"He's all right, from the ground up. He's a Gridley boy! He's
only a freshie in years, but he'll get over that. Now, up with
Dick Prescott! On your shoulders! Give him the High School yell!"

Before he could even dodge, this High School freshman found himself
going up in the air. With all consideration for his injured hand
the upper classmen rushed him out of the school grounds, onto
the street, holding him aloft in the post of honor. The other
boys followed. Even the few girls followed, waving their handkerchiefs,
while a lusty roar went up:

"T-E-R-R-O-R-S! Wa-ar! Fam-ine! Pesti-lence! That's us! That's
us! G-R-I-D-L-E-Y---H.S. Rah! rah! rah! rah! _Gri-idley_!"

"What's all that racket back there?" asked Clara Deane, turning
at the head of the street. "Why, they're yelling and carrying
that odious little Dick Prescott."

"Must be dragging him off to give him a ducking, as he deserves,"
muttered Fred Ripley, gratingly.

"No, no! It's the school yell, and the girls are waving their
handkerchiefs."

"Then they must be canonizing the school sneak," returned Ripley,
frowning hard.

"Well, don't wait to see," urged Clara. "We don't care about
mixing up too much with such a common crowd as the Gridley H.S.
students are."