"Get back, get back," yelled the torch bearers, and emphasized their commands by pushing the lighted torches under the noses of those composing the living wall. Of course, there was only one thing to do and that was to go back with all haste. Pushing the ever-widening circle of spectators back with threatening fury, the marshals made a circle of sufficient capacity to carry on the wrestling bouts, which were the climax of "the rush." "Down!" howled the chief marshal, at which the front rank of that squeezed and straining wall squatted on the ground, but so great was the pressure of the hundreds behind that a score of the second row were shot clear over the heads of the first row and into the ring. "Out with the intruders," yelled a marshal, and the unfortunates were seized and thrown bodily into outer darkness over the heads of the first rows and were lost to view in the ruck. "Now I know why it is a good thing to put on your old duds," Frank gasped to Turner as they bored their way toward the center of activity. Our three friends had left the ranks of their class with many others when the head of the parade reached the Campus, and dashed over to a point where they were told the wrestling usually took place, on a chance that it would be in that spot this time. Their guess was right and for a moment they were actually within the coveted circle, but when the marshals made their onslaught on the crowd in order to expand the ring they were whirled into outer ranks and had only, after a desperate effort and "under a pressure of a hundred pounds to the square inch" as Turner expressed it, succeeded in digging their way back to the third or fourth tier in that circle of human faces. They were more fortunate than the hundreds who prowled around outside without a chance of a glimpse at the wrestling. "We've lost the Codfish," exclaimed Frank. "Oh, Gleason," he called, but there was no answering voice. "Lost in the shuffle," said Turner. "He was with us a minute ago but he'll turn up. He won't miss any tricks, don't you forget it." "He isn't much for this kind of a scramble game," returned Frank. "I thought he was holding back a bit when we struck in this last time, but----" "Sophomores, bring out your candidates," roared a big man who wore the football Y on his blue sweater. "Who is that whale of a man?" asked Frank. "That's Howard, the football captain," volunteered a boy just in front of them, who had overheard the question. The speaker held a notebook in his hand and they afterward learned he was a news-heeler getting a story for the _News_, the official college paper. "Freshmen?" inquired the heeler, looking our friends over. Frank nodded.