The far-off cry which the six Crows in the cupola heard coming from the depths of the earth was raised by the eleven Crows in the cellar. By dint of much yelling the two flocks made their misery known to each other. The trouble with the cellar party was that it could not get up. The trouble with the cupola crowd was that it could not get down. And they seemed to be too far apart to be of much help to each other, for the cupola Crows had lost little time in lifting the trap-door of the belfry and finding that the ladder was gone, and none of them was hardy—or foolhardy—enough to risk the drop into the uncertain dark. So there they waited in mid-air.

The cellar Crows, when they had released each other's bonds, and groped around the jagged walls, and stumbled foolishly over each other and all the other tripping things in their dungeons, had succeeded in forcing apart the wooden doors between their three cells and joining forces—or joining weaknesses, rather, because, when they finally found the cellar stairs, they also found that, for all the strength they could throw into their backs and shoulders, they could not lift the door, with all the heavy weights put on it by the Dozen. There were a few matches in the crowd, and they sufficed to reveal the little cellar windows. These they reached by forming a human ladder, as the Gauls scaled the walls of Rome (only to find that a flock of silly geese had foiled their plans). But there were no geese to disturb the Crows, and the first of their number managed to worm through to the outer air and help up his fellows in misery.

It seemed for a time, though, as if even this escape were to be cut off; for a very fat Crow got himself stuck in a little window, and the Crows outside could not pull him through, tug as they would. Then the Crows inside began to pull at his feet and to hang their whole weight on his legs.

But still he stuck.

Then they all grew excited, and both the outsiders and the insiders pulled at once, until the luckless fat boy thought they were trying to make twins of him, and howled for mercy.

He might have been there to this day had he not managed, by some mysterious and painful wriggle, to crawl through unaided.

Before long, then, the whole crowd of cellar Crows was standing out in the cold air and asking the cupola Crows why they didn't come down.

One of the Crows (Irish by descent) suddenly started off on the run; the others called him back and asked what he was going for.

"For a clothes-line," he said.

"What are you going to do with it?" they asked.

And he answered:

"Going to throw 'em a rope and pull 'em down."

Then he wondered why they all groaned.

The word "rope," however, suggested an idea to the cupola prisoners, and after much groping they found the bell-rope, and one of them cut off a good length of it. They fastened it securely then, and slid down to the next floor, whence they made their way without much difficulty down the stairs to the ground. There they found the outer door firmly locked. Then they felt sadder than over.

But by this time the hubbub they had raised had brought on the scene several of the instructors, one of whom had a duplicate key of the gymnasium. And they suffered the terrible humiliation of being released by one of the Faculty!

On being questioned as to the cause of such a breach of the peace of the Academy, all the seventeen Crows attempted to explain the high-handed and inexcusable conduct of the wicked Dozen which had picked on eighteen defenseless men and made them prisoners. The instructor had been a boy himself once, and he could not entirely conceal a little smile at the thought of the cruelty of the Lakerim Twelve. Just then MacManus came by, and with one accord the Crows exclaimed:

"Where did they tie you up?"

"Down at Moore's restaurant," said MacManus, sheepishly.

"Well, what has happened to the banquet?" they exclaimed.

"It's all eaten!" groaned MacManus.

"Who ate it?" cawed the Crows.

"The Dozen!" moaned MacManus.

And that was the last straw that broke the Crows' backs.

They threatened all sorts of revenge, and some of the smaller-minded of them went to the Faculty and suggested that the best thing that could be done was to expel the Lakerim men in a body. But, by a little questioning, the Faculty learned of the attempted hazing that had been at the bottom of the whole matter, and decided that the best thing to do was to reprimand and warn both the Crows and the Dozen, and make them solemnly promise to bury the hatchet.

Which they did.

And thus ended one of the bitterest feuds of modern times.