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“I’m a liar!” he blurted out contritely. “Nobody knows better than I do that there isn’t a single yellow drop of blood in you, Larry. There goes a bunch of our fellows now—let’s run.”

The hazing episode proved to be merely an incident. Enough Freshmen were rallied to rush the field barn in Adams’s back forty; the artistic Sophomores were scattered; and the victim, who proved to be the big, husky “Aggie,” Welborn, who roomed at Mrs. Grant’s, was rescued. Of course, Welborn was a sad sight. The artists had stripped him and he was well daubed with green paint. Nevertheless, he was cheerfully triumphant. “I got five of ’em, b’jing! before they got me,” he gloated, with a grin that the green paint made peculiarly hideous. “Whadda you reckon’ll take it off?”

“Turpentine,” suggested somebody in the mob of rescuers; and two of the light-footed ones ran for a drug store.

With the worst of the paint removed, Larry and Dick took Welborn home, where they commandeered the bath-room and worked over him until he was well-nigh blistered but clean.