Sunny River was a beautiful stream, not as broad as some rivers, but sufficiently so to provide boating facilities for the Randall students. On it, every year, was held the annual regatta, Randall and some other institutions participating. There was a large boathouse on the edge of the river, located on your left as you stood on the campus, facing the water. Sunny River flowed into Lake Tonoka, which was about a mile below the college, and in the midst of the lake was Crest Island. What exciting times that lake and river have seen during the summer season! What rowing races! What swimming races! What jolly picnics! And, let us whisper, what mysterious scenes on nights when some luckless candidate was initiated into a secret society! On the farther side of the river from the village, and near the junction with the lake, was a sort of park, or summer resort. A trolley line ran from it to the town of Haddonfield, but the students more often preferred to walk to the village, rather than wait for the cars, which ran on uncertain schedules. At the lower end of Lake Tonoka, just over the line in another State, was Boxer Hall, a college somewhat smaller than Randall, while to the west, fifteen miles away, was Fairview Institute, a co-educational school that was well patronized. The three institutions had a common interest in sports, and there was a tri-collegiate league of debating clubs that often furnished milder, if more substantial, excitement. It was an evening in early April, of the new term after the Easter vacation, that a number of freshmen, who had taken part in the lively scene of the afternoon, and some students who had not, met silently and stealthily back of the boathouse on the back of Sunny River. The night was cloudy, and thus it was darker than usual at that hour. "Have you fellows got the rope?" asked Langridge in a whisper, as he took his place at the head of the little force. "Of course," answered Phil Clinton. "There's no 'of course' about it," retorted Langridge arrogantly. "I've seen the time it's been forgotten." "What are we going to do with it?" asked Sid Henderson. "Use it to hang a soph with," spoke Holly Cross. "Prepare to meet thy doom!" he added in a sepulchral voice. "Cut it out, Holly," advised Langridge. "I'm afraid the sophs are on to us as it is." "Then we'll rush 'em!" exclaimed Phil Clinton aggressively. "No, that won't do any good. We'd never get the clapper, then." "I know a good way," spoke Fenton. "My uncle says----" "Say, you and your uncle ought to be in a glass case and in the museum," called Holly. "Dry up, Fenton!" "Where's the Snail?" asked Langridge. "Here," replied Sam Looper, who, from his slow movements, and from the fact that he loved to prowl about in the dark, for he could see well after nightfall, had gained that nickname. "What do you want?" "Will you climb up the rope after I get it in place?" "Sure."