"What's the matter with French?" "He doesn't know a thing about wrestling." "How about Doc White?" "Not heavy enough." The seniors began to be impatient. "Hurry up, now, freshmen, hurry up!" "Produce something!" Still a hopeless indecision prevailed. "I don't know any one." "Jack's too heavy." "Say, you Hill School fellows, haven't you got some one?" "Some one's got to go out." The sophomores, seizing the advantage, began to gibe at them: "Don't be afraid, freshmen!" "We won't hurt you." "We'll let you down easy." "Take it by default." "Call time on them." "I don't know a thing about it," said Stover, between his teeth, to Hungerford, his hands twitching impatiently, his glance fixed hungrily on the provokingly amused face of the sophomore champion. "I'm too heavy or I'd go." "I've a mind to go, all the same." McCarthy, who knew his impulses of old, seized him by the arm. "Don't get excited, Dink, old boy; you don't know anything about wrestling." "No, but I can _scrap_!" The outcry became an uproar: "Quitters!" "'Fraid cats!" "Poor little freshmen!" "They're in a funk." "By George, I can't stand that," said Stover, setting his teeth, the old love of combat sweeping over him. "I'm going to have a chance at that duck myself!" He thrust his way forward, shaking off McCarthy's hold, stepped over the reclining front ranks, and, springing into the ring, faced Dana. "I'm no wrestler, sir, but if there's no one else I'll have a try at it." There was a sudden hush, and then a chorus: "Who is it?" "Who's that fellow?" "What's his name?" "Oh, freshmen, who's your candidate?" "Stover!" "Stover, a football man!" "Fellow from Lawrenceville!" The seniors had him over in a corner, stripping him, talking excitedly. "Say, Stover, what do you know about it?" "Not a thing." "Then go in and attack." "All right." "Don't wait for him." "No." "He's a clever wrestler, but you can get his nerve." "His nerve?" "Keep off the ground." "Off the ground, yes." "Go right in; right at him; tackle him hard; shake him up." "All right," he said, for the tenth time. He had heard nothing that had been said. He was standing erect, looking in a dazed way at the hundreds of eyes that were dancing about him in the living, breathing pit in which he stood. He heard a jumble of roars and cheers, and one clear cry, McCarthy crying: "Good old Dink!" Some one was rolling up his trousers to the knee; some one was flinging a sweater over his bared back; some one was whispering in his ear: "Get right to him. Go for him--don't wait!" "Already, there," said Captain Dana's quiet, matter-of-fact voice. "Already, here." "Shake hands!"