“What’s your class?” demanded a voice. Barry, shielding his eyes from the rays of the pocket torch, saw four figures, possibly more, in the group about him. Puzzled, slightly resentful of the start they had given him, Barry spoke sharply: “What do you want to know for?” “He’s a ‘pup’!” declared one of the dim forms, and, “Sure he is!” exclaimed a second. A hand laid itself ungently on Barry’s shoulder. He stepped back, wrenching loose. “What’s the idea?” he demanded. The light suddenly went out and the faces of the others took shape. Barry saw one of the fellows move toward the edge of the sidewalk, and coincidently memory came to his aid. The preceding winter Clyde had laughingly told him of “Pup Night” at school. Barry had forgotten, but it came back to him now that in Broadmoor parlance a Fourth-Class fellow was a “pup” and that the second evening of the term was “Pup Night,” when the Third Classmen conducted certain ceremonies at the pond, aided――somewhat unenthusiastically――by as many of the Fourth Class as could be rounded up. His muscles relaxed and he smiled as he said: “I’m Third Class, fellows. Awfully sorry!” “What’s your name?” asked a large boy, evidently in command of the detail, with suspicion. “Locke.” “That’s right, Rusty,” said another. “He’s in a couple of my classes. I remember him.” “Well, he’s an awfully fresh guy,” growled Rusty. Then, to Barry: “Seen any pups around?” “No, I haven’t.” “Well, we’re looking for one who lives down the road here. They said at the house he hadn’t come back, but maybe they were kidding us. Where do you stay?” “Mrs. Lyle’s,” answered Barry. “There aren’t any Fourth-Class fellows there.” “No, but there’s a guy across the street,” said Rusty, “and we want him. Well――” He paused indecisively. “I’ll tell him if I see him,” said Barry, obligingly, and went on. Some one chuckled, but Rusty took the jest poorly. “You do,” he called hoarsely but in low tones, “and I’ll hand you a wallop, Fresh!” Barry strove to recall Rusty. Something about him, perhaps his voice, perhaps his dimly seen face, was familiar. Probably he had encountered him at one of the conferences that morning. In any case, he decided, he didn’t like him. The decision brought him to his gate, and he was groping for the latch when a shout from behind him along the road made him pause. There were voices then, a second shout, and the sound of running feet. Barry peered back into the darkness. Toward him, across the street, sped the quarry, the pursuers strung out behind but gaining, as yet only deeper shadows in the gloom but taking form as they approached the radius of light from the arc-lamp just beyond the houses. The chase ended suddenly. The pursued stumbled, a dozen yards from the Anderson gate, and fell, and the hunters were on him! Barry’s smile faded, for a voice of pure terror came to him.