“’Tis well. Loose their bonds and let them sign the sacred scrolls in their own blood.”
The bonds were loosed, the cloths taken from their eyes, and the three candidates found themselves in a big, brilliantly lighted room, while about them stood their laughing fellow students.
That is, all were smiling save Frank Watson, Bart Haley and Bill Hamilton, and they looked sneeringly at our heroes.
“Take the oath and sign in blood,” went on Harry French, a senior, who was the president of the society.
A drastic oath was administered, and then pens were handed the three chums, first having been dipped in some red fluid, whether blood or not was not certain. Probably it was not.
“Well, how did you like it?” asked George Fitch, grinning as he came up to shake hands with the initiates.
“Oh, it might have been worse,” said Jerry, philosophically.
“That ducking surprised me,” admitted Bob.
“It generally does,” chuckled the president. “But get on your clothes, and we’ll have a little feed.”
A jolly time followed; jolly to Jerry and his chums from the fact that Frank and his two particular cronies went away. Afterward our heroes learned that the initiation had been made unusually severe, especially the pummeling to which they were subjected by Frank, Bart and Bill.
“Oh, well, we stood it, so what’s the use of kicking?” remarked Jerry resignedly.
Now full-fledged members of the Bang-Ups, a name which was well in keeping with the initiatory process, Bob and his companions found that they had many more friends, and they began to enjoy life more fully at Boxwood Hall.
The football season was now in full swing, and several games had been played. Our friends attended, and “rooted” to the best of their ability.
On many occasions they invited their new friends to go out in their automobile or in the motor boat, occasionally taking Professor Snodgrass, who still kept up a search for bugs, though butterflies had vanished until the spring.
“Do you know what I think we ought to do?” said Bob one day, as he stretched out on a couch in Jerry’s room.
“I can pretty near guess,” ventured Ned, who was helping Jerry hang up a set of boxing gloves in artistic fashion, over a pair of crossed foils. “Hasn’t it something to do with eats, Bob?”