“Nix,” chortled the others, hypnotized by Left Ear. But they were suddenly surprised and shocked to see Poodle, with one quick motion, upset the table and chair, in a corner, and spring behind it, where he doubled up his fists and got into an attitude of defense. They edged toward him. Left Ear stooped to pick up a paper fallen from the table in front of the barricade. But he caught, instead of the paper, Poodle’s fist under his chin. He was slightly lifted up, and dropped hard, on the floor. Just then, the five saw Poodle violently shake his head and remark “I’ll handle ’em,” as if to some one _behind_ them. They turned, to see Hike standing at the door, leaning against the door-jambs carelessly, and smiling very sweetly. Said Hike: “Well, speeds, having a pleasant little time with yourself? You know the law that if you don’t accept a _really_ Reason’ble ’Scuse, then the victim is expected to fight, and his friends can help him, don’t you? I got here about the same time you did, and it strikes me that what Poodle said was Reason’ble ’Scuse, all right. You’ll spoil his stuff for him if you monkey with it before he hands it into the paper. You know mighty well and _good_” (Hike, as he talked, was getting angry), “that this is the first time Pood’ ever made _any_ excuse to keep from being jollied, and so—” He stepped in, like a panther, quick, silent, and grabbed the first classmate by the collar, and threw him clean through the door. The others, except Left Ear, chorused, “You’re right, Hike—we got excited, I guess. We’ll fight if you want to, but we admit we’re in bad.” “All right,” said Hike. “How about you, Left Ear? By the way, you know you didn’t have any right to butt in here—this ain’t on the school grounds; it’s Poodle’s private Country Estate, and you’ve got no right to come in here unless he invites you—especially if he wants to sport his oak. And he doesn’t invite anybody—even me—very often. You goats keep him from writing down there, and if he wants to write up here, it’s his privilege. I understand it was you that led this business—I heard down in the Yard how you came rushing down there to get the gang.” Now, Mr. Left Ear Dongan was not a bad chap, but he was as thoughtless as a runaway engine with a dead engineer. He had been badly jolted by Poodle’s fist, and his merry game was spoiled, so he snarled: “All right. If Poodle’s such a big baby that he can’t stand for a little kidding, why we’ll give him a milk-bottle and let him sneak out here and have a good time with himself. And talk about butting in—I’d like to know what else _you’re_ doing—coming here and talking like you was a big brother, or a faculty member. ‘Especially if he wants to sport his oak.’ You must think you’re in Oxford. I suppose you think you’re aviating with— You and your baby brother, here. Oh, piffle!”