“Not exactly,” answered Cap, “but we didn’t come here just to have fun. Dad expects something of us.” “Of course,” agreed Pete, “and we won’t disappoint him, either. I guess I’ll—” But a knock on the door interrupted him, and a voice called out: “Open up, Freshies!” “The hazers!” whispered Bill. “Shall we stand ’em off?” “Might as well get it over with,” suggested Cap. “Just stick together, that’s all, and when I give the word, which I’ll do if they get too strenuous, just sail into ’em as we did into Beantoe and Spider that time.” “Sure,” agreed his brothers. “Come on, Freshies! Open up or we’ll break in!” and the summons was a thundering one. “Coming!” cried Pete gaily, and he swung back the portal to confront a crowd of Sophs and Juniors, who had taken it unto themselves to do some hazing. “Oh, this is fruit! This is easy!” was the cry, as they saw the Smith brothers. “Please—please you—you won’t be too—too rough, will you fellows?” pleaded Pete, in simulated terror. “Rough? Oh no, we’ll be as gentle as lambs; eh boys?” retorted one of the hazers. “Oh, no, we won’t do a thing to them!” cried another. “Who’s in the next room?” demanded the leader of the band. “Bondy Guilder,” replied Bill, indicating the room adjoining his, where the wealthy lad was domiciled. “And on the other side?” “Whistle-Breeches Anderson.” “Good! Yank ’em both out, boys,” was the order, and some of the cohorts left to execute it, while our three heroes were pulled and hauled from their apartments, going not unwillingly, as they thought of Cap’s plan. “Out on the diamond with them,” ordered the leader, who was addressed as “Senator” but with whom the Smith boys were not acquainted. “Bring along the other two.” Pete and his brothers soon found themselves in the midst of a motley crowd of Freshmen, more or less alarmed over the ordeal in prospect. Some were cravenly begging to be let off. Others were threatening and some, like our friends, were silent, taking it as a matter of course. “Now then, the gauntlet for some one,” ordered the Senator. “Line up, fellows. Here’s a good one to start with,” and he hauled Bondy Guilder out from the press. “Hands off!” exclaimed the wealthy lad angrily. “Oh, ho! High and Mighty; eh? Well, that doesn’t go at Westfield. Send him down the line, fellows,” and the Senator gave Bondy a shove. The hazers had lined up in two files, armed with bladders, rolls of papers, books and stockings filled with flour. It was a reproduction of the old Indian gauntlet along which hapless prisoners had to pass, being beaten and clubbed as they ran. “You chaps are doing this at your own risk!” cried Bondy trying to break away. “That’s all right, sport! We’ll chance it,” came the answer. “Run, you lobster, or you’ll get the worst of it!” “I—I protest!” cried the victim, as he turned to see who had hit him with an inflated bladder, in which corn rattled.