“This way, freshmen! This way!”

“Over here now! No let-outs!”

“Keep ’em together, Blink! Don’t let any of ’em sneak away!”

“Wood! Everybody bring wood!”

“Look out for that fellow! He’s a grind! He’ll try to skip!”

“Wood! Everybody get wood!”

The cries echoed and re-echoed over the campus at Milton. It was the final night of the term. The examinations were over and done. Some had fallen by the wayside, but Andy and his chums were among those elected.

They had passed, and they were to move on out of the preparatory school into the larger life of the colleges.

And, as always was the case on an occasion of this kind, a celebration was to mark the closing of the school for the long summer vacation. The annual bonfire was to be kindled on the campus, and about it would circle those lads who were to leave the school, while their mates did them honor.

Thus it was that the cries rang out.

“Wood!”

“More wood!”

“Most wood!”

The town had been gleaned for inflammable material. The ash boxes of not even the oldest citizen were sacred on an occasion like this. For weeks the heap of wood had accumulated, until now there was a towering pile ready for the match.

And still the cries echoed from the various quarters.

“Freshmen, get wood!”

“On the job, freshmen!”

More wood was brought, and yet more. The pile grew.

“Gee, this is fierce!” groaned a fat freshman, staggering along under the burden of two big boxes. “Those fellows want too much. I’m going to quit!”

“Look out! Don’t let ’em hear you!” warned a companion. “They’ll keep you carting it all night if you kick.”

“Kick! (puff) Kick! (puff) I ain’t got wind enough to do any kickin’. I’m (puff) all (puff) in!”

“Oh, well, it’s all in the game. We’ll be out of this class next term, and we can watch the other fellows sweat! Cut along!”

“Wood! Wood over here!”

“Where’s Andy Blair?”

“I don’t know. Oh you Swipes! What you got!”

“All right! This’ll make a flare, all right!”

“Oh, for the love of Peter! Look what Swipes has!”

Harry, otherwise “Swipes” Morton, was convoying four laboring and perspiring freshmen who were carting over the campus a big box that had ones contained a piano.

“Oh, you Swipes!”

“Where’d you crab that?”

“Say, ain’t he the little peach, though!”

“Oh wow! What a lark!”

“I guess this won’t make some nifty little blaze, eh?” demanded Harry. “Eh, Andy?”

“Sure thing! Where’d you get it?”

“Over back of Hanson’s store. He used it for a coal box, but I made these boobs dump out the anthracite and cart it along. Maybe I ain’t some nifty little wood gatherer, eh?”

“You sure are, Swipes!” came the admiring retort from many voices.

“Wood!”

“More wood!”

Still the pile grew apace. And with it grew the fun, the jollity, the excitement, the cries and the spirit of the school.

Dr. Morrison, the head master, and his teachers, had wisely retired to their rooms. On such an occasion as this it is not wise on the part of discerning professors to see too much. There are matters to which one must shut one’s eyes. And Dr. Morrison, from contact with many boys, was wise in his day and generation.

For he knew it would be only honest, clean fun; and what matter if there was much noise and shouting? What matter if the fire blazed high? The boys never so far forgot themselves as to endanger the school buildings by their beacon, which was kindled well out on the big campus.

What if numerous rules were cracked or broken? It only happened once a year. And what if ginger pop and sandwiches were surreptitiously introduced into the dormitories? That, too, need not be seen by the authorities.

“Wood! More wood!”

“Where’s Tom Hatfield?”

“Yes, and Chet Anderson?”

“Over here boys!”

“Heads up!”

“Slap on Swipes’s piano box!”

“Oh, what a find!”

You could not have told who was saying which or what. It was all one happy, unintelligible jumble.

“Light her up!”

It was the signal for the kindling of the fire.

A score of matches flared in the darkness of the June night. The straw and paper piled under the chaos of wood blazed with puffs of flame. The wood caught and the tongues of fire leaped high, bringing into bold relief the faces of the lads who joined hands and circled about the ruddy beacon.

“Hurray!”

“That’s the stuff!”

“Let her burn!”

“Say, that’s a dandy, all right!”

“Biggest in years!”

“Well, we want to give the boys a good send-off!”

“Look at old Swipes’s piano box sizzle!”

The shouting and excitement grew. The fire blazed higher and higher. The campus was bright with yellow gleams.

“Here’s good-bye to old Milton!” chanted Andy.

“That’s right! Good-bye to the old school!” echoed Chet, and there was not much joy in his tones.

“Now, fellows, the old song. qlMilton Forever!’” called Ben, and the melody burst forth.

Hardly was it finished than the silence that succeeded was broken by the strident tooting of an auto horn.

“What’s that?” cried Andy. “Who’s coming here in a car?”

“On the campus, too! It’s against the rules!” cried Chet.

“It’s some fresh fellow from town trying to butt in,” someone called.

“Come on!” yelled Andy. “We’ll upset him, fellows! The nerve of him!”