ration
flashed into his mind. Taking the basket from the boys he turned to the
head of the stairway.

The bronze-haired Soph was half-way up the steps. His followers, twelve
or more, were climbing after him. Then a line of others stretched all
the way to College Hall.

With a grim certainty of his mastery of the situation Ken threw a huge
potato at his leading pursuer. Fair and square on the bronze head it
struck with a sharp crack. Like a tenpin the Soph went down. He plumped
into the next two fellows, knocking them off their slippery footing.
The three fell helplessly and piled up their comrades in a dense wedge
half-way down the steps. If the Sophs had been yelling before, it was
strange to note how they were yelling now.

Deliberately Ken fired the heavy missiles. They struck with sodden
thuds against the bodies of the struggling sophomores. A poor thrower
could not very well have missed that mark, and Ken Ward was remarkably
accurate. He had a powerful overhand swing, and the potatoes flew like
bullets. One wild-eyed Soph slipped out of the tangle to leap up the
steps. Ken, throwing rather low, hit him on the shin. He buckled and
dropped down with a blood-curdling yell. Another shook himself loose
and faced upward. A better-aimed shot took him in the shoulder. He gave
an exhibition of a high and lofty somersault. Then two more started up
abreast. The first Ken hit over the eye with a very small potato, which
popped like an explosive bullet and flew into bits. As far as effect
was concerned a Martini could not have caused a more beautiful fall.
Ken landed on the second fellow in the pit of the stomach with a very
large potato. There was a sound as of a suddenly struck bass-drum.
The Soph crumpled up over the railing, slid down, and fell among his
comrades, effectually blocking the stairway.

For the moment Ken had stopped the advance. The sophomores had been
checked by one wild freshman. There was scarcely any doubt about Ken's
wildness. He had lost his hat; his dishevelled hair stood up like a
mane; every time he hurled a potato he yelled. But there was nothing
wild about his aim.

All at once he turned his battery on the students gathering below
the crush, trying to find a way through the kicking, slipping mass
on the narrow stairs. He scattered them as if they had been quail.
Some ran out of range. Others dove for cover and tried to dodge.
This dodging brought gleeful howls from Ken.

"Dodge, you Indian!"