No one paid any attention to him, however, and in an incredibly short time the crowd had crushed itself as far away as it could into the quadrangle’s lower end. I made my way over there, and as I was pushing into the thick of things a man next to me exclaimed to no one in particular: "They’ve sent for Duggie Sherwin, the captain of the team, as a last resort—he’s going to say something from the porch of Matthews." I saw I never could get near Matthews by trying to forge straight ahead; so, as I wanted to hear Mr. Duggie (I hadn’t known until that minute what he was), I extricated myself and ran around the edge of the crowd. Even then I wasn’t very near, and, although I could n’t hear a word he said, I could see him—standing on a chair—towering above everybody and smiling a little as if he enjoyed it. I didn’t know what he said; to tell the truth, I don’t think anybody did, except perhaps the men right around him. Yet in about a minute two or three fellows began to yell, "All over," "The stuff is off," and "_Now_ will you be good;" and the crowd fell back a little, attempting to spread out. The spell somehow was broken; for owing to Mr. Duggie’s wonderful influence we would have dispersed quietly if it had n’t been for that flighty idiot, Berrisford. I had picked up a torch that some one had thrown away and was moving along with it when Berrisford dashed up to me with something round—about the size of a football—wrapped in a newspaper. One of the sleeves of his coat was gone; he was breathing hard and seemed to be fearfully excited. "It’s your turn now," he gasped, and thrust the parcel into my hand. "Why—what is it?—what are we going to do? The rush is over," I answered, for I did n’t understand.