slyly to trip Sid. Tom saw the act, he executed a quick movement that sent Housenlager sprawling on the ground. "That's the time you got some of your own medicine!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh, as Dutch, muttering dire vengeance, picked himself up. The preliminaries for the rush were soon arranged, timekeepers and umpires selected, and, with the bright moon shining down on the scene, the battle began. It was wild, rough and seemingly without order, yet there was a plan about it. The freshmen were massed together on top, and about the center bunch were circles of their fellows who were to thrust back the rushing sophomores. Not until the last freshman had been swept from the hill could the second-year youths claim victory. "All ready!" yelled Ed Kerr, and at the freshmen went their rivals. There was the thud of body striking body. Breaths came quick and fast. There were smothered exclamations, the sound of blows good-naturedly taken and given. There were cries, shouts, commands, entreaties. There was a swaying of the mass, this way and that. A knot of lads would go down, with a struggling pile on top of them, and the conglomeration would writhe about until it disentangled. Tom, Phil and Sid (whose hand was now almost entirely better) tore their way toward the center. Time and again they were hurled back, only to renew the rush. "Clean 'em off!" was the rallying cry of the sophomores. "Fight 'em back!" was the retort of the freshmen. At it they went, fiercely and earnestly. The entire mass appeared to be revolving about the hill now, with the little group of freshmen on the top as a pivot.