before him--perils for the most part from the terrible sophomores who
were supposed to be going about seeking their prey with all the
fierceness of a roaring lion. Peter John had listened to the marvelous
tales that were poured into his ears, but so far as his expression of
face was concerned, apparently they had been without effect.
Nevertheless, deep in his heart Peter John had stored them all and his
fear of the class above him had increased until at last just before he
departed from home he had written to his friend Will Phelps informing
him of his fears and begging that he and Foster would meet him at the
station and protect him from the fierce onslaughts, which, he confessed,
he expected would await him upon his arrival. This letter Will Phelps
had found at the little post office when he made inquiries for his mail,
and upon his return to his room it had provided the basis for the
conversation already recorded.

"We'd better go right down to the station, then, Will," Foster had said.

"All right. Peter John will be in mortal terror if he shouldn't find us
there. He probably believes the sophs will have a brass band and knives
and guns and will be drawn up on the platform ready to grab him just the
minute he steps off the car."

"Not quite so bad as that," laughed Foster. "But we'll have to help the
poor chap out."

"Sure. Come on, then," called Will as he seized his cap and started
toward the hallway.

"Hold on a minute. Wait till I lock the door."