"They've got some good members for the glee club there."
"It's punk!" sneered Langridge. "Wait until we have a song fest. We'll make them feel sick!"
The melody continued, and coming as it did from the distance, while all about was the wondrous beauty of the moon, the effect produced on Tom Parsons was one of distinct pleasure. It was like being at some play.
"What a pity," he thought, "to spoil it all! What brutes we college fellows are—sometimes. I like to listen to that."
The song was softer now, and then it broke forth into a full chorus, well rendered.
"It's a shame to break it up," reasoned Tom. Then a class feeling overcame him. After all, the sophomores were their traditional enemies, and college tradition demanded that they disperse the gathering.
"Kerr ought to be there now," whispered Langridge. "The fuse will burn for two minutes."
"Fuse—fuse," repeated Phil. "It must be an explosion. You want to be careful, Langridge."
"Oh, I know what I'm doing," was the answer. "But mind now, no squealing, whatever happens."
"You needn't say that," was Phil's quick retort. "We're Randall College freshmen,'* as if that was all that was necessary.
Kerr glided in from somewhere.
