When, after seven hard-fought rounds, Murray, the middle weight, was brought up breathless and caneless, there was great discouragement in the freshman camp. The middle weight was the one above all others upon whom they had relied to defend the honor of the class. Murray, the long-winded, himself had felt confident of winning; and probably he would have by sheer endurance had not the sophomore taken him unawares by a very easy finger trick as they lay together on the ground resting. But it was all over now, and the middle weight was stretched out on the bed beside Ramsay. He had not, however, fainted, and he was sullenly chewing a piece of gum he had had in his mouth during the struggle. He looked unconcerned. He made no excuses to those who told what a nervy fight he had made. All the week previous the betting on the heavy weight had been two to one on the sophomore. But now three seniors from the enemy's camp swaggered into the room shouting, "Here's four to one on Parker. Who wants it? Why don't you back your man?" They smiled at the junior coachers. "Drake don't want any of it," said another, in a dry tone; "he knows Parker too well." Drake was the man who met Parker, unsuccessfully, the year before. "Wait a moment," he said. His sporting blood was stirred. "I'll take all you have, at four to one. Charlie, will you hold it, please?" All of this must have been soothing to the nerves of the freshman heavy weight who was taking off his clothes for a final rub and trying not to hear the class cheers outside. "Now then," said Montie Cunningham, slamming the door as the seniors hurried down the stairs, "this thing's got to stop right _here_." He brought a baseball bat down on the table so hard that every one stopped talking and looked up. "You've simply got to win that cane. If those dash sophomores win all three they'll crow over you for the rest of their course. They are arrogant enough already, dash them. And you fellows will be disgraced forever, and your class will be handed down in history as no good. People will refer to you as a class who lost all three canes. This is a crisis in your history. You made a good showing in the rush, but you were badly defeated in the baseball series. This is the third test. This decides it. Win this cane and you are all right. One out of three is a defeat, but not a disgrace, because you are only freshmen. But _none_ out of three _is_. _You've got to win this cane!_" No one uttered a sound for a moment. Farmer Hill did not laugh. "Come here, Bushforth," said Drake, in a low, solemn voice; "I'll rub you myself."