Boys of Columbia High on the Gridiron | Page 9

my word for it, they're due for one if they try to tackle you on the road home to-night," and Frank, as he spoke, brought his fist down sharply on his knee.
"Who did you invite to the party?" inquired Ralph, still laughing at the absurdity of his requiring a bodyguard.
"Let me see," replied Frank. "There's Lanky Wallace, for one; Buster Billings, for the second, and Paul Bird, for the third."
"Three good men, and true. I see that I'll be well protected on my journey of half a dozen blocks!" cried Ralph.
"Oh, that's only a beginning. Each one of them agreed to get two other fellows belonging to the team, if possible; for they want all the practice they can get. So there will be nine in the bunch that follows after you; ten, counting myself!"
"Oh, splash! That's an army! Why so many, Frank, when I'd be willing to go anywhere with just you along for company," demanded the other.
"Thanks for the compliment; but, you see, everybody wanted to go, and bring others, and so I had to let 'em have their way. Now, you'll probably never see a sign of our crowd as you walk along, whistling and seeming to be unsuspicious. But at the first sign of trouble, lift your sweet voice and sing out the rallying cry we all know, 'Columbiad!' That will fetch us on the jump, Ralph. Hold them off as best you can for a dozen seconds, and then prepare to laugh."
"All right, seeing that it's your joke. Honestly, I don't think they'll pay any attention to poor me; but since Coach Willoughby believes I ought to play with the regulars, and any hurt to one is an injury to all, I'll accept the guard of honor; only please don't tell anyone about it to-morrow, unless you want me to be the butt of ridicule for the whole school."
"Wait and see," was all Frank would say; and with this Ralph had to be content.
The two friends separated at the door. Frank rather ostentatiously bade his visitor good-night, and Ralph sauntered down the walk to the gate, as the door closed.
Although he looked around once or twice, and thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of several flitting figures, Ralph walked bravely on his way, whistling merrily, as though he had not a care or trouble in the wide world.
When he had gone a couple of blocks, he came to a portion of the road when the shadows were densest. Here the trees grew close to the thoroughfare, and this fact made it a splendid hiding place for anyone so inclined. There was a legend told of a peddler who had, once upon a time, been set upon by tramps at this point, and robbed and beaten, so that he died of his hurts.
Even bold people were wont to hurry their steps a trifle when passing this ill-omened place. Ralph, however, kept on at his customary pace, still whistling one of the songs he had so lately sung with Frank and Helen Allen.
Just as he was half-way past the shadowy spot, he heard a sudden shrill sound, not unlike a referee's whistle on the football gridiron. Dark figures immediately sprang up close by, and the rush of many feet told that the danger anticipated by Frank was about to materialize.
Ralph at once threw himself into a position of self defense, and at the same time shouted out the call for assistance so well known to all the sons of Columbia High.

CHAPTER IV
TREACHERY IN THE CAMP
"Columbiad! Columbiad!"
It was the call for assistance, known to, and respected by, every boy who loved the name of Columbia High School--a rallying cry in time of emergency, when the enemy had carried the ball down close to the home goal, and almost supernatural efforts were needed, in order to beat back the rising tide.
Never did the old familiar yell of "Hey, Rube!" appeal more positively to canvasmen connected with a traveling circus, when set upon by rowdies in some wayside town, than did this shout.
Ralph had no time for more. From three sides he found himself attacked by unknown foes. Some had their hats drawn far over their faces, in order to conceal their identity, while others had gone still further, and tied handkerchiefs over the lower half, with the same purpose in view.
A jargon of angry cries arose, each assailant seeming desirous of venting his especial method for showing dislike.
"Down him, boys!"
"Spank the cub!"
"Send him back where he belongs; we don't want poorhouse brats here!"
"Do him up! Butt in, fellows! Make a clean sweep of it now!"
Among all these outcries, only that one concerning the "poorhouse" stung the ears of the boy at bay. It was so cruel, so mean, so utterly uncalled for, that his whole body seemed to quiver