Even Hawley,
good-natured as he was, had at last rebelled and declared that he would
no longer room with a fellow who had no more sense than Schenck, and
Peter John, left to himself, was quick to respond to Mott's invitation
to share his room, and was soon domiciled in the sophomore's more
luxurious quarters.
Will Phelps found meanwhile that his own work in the classroom was of a
character that promised a fair grade, though by no means a high one.
Even his professor of Greek now appeared in a slightly more favorable
light, and Will was convinced that the change was in Splinter, not in
himself, so natural and strong were his boyish prejudices.
As the springtime drew near, however, his thoughts and time were
somewhat divided in the excitement of the last great struggle between
the members of his own class and their rivals, the sophomores. For years
it had been the custom of the college for the two lower classes to bury,
or rather to burn the hatchet on St. Patrick's Day. For a week preceding
that time the tussles between the rival classes were keener than at any
other time during the year.
At that eventful date the freshmen for the first time were permitted to
carry canes, and on the day itself there was to be a parade of the
freshman class, every member clad in some outlandish garment which he
wore outside his other clothing, and it was the one ambition of the
sophomore class to silence the music of the band that was at the head of
the procession and at the same time tear the outer garments from the
noisy freshmen.
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