"Here, quit that!" yelled Fenton. "That's a new hat!"
"Softly, softly, little one," counseled Denfield. "I pray thee speak softly."
Though Fenton struggled to escape, the other easily held him, and the freshman was forced to witness the destruction of his nice, new soft hat. Having thus, as he believed, wiped out the insult offered, Morse carefully folded the ribbon and placed it in his pocket.
"Maybe you'll get a chance to wear it—after the pole rush," he said calmly. "I don't believe you will, for we're going to wipe up the ground with you freshmen this term. But if you do, I'll give you back your ribbon—er—what's your name, freshman?"
"Fenton," answered the humiliated one.
"Fenton what?"
"Ford Fenton."
"Say 'Fenton, sir,'" counseled Langridge in the other's ear.
"Don't you know how to reply to a gentleman?" asked Denfield fiercely, shaking Fenton from a neckhold he had. "Say sir, when you speak to a soph."
"Sir!" cried Fenton, for the grip hurt him.
"That's better. Now remember, no more ribbons until after the pole rush, and maybe not then. This to all you freshies," added Morse.
