The nine Lakerimmers who had set forth to the rescue of Tug and History had no more clue as to the whereabouts of the kidnapped twain than some broken furniture and an open door; and even one who was so well versed in detective stories as B.J., had to admit that this was very little for what he called a “slouch-hound” to begin work on.  There had been no snow, and the frost had hardened the ground, so that there were no footprints to tell the way the crowd of hazers had gone.

As Jumbo said: 

“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack after dark; and it wouldn’t do you any good to sit down in this haystack, either.”

The only thing to do, then, was to scour the campus in all its nooks and crannies, pausing now and then to look and listen hard for any sign or sound of the captives.  But each man heard nothing except the pounding of his own heart and the wheezing of his own lungs.  Then they must up and away again into the dark.

They had scurried hither and yon, and yonder and thither, until they were well-nigh discouraged, when, just as they were crashing through some thick underbrush, B.J. stopped suddenly short.  Sawed-Off bumped into him, and Jumbo tripped over Sawed-Off; but B.J. commanded them to be silent so sharply that they paused where they had fallen and listened violently.

Then they heard far and faint in the distance to the right of their course a little murmur of voices just barely audible.

B.J.’s quick ear made out the difference between this far-off hubbub and the other quiet sounds of the night.

That dim little noise his breathless fellows could just hear was the wild hullabaloo the foolish Crows had set up to drown out the voices of Tug and History, as they gave the Lakerim yell.

B.J.’s ear was correct enough not only to understand the noise but to decide the direction it came from, though to the other Lakerimmers it came from nowhere in particular and everywhere in general.  Before they had made up their minds just how puzzled they were, B.J. was striking off in a new direction at the top of his speed, and was well over the stone wall before they could get up steam to follow him.  Across the road and through the barbed-wire fence he led them pell-mell.  There was a little pause while Jumbo helped the lubberly Sawed-Off through the strands that had laid hold of his big frame like fish-hooks.  B.J. took this chance to vouchsafe his followers just one bit of information.

“They’re at Roden’s Knoll,” he puffed.

Roden’s Knoll was a little clearing in the woods that marked the highest point of land in the State, though it was approached very gradually, and nothing but a barometer could have told its elevation.

It was a long run through the night, over many a treacherous bog and through many a cluster of bushes, which, as Jumbo said, had finger-nails; and there was many a stumble and jolt, and many a short stop at the edge of a sudden embankment.  One of these pauses that brought the whole nine up into a knot was the little step-off where Tug and History had thought they were being shoved over the precipice of a Grand Canon.

At length Roden’s Knoll was reached, but there the weary Lakerimmers were discouraged to find nothing but a smoldering fire and the signs of a hard straggle.

“We’re too late; it’s all over,” sighed Pretty, thinking sadly of the mud and the rips and tears that disfigured his usually perfect toilet.

“I move we rest a bit,” groaned Sleepy, seconding his own motion by dropping to the ground.

“Shh!” commanded B.J.; “d’you hear that?”

Instantly they were all in motion again, for they heard the noise of many runners crashing through the thicket.

Soon they saw a shadowy form ahead of them and overtook it, and recognized one of the Crows.  They gave him a glance, and then shoved him to one side with little gentleness, and ran on.  Two or three of the Crows they overtook in this manner, but spent little time upon them.

They were bent upon a rescue, not upon the taking of prisoners.  Then, just as they were approaching the edge of the woods, they heard a cry that made their weary blood gallop.  It was the “L`"iy-krim!  L`"iy-krim!” of Tug making his last charge on the flock of Crows.

In a moment they had reached the mass of humanity that was writhing over him, and they began to tear them off and fling them back upon the ground with fierce rudeness.  Man after man they peeled off and flung back till they got down to one fellow with his knee on somebody’s nose.

That nose was Tug’s, and they soon had the boy on his feet, and turned to continue the argument with the Crows.  But there were no Crows to argue with.  The Dozen had made up in impetus and vim what it lacked in numbers, and the Crows had fled as if from an army.  A few black ghosts flying for their lives were all they could see of the band that had been so courageous with only History and Tug to take care of.

So the ten from Lakerim gathered together, and while B.J. beat time they spent what little breath was left in them on the club yell.  It sounded more like a chorus of bullfrogs than of young men, but it was gladsome enough to atone for its lack of music, and it was loud enough to convince History that it was safe to come out, of the bushes where he had been crouching in ghostly terror.

The Lakerimmers were inclined to laugh at History for his fears, but Tug told them that if it had not been for his seizing the red-hot pokers there would have been a different story to tell; so they hugged him instead of laughing at him, and Sawed-Off clapped him on the back such a vigorous thump that History thought the hazers had hold of him again.

Now they took up their way back to the Academy, and B.J. began to plot a dire revenge on the cowardly Crows.  But Tug said: 

“I move we let the matter drop.  They’re the ones to talk now of getting even, for they have certainly had the worst of it.  It’ll be just as well to keep a sharp eye on them, though, and it is very important for us to stand together.”

When they had reached the dormitory they all joined in straightening up and rearranging Tug’s room before they went to their well-earned sleep.

I am afraid the Lakerim eleven had the bad taste to do a little gloating over the Crows.  Their wit was not always of the finest, but they enjoyed it themselves, though little the Crows liked it, and it kept them all unusually happy for many days

All except Reddy.  He showed a strange inclination to “mulp” a portmanteau word that Jumbo coined out of “mope” and “sulk.”