"Lying in wait at the next corner.

They'll jump out when we get there." "Let them!" muttered Dick.

"They'll have to start it---but after they do-----!" The stages had almost reached the next corner.

Grinning, or scowling, according to individual moods, the roughs streamed out into the, street.
Gridley boys steeled themselves for a conflict, hopeless in odds of five to one! At this point a clear voice sounded in the distance.
"A Company, left wheel, march!" Around another corner near by came a company of boys from the Fordham Military Institute.

It was followed by a second company, a third and a fourth.
Then, by a further series of commands, one company was sent, on the double quick, to march ahead of the first stage, while another company fell in behind the second stage, while the other companies formed and marched on either side of the stages.
While these hasty maneuvers were being carried out the fine-looking young cadet major of the battalion lifted his fatigue cap to Dick Prescott.
"Captain," called the boyish major, "you gave us such a fine exhibition of gentlemanly football that we beg leave to show our appreciation by marching as your escort of honor to the station." The rough crowd in the street had fallen back to the sidewalks, a savage mutter going up at the same time.
The Military School boys were without arms, save those Nature had given them, but they, marched in solid ranks and stood for two hundred pairs of fists! So Barnes's last hope of vengeance vanished.