dormitory and see if
it could find any other Lakerimmers. This squad finally came down the
stairs, the biggest one of the Crows carrying little History under
his arm. History was waving his arms and legs about as if he were a
tarantula, but the big black Crow held him tight and kept one hand
over the boy's mouth so that he could not scream.

Then Tug began to struggle furiously again, and to resist their
efforts to drag him out of the room. He could easily have raised a cry
that would have brought a professor to his rescue and scattered his
persecutors like sparrows; but his boyish idea of honor put that
rescue out of his reach, and he fought like a dumb man, with only such
occasional grunts as his struggle tore from him.

He might have been fighting them yet, for all I know, had not History
twisted his mouth from under the hand of his captor and threatened--he
had not breath enough left to call for help:

"If--you--don't let me go--I'll--_tell_ on you."

The very thought of this smallness horrified Tug so much that he
stopped struggling, and turned his head to implore History not to
disgrace Lakerim by being a tattler. The Crows saw their chance, and
while Tug's attention was occupied one of them threw a loosely woven
sack over his head and drew it down about his neck. Then they started
once more on the march, History scratching and kicking in all
directions and doing very little harm, while Tug, with his hands tied
behind him and his head first in a noose, used his only weapons, his
shoulders, with the fury of a Spanish bull. And before they got him
through the door he had nearly disabled three of his assailants,
making one of them bite his tongue in a manner most uncomfortable. And
the room looked as if a young cyclone had been testing its muscles
there!

The Crows hustled the Lakerimmers out without any unnecessary
tenderness, forgetting to close the door after them. Out of the hall
and across the board walk, on to the soft, frosty grass where the
sound of their scuffling feet would not betray them, they jostled
their way. Tug soon decided that the best thing for him to do was to
reserve his strength; so he ceased to resist, and followed meekly
where they led. They whirled him round on his heel several times to
confuse him as to the direction they took, then they hurried him
through the dark woods of a neglected corner of the campus. History
simply refused to go on his own feet, and they had to carry him most