Repository: UIHistories Project: Book - Banks of the Boneyard (Charles Kiler) [PAGE 29]

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The Advent of Dr. Peabody

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Williamson, both from Urbana. These ladies had been to a church dinner in Champaign and in their baskets had butcher knives which had been freshly sharpened so they could be used to carve hams. Flourishing these knives the ladies dared the ever-present Sophomores to start something, which they promptly did, but instead of coming in the car to be carved up like a ham, the boys threw more of that terrible "Eye Water" into the car, most of which splashed on Belle and me. The conductor on that bob-tailed mule car was a he-man and he promptly socked Dick and Jerry on their jaws with his terrible right and over they went, but they picked themselves up and chased the car all the way to Urbana. At the halfway house Billy Butler and Maggie Philbrick boarded the car, looking very much like I had looked when I left the hog pen. Their carriage had been saturated also, but they had stayed in it halfway to Urbana when they had to give up; getting out of the carriage Billy put up a fight in which he came out second best. His new suit was a wreck, his eyes were blacked, his head was bloody but unbowed, and he was thirsting for another go at the Philistines who had fallen upon him. When the car reached the hotel, Billy's friends were waiting for him and it was easy to see that he had done much damage to them. As we ran the gauntlet of Sophomores waiting for us, one of Billy's friends turned a peck measure full of flour over his head. I'll tell the world that those Sophomores were a playful bunch. When we finally got in the hotel and were washed free of our dirt, and the bruises had been treated with soothing balms, the banquet was on, and a good time was had by all. But we eased our tortured souls by laying plans for getting out a Bogus Sophograph wherein we could tell the world what we thought of the class of '91, and figured out ways and means for busting up the Junior Ex of the class of '90. Thus you see the vicious circle was kept alive and fostered because of the very natural desire for vengeance. I still have a copy of the Bogus Sophograph that a group of my friends published with my aid as Editor. After writing stinging articles in which we painted the class of '91 in their true colors, we put so much feeling into our hymns of hate that we couldn't find a first-class printer who would set up the type—but hate like love will always find a way, and by stealthy raids on butcher shops and grocery stores we secured paper enough to print one hundred copies, and a friend, who had a printing press in his home, set up the type and printed our lurid