astonished company of the attempted kidnaping and of its failure, and
never before had Odd Fellows' Hall rang with such laughter and cheering.
And a little knot of sophomores, already bewildered by the appearance
of the freshman president on the scene, were more than ever at a loss.
They stood under an awning across the street, some twenty or thirty of
them, and asked each other what it meant. Content with the supposed
success of the abduction, they had made no attempt to prevent the
dinner. And now Livingston, who by every law of nature should be five
miles out in the country, was presiding at the feast and moving his
audience to the wildest applause.

"But I helped put him in the hack!" Carey cried over and over.

"And I saw it drive off with him!" marveled another.

"And if that's Livingston, where's Baker, and Morton, and Cowan, and
Dyer?" asked the rest. And all shook their heads and gazed bewildered
through the rain to where a raised window-shade gave them occasional
glimpses of "Fan" Livingston, a fine figure in dinner jacket and white
shirt bosom, leading the cheering.

"_Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Fletcher_!"

The group under the awning turned puzzled looks upon each other.

"Who's Fletcher? What are they cheering Fletcher for?" was asked. But
none could answer.

But over in the hall it was different. Not a lad there, perhaps, but
would have been glad to have exchanged places with the gallant