Frank hoped they would be able to overtake the fugitive, for if one of the party escaped he would report to the sophs, who were bound to make a big hustle to rescue their captured comrades.

The disguised freshmen came downstairs, bearing their captives, who were swiftly thrust into the hack, which was a big, roomy, old-fashioned affair.

As many of the freshmen as could do so piled inside and upon the hack, and then Frank gave the signal, the driver whipped up his horse and away they went.

“East Rock,” said Frank.

“Eh?” exclaimed the driver.  “Thot’s not pwhere ye wur goin’ in th’ firrust place.”

“We have changed the programme.  East Rock is where we are bound for now.”

“All roight, me b’y.”

The triumphant freshmen felt like shouting and singing in jubilant mood.  Indeed, Rattleton could not refrain from “letting off steam,” as he called it, and he gave one wild howl of triumph that made the streets echo: 

“’Umpty-eight!  ’Umpty-eight!”

“Break it off!” sharply commanded Frank.  “Want to let the sophs know we’re up to something?”

“I don’t care.”

“They might raise a rescue party and follow us.”

“But they wouldn’t frop any chost—­I mean chop any frost with us.”

“Pwhat’s thot?” came suspiciously from the driver.  “An’ is it not softmores ye are yersilves?”

“Of course we are,” returned Harry, instantly.

“Thin pwhat fer do ye yell fer ’Umpty-eight?”

“Oh, it’s a way we have.  Don’t mind it, but keep on driving if you want to retain your scalp, paleface.  We are mighty bad Injuns!”

The driver knew how to pick out the darkest and most deserted streets.  By the time the outskirts of the city were reached the freshmen were bubbling over.

Frank Merriwell improvised a stanza of a song, and in a few moments the entire band caught the words and the tune.  As the hack rolled along toward East Rock the freshmen sang: 

  “We belong to good old ’Umpty-eight,
  For she’s a corker, sure as fate, sure as fate. 
    We have met the sophomores,
    And they’re feeling awful sore;
  So hurrah for good old ’Umpty-eight!  ’Umpty-eight!”

“Begobs! ye’re th’ quarest gang av softmores Oi iver saw!” cried the driver.  “An’ it’s not wan av yez Oi remimber takin’ up to th’ freshman’s boording house.”

“We have changed,” explained Ned Stover.

“And it’s the first change I have seen for a week,” declared Harry Rattleton.  “I’m waiting to hear from the governor.”

“Howld on,” said the driver.  “Oi want to see the mon thot hired me.”

He threatened to pull up, but Frank caught the whip and cracked it over the horses.

“What do you want?” asked Merriwell.

“Oi want me pay.”

Now, Frank knew well enough that the driver had received his pay in advance, but he was beginning to suspect that the party that hired him had come to grief, and so he was for exacting an extra payment from the victors.