Frank studied his enemies from his lowly position on the floor, but could not remember ever having seen any of them, a thing that was not strange, since his school life had only begun that afternoon. He noted with satisfaction that one of his assailants was at the other side of the room trying to stop a flow of blood from his nose, which seemed to be copious, judging from the stains on the handkerchief which had been vigorously applied.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked Frank at last, as his captors let him get on his feet. He was savage at himself for having been so easily caught.

"You'll see soon enough, Mr. Armstrong."

"No wonder," reflected Frank, "we were unable to see the bunch of hazers when they were snugly waiting in my own room, which they prepared by darkening with drawn curtains and shutting off the gas in the entry outside my door. No wonder the place was like midnight. It would have been better if I had taken Jimmy's advice."

"Come on," said the bloody-nosed one. Frank had a notion there was a familiar ring in it. It was like Dixon's voice and it wasn't. If it was Dixon's, he was trying hard to change the tone by talking down in his throat. "I'll watch that fellow," he thought. "If it's Dixon he'll give himself away."

At the word of command to move, two boys grabbed Frank, one by each arm, and another stepped behind him.

"Hold on," said one of them, "we've got to tie up his face or he'll be yelling for help, and that won't do." The words were hardly out of the speaker's mouth when Frank felt a muffler flung over his head and face. It was tied securely behind, effectually shutting out his vision and making it a difficult matter to raise an outcry. Then the march was continued.

"Sh-h-h—, someone's coming," said a voice just as they had reached the entry outside his own door, "quick, go up the stairs," and Frank felt himself headed for the floor above the one they were on. A door banged below, and someone began mounting the stairs.

"What in thunder's this light out for? Some youngster with a poor sense of humor." It was Gleason's voice, and he was scolding to himself because of the murderous blackness. He came climbing up the stairs, stopped at his door, pushed it open and entered.

"Quick," commanded the voice ahead of Frank. "Make a break for the bottom and see that Armstrong doesn't get a chance to speak."

In another instant the captors and captured retraced their steps, a hand being slipped over Frank's mouth in addition to the muffler, to make sure of his silence.

"Bring him around back of Warren," whispered one of the leaders, and in a minute they had cut through the dark passage at the south end of Warren. Frank could not even make a guess where they were headed for, as he was not yet well enough acquainted with the lay of the buildings. He felt himself going down a grassy decline, then through some shrubbery which caught at his clothes, and then again where the grass seemed short and the turf firm. It seemed like a lawn to him, but as he had been turned around two or three times, he had not the faintest notion after five minutes' travelling where he was.

"Where are you taking me?" he finally managed to mumble to the fellow who had a grip of him by the right arm.

"We're going to give you the stretching treatment, my son."

Frank was not acquainted with it. The voice went on:

"Don't you know that you committed a grievous sin, a very grievous sin, when you talked back this afternoon?" Frank said nothing. "You don't think you're guilty. Well, the highest court of justice in this school sat on your case to-night, condemned you, and turned you over to the executioners, and them's us."

"We are now on our way to the gallows," said a voice to his left in a sepulchral whisper.

Still no reply from Frank. He had made up his mind, since he was in their power, to take his medicine, no matter what it was.

The group tramped on in silence for several minutes, and then stopped abruptly.

"Here's the spot," said one.

"Got the rope?"

"Yes," and there was the sound of a coil of rope falling on the soft grass.

"Coffin ready?"

"Yes, all ready, waiting for the fresh guy that is to occupy it."

In spite of Frank's sturdy heart, a shiver ran down his spine. He felt as though he were in the grip of some horrible nightmare. Perhaps it was a dream after all. He pinched himself to see if he were awake. But the pinch made him wince, and the two fellows hanging onto his arms, one at each side, were too real to be any part of a dream. What could they be meaning to do to him? Of course, they wouldn't dare injure him, but——

"All ready," said a voice. "Prisoner, have you anything to say before you swing? No tongue, eh? Well, executioner, proceed."

There was a stir in the crowd, and Frank felt himself pushed forward into what he supposed was a circle. They wouldn't dare do it, he was saying to himself, but his nerve was sorely tried.

Suddenly there came the sound of someone running across the grass. "A pardon, a pardon for Frank Armstrong," said a new voice. "Hanging sentence commuted to the water cure and imprisonment for life!"

"Curses," growled the chief executioner. "Snatched from me grasp! We would have had him strung up in a minute. Why didn't you lose your way, Paul Revere?"

"Well, since we can't hang him, let's proceed to the water cure. Hurry it up," growled a voice, which in spite of an assumed gruffness put him strongly in mind of Dixon's.

Frank was seized again and they walked rapidly for several minutes in what seemed to him an opposite direction from which he had come the first part of the journey. Soon their footsteps sounded on wood, which echoed flatly to their tread. It seemed like a platform. And there was the faint sound of lapping water. Could it be the river? It was the river, and when the bandage slipped from his face he saw that they were standing on the boat-house float. The river ran past, dark and silent.

"Halt. Prisoner, attention!" commanded a voice, a new one to Frank.

"You can swim?"

"Yes."

"He's the wonderful boy champion of Milton," said a sneering voice.

"Stood the world's champion off on a ten-mile race," said one.

"Set new records from 12 inches to a foot," said another.

