Young reached over, grabbed the big Sophomore's wrist and freed his little classmate. "Hi! Deacon!" cried a disagreeable voice somewhere in the rows of Sophomores before him. Young was devoting all his energy to the little fellow whose nose was now bleeding; this did not seem to bother the latter, for he wriggled around, nimbly clambered up on Young's big shoulders, then kneeling on them and having free play for his arms he began to strike right and left at the Sophomores beneath him as fast as he could, and he seemed to be able to strike both fast and hard. Seeing his pluck those behind him now plunged forward harder than ever. "Yea-a-a--the cannon--the cannon, we've got it!" cried the little fellow. Young felt himself brushing up against something hard and solid. Sure enough it was the big iron breech of the old cannon that he had seen standing muzzle down, in the centre of the quadrangle. The little fellow jumped down from Young's shoulders upon it, and began to lead a cheer, though he did not know how to do it very well. But he waved his hands about his head and everyone yelled exultingly. They had won. Then Jack Stehman, the Junior coach, hustled the little one off, jumped up on the cannon himself and led a cheer in the right way. The little fellow was out of sight now, but not out of memory. He was a hero. Meanwhile some of the other Sophomores had zealously rushed some of the other Freshmen off the quadrangle and were shouting themselves hoarse for _their_ victory down by Clio Hall, but the Freshmen had the cannon. That was what they were after all this time, as Young now learned. "It's all over now. Go home, you fellows," said the hoarse-voiced Juniors, silencing the exuberant Freshmen. "We rushed them, though, didn't we?" eagerly asked a Freshman with necktie gone and coat torn half off. Young saw it was his small comrade. "'Course you did," said Jack Stehman, his voice sounding gruff and authoritative. "Go to your rooms as fast as you can; Sophs'll haze tar out of you if they catch you to-night. They expected to have an easy thing of it." The little fellow had spied Young. "Good-night," he said, holding out his hand, "much obliged for what you did. My name's Lee." "Young is my name." They shook hands. "Hope you aren't hurt," Young added, smiling. "Nope; see you again. Good-night." The Freshmen now began to scatter in all directions in the darkness, some of them limping and some of them going slowly because out of breath; and some had fewer garments than when they left their rooms. But all had a great deal more class spirit, and that is the object of the cannon rush. There was not one among them who would have missed it for anything. Young reached his room without adventure. He limped a little as he went upstairs, but he did not know it. He had been in his room but a few moments when a knock came at the door. He had had no callers before this. "Come in," said Young, cheerfully. He thought perhaps it was Lee.