The Stoughtonites rallied their peers, and then, gathered beneath the elms, forty strong, they hurled their challenge the windows of Holworthy.

It being reading period, Holworthy gorged all 86 of its residents in 45 . seconds.

Stoughton lost.

Not surprisingly. After all, the Sons of Stoughton were outnumbered better than two to one. And sturdy and stalwart though they were, the sons of Holworthy were sturdier and more stalwart yet. Fact is, they were a bunch of jocks.

In any case, Holworthy won. Which wound to salt, they promptly createed a dummy, painted "Stoughton" on it, and hung it out a Holworthy upper window with a gigantic lightbulb rigged to illuminate it.

Such humiliation. Doors were storm Rocks were thrown. Insults were traded. To no avail.

At which point it occured to this porter that his roommate possesses ten-foot blowgun (for reasons best known to himself, natch), with which he could probably knock out the lightbulb sitting on the steps of Grays. From Stoughton it would be a snap.

It was. He did it on the first shot, producing a quick blue flash, darkness, and a chorus of "ooohs."

Now it just so happened that this technological triumph--brain over brawn, you might say (you probably couldn't do any better if, like many a son of a Stoughton by that juncture, you were nine beers gone) --stirred the minds and hearts of all the participants. Caught up as they were in the adolescent joy of it all, they nevertheless recognized in the incident a glimmer of the intellectual plunk Harvard was said to cherish.

Nor did they stand around only recognizing. Gestures of peace were made between Holworthy and Stoughton. Beers were shared, Arms were flung over alien shoulders. The rope was neatly coiled and placed beside Stoughton. The Geistgauge registered Ponca City, Oklahoma.

And then, o holy of holies, a senior walked by.

And said.

Contemptuously.

"Freshmen."

To which the young worthies of the Class of 1966 replied.

In chorus.

"Damn right and proud of it."

Phoenix