"And got the big head about it, and sassed our valiant quarterback."

How Frank hated the reporter who had printed the story about his swimming. He almost hated Burton for teaching and himself for learning how to swim. It seemed to be bringing him only trouble. He had done nothing to deserve it.

"We want a little exhibition, Mr. Champion Armstrong," said the voice again, which sounded more than ever like Chip's. "Strip."

"The water's too cold," said Frank, startled when he found it was their intention to put him into the river.

"Keep going when you are in. Who ever heard of a champion being afraid of cold water? Off with your clothes, and be quick about it. You've got a minute to shed them or in you go with them on."

Frank began reluctantly to undress, looking, out of the corner of his eye, at the dark surface of the river, silvery cold under the moon's rays. He watched for a possible avenue of escape, thinking that perhaps a bold dash might give him his liberty, but his captors formed a half circle about him, and the open side of the circle lay towards the black river.

Apparently there was nothing for it but to go in or be chucked in, and Frank chose the former. He slipped off his clothes, and put them in a pile on the float and turned toward the water.

"You've got to go across to the other side, Armstrong. If you renig we'll chuck your clothes in after you. And don't turn your head till you get there, or it will be worse for you."

Frank waited to hear no more, but sprang boldly out into the water. How the first touch of the cold water grabbed him! It was like a knife thrust, for the night was in the middle of October, and the coldness of the air had transferred itself to the surface. Below it was warmer, however, and he let his body sink to get the full benefit of the warmth, and struck out for the opposite shore, which was at this point perhaps seventy-five yards away. Soon the blood began to come back to his skin with a glow, and as he paddled away he thought it not so bad after all.

About midstream he slackened up a moment and looked back to the float, thinking perhaps he would be permitted to come back.

"Go on," commanded a voice, and seeing no help for it, Frank put down his head and dug for the opposite shore as fast as he could go. He reached the bank, which was gently shelving, in short order, pulled himself up and looked back.

The float was deserted, nor could a soul be seen anywhere, although the moon's rays lighted up the whole place as bright as day.

Even at that distance he could see his little pile of clothes by the side of the float. He heard the faint murmur of the river at his feet, and away off behind him in the marshes a big bullfrog singing his evening song with a chorus of deep-throated croakings.

"They've gone, unless they're planning some more trouble for me," said Frank, bitterly, to himself. "They must have ducked behind the boat-house and are now on the way back to the school in the shadow of the trees."

He pushed into the water, shivering, and set out for the float, which seemed a long distance away. The water slipped gurgling between his fingers as he drew his hands through on the stroke, giving him a creepy sensation. He felt that the denizens of the river were staring at him, this strange white body so queerly afloat at such a time of night. He shuddered and drove faster for the float, and felt a great relief when his hand touched the wooden edge.

Frank pulled himself up, and looked carefully around. His tormentors had disappeared as absolutely as if they had been swallowed up in the river, and everything was as still as death except the frog chorus in the marshes, and the occasional cheep of a cricket on the river bank. Lights twinkled in the windows of Warren, and as he listened, the school bell boomed out the hour of nine thirty.

"Gee, whiz, I'll be locked out if I don't hurry," he whispered to himself, and he plunged into his clothes with the greatest alacrity, his teeth chattering. How the clothes stuck to him and clasped his wet skin clammily! "Never knew till now how handy a towel is," he muttered. But he was finally clothed, and a brisk run up through the field put the blood in circulation.

When Frank reached his room, Gleason was preparing for bed.

"Well, my night owl, where have you been? Thought maybe you'd got homesick so soon and had started for the busy city of Milton," was Gleason's greeting. Then, seeing Frank's hair wet, he added: "Been giving the mermaids a serenade, eh?"

"Yes, just been having a bit of a swim," said Frank. "Good thing for a fellow at night, you know, makes him sleep well."

"Great Scott!" was all Gleason could say. "Swimming at this time of night in the river! Well, my eye, you are a funny one. Web-foot, you are for sure and all. Well, you can use the river, but I prefer the good old porcelain bathtub for mine after September first."

"Nothing like the outdoors swimming, you know," said Frank, "and at night you don't startle the surrounding scenery. I'm off for bed. Good night."

"Good night," called Gleason, who had also dived into his sleeping-room. "I say, what were you doing up here when I was gone? I found my lampshade busted when I came, chairs upset, curtains drawn tight and all that. Little rough-house, eh?"

"Yes, just a little rough-house to celebrate my arrival at Queen's."

"Oh," said Gleason, "I found a leather wristlet over by the mantel when I was picking up the debris. Maybe it belongs to one of your friends."

"Maybe it does; where is it?"

"On the table there; if you dig around you will find it."

Frank went quickly to the table where the wristlet lay in plain sight. He picked it up, examining it curiously. It was made of leather about two inches wide, with two small brass buckles which allowed the strap to be drawn up tightly. Such wristlets were often worn to strengthen and protect a weak wrist. He had noticed that afternoon that two of the football squad wore just such wristlets as these. Could it be one of them? He turned the leather over and over, and started as his eyes fell on the initials C. D. inked on the inside of one of the straps. "Chip Dixon, by goodness! I'll keep this for future use. It may come in handy more ways than one, Mr. Dixon."