The singing had ceased. The talking stopped now. Nothing could be heard but the "tr'm, tr'm, tr'm," of many feet taking many steps at the same instant. "Halt!" said one of the Juniors in a whisper. "Form close ranks--lock step." The long line began to concentrate. Another of the Juniors went down the line saying, in a low voice, "Put your caps in your pockets, fellows--put your caps in your pockets, fellows." Many of them had already done so. Some only pulled theirs on tighter. "Are you ready back there, Tommy?" asked one of the Juniors. "Yes, Jack." The man hugging Young's arm whispered, "That's Jack Stehman, the great tackle." "Oh," said Young, looking admiringly at the powerful-looking football hero. "Now then, fellows," Stehman was saying to the Freshmen, "the Sophomores are lined up and waiting for you over by West College; one of our men has just come from there. You fellows are nearly fifty men stronger than they are. Stick together and you'll rush them dead easy." At this four or five excited Freshmen started a faint cheer but it was crushed down by several vigorous "sishes!" "Keep your mouths shut," said one of the other Juniors. "Now, follow me and, mind, _stick together_, what_ever_ you do. Stick together!" This was big Jack Stehman again. Young admired him; hoped to become well acquainted with him some day. The compact mass moved forward, their bodies close together and their legs and feet beneath taking quick short steps as best they could. It was like a huge dark centipede, except that centipedes probably do not step on so many of their heels at once. On either side walked upper-classmen, some calmly smoking pipes as if there was nothing to be excited about, laughing lightly and making remarks. The way they looked at Young and his companions reminded him of his father and the other farmers judging live stock at the county fair. "Pretty good looking Freshman class, Harry," said one fellow whose face Young couldn't see in the dark. "Um," said the one addressed, nodding. "There's a fellow, looks----" Young lost the rest of it. Up the gravel driveway the black mass crept toward the opening between the dark Library and darker Dickinson Hall. Young was grabbing tight hold of the Freshman in front of him and wondering what would come next. They were just through the opening and were about to turn toward the quadrangle. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound, like distant thunder. Then shouted Jack Stehman, the big Junior: "Here they come! here they come. Now then keep together, fellows, keep together, keep together--come at 'em _hard_!" Now the many feet of the Freshman column began to rumble. On they plunged, increasing their speed every second. The spectators on either side sprang back. On came the Sophomores with still more momentum, showing a front row of hardened football men with football suits. A distant light shone on them and Young had a vivid glimpse of their determined faces.