“Well, I guess I’m going to be left alone to do the honors,” laughed Clara. “Come on now, it’s almost train time. Oh, hello, Tom!” she added, as Joe’s chum entered. “Did you bring any extra handkerchiefs with you?”
“Say I’ll pull your hairpins out, Clara, if you don’t quit fooling!” threatened her brother.
Joe’s baggage, save for a small valise, had been sent on ahead, and now, calling a good-bye to his parents, but not going to them, for he realized that it would only make his mother cry more, the young collegian, escorted by his sister and chum, started for the station.
Our hero found a few of his friends gathered there, among them Mabel Davis.
“And so you’re off for Yale,” she remarked,and Joe noticed that she too, like his sister, seemed to have “grown up” suddenly in the last year. Mabel was quite a young lady now.
“Yes, I’m off,” replied Joe, rather coldly.
“Oh, I think it’s just grand to go to a big college,” went on Mabel. “I wish papa would let Tom go.”
“I wish so myself,” chimed in her brother.
“I know one Yale man,” went on Mabel. “I met him this Summer. He was at the game the other day. I could write to him, and tell him you are coming.”
“Please don’t!” exclaimed Joe so suddenly that Mabel drew back, a little offended.
“Wa’al, I want to shake hands with you, an’ wish you all success,” exclaimed a voice at Joe’s elbow. He turned to see Mr. Ebenezer Peterkin, a neighbor. “So you’re off for college. I hear they’re great places for football and baseball! Ha! Ha! ’Member th’ time you throwed a ball through our winder, and splashed Alvirah’s apple sass all over her clean stove? ’Member that, Joe?”
“Indeed I do, Mr. Peterkin. And how you told Tom and me to hurry off, as your wife was coming after us.”
“That’s right! Ha! Ha! Alvirah was considerable put out that day. She’d just got her stove blacked, an’ that sass was some of her best. Th’ball landed plump into it! ’Member?” and again the old man chuckled with mirth.
“I remember,” laughed Joe. “And how Tom and I blackened the stove, and helped clean up the kitchen for your wife. I was practising pitching that day.”
“Oh, yes, youpitchedall right,” chuckled the aged man. “Wa’al, Joe, I wish you all sorts of luck, an’ if you do pitch down there at Yale, don’t go to splattering no apple sass!”
“I won’t,” promised the lad.
There were more congratulations, more wishes for success, more hand shakings and more good-byes, and then the whistle of the approaching train was heard. Somehow Joe could not but remember the day he had driven the man to the station just in time to get his train. He wondered if he would ever see that individual again.
“Good-bye, Joe!”
“So long, old man!”
“Don’t forget to write!”
“Play ball!”
“Good-bye, Joe!”
Laughter, cheers, some tears too, but not many, waving hands, and amid all this Joe entered the train. He waved back as long as he could see any of them, and then he settled back in his seat.
He was off for Yale—for Yale, with all its traditions, its mysteries, its learning and wiseness, itssports and games, its joys and sorrows—its heart-burnings and its delights, its victories—and defeats! Off for Yale. Joe felt his breath choking him, and into his eyes there came a mist as he gazed out of the window. Off for Yale—and baseball!
Joe Matson gazed about him curiously as the train drew into the New Haven station. He wondered what his first taste of Yale life was going to be like, and he could not repress a feeling of nervousness.
He had ridden in the end car, and he was not prepared for what happened as the train drew to a slow stop. For from the other coaches there poured a crowd of students—many Freshmen like himself but others evidently Sophomores, and a sprinkling of Juniors and the more lordly Seniors. Instantly the place resounded to a din, as friends met friends, and as old acquaintances were renewed.
“Hello, Slab!”
“Where have you been keeping yourself, Pork Chops!”
“By jinks! There’s old Ham Fat!”
“Come on, now! Get in line!”
This from one tall lad to others, evidently fromthe same preparatory school. “Show ’em what we can do!”
“Hi there, Freshies! Off with those hats!”
This from a crowd of Sophomores who saw the newly-arrived first-year lads.
“Don’t you do it! Keep your lids on!”
“Oh, you will!” and there was a scrimmage in which the offending headgear of many was sent spinning. Joe began to breathe deeply and fast. If this was a taste of Yale life he liked it. Somewhat Excelsior Hall it was, but bigger—broader.
Gripping his valise, he climbed down the steps, stumbling in his eagerness. On all sides men crowded around him and the others who were alighting.
“Keb! Carriage! Hack! Take your baggage!”
Seeing others doing the same, Joe surrendered his valise to an insistent man. As he moved out of the press, wondering how he was to get to the house where he had secured a room, he heard someone behind him fairly yell in his ear:
“Oh ho! Fresh.! Off with that hat!”
He turned to see two tall, well-dressed lads, in somewhat “swagger” clothes, arms linked, walking close behind him. Remembering the fate of the others, Joe doffed his new derby, and smiled.
“That’s right,” complimented the taller of the two Sophomores.
“Glad you think so,” answered Joe.
“Well?” snapped the other Sophomore sharply.
“Glad you think so,” repeated our hero.
“Well?” rasped out the first.
Joe looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. He knew there was some catch, and that he had not answered categorically, but for the moment he forgot.
“Put the handle on,” he was reminded, and then it came to him.
“Sir,” he added with a smile.
“Right, Freshie. Don’t forget your manners next time,” and the two went swinging along, rolling out the chorus of some class song.
The confusion increased. More students poured from the train, overwhelming the expressmen with their demands and commands. The hacks and carriages were being rapidly filled. Orders were being shouted back and forth. Exuberance was on every side.
“Oh ho! This way, Merton!” yelled someone, evidently a signal for the lads from that school to assemble.
“Over here, Lisle!”
“There’s Perk!”
“Yes, and who’s he got with him?”
“Oh, some Fresh. Come on, you goat. I’m hungry!”
Joe felt himself exulting, after all, that he was to be a part of this throbbing, pulsating life—part of the great college. He hung back, friendless and alone, and it was borne on him with a rush just how friendless and alone he was when he saw so many others greeted by friends and mates. With all his heart Joe wished he had come up from some preparatory school, where he would have had classmates with him. But it was too late now.
He made up his mind that he would walk to his rooming house, not because he wanted to save the carriage hire, but he would have to get in a hack all alone, and he was afraid of the gibes and taunts that might be hurled at the lone Freshman. He had engaged the room in advance, and knew it would be in readiness. Later he intended to join one of the many eating clubs for his meals, but for the present he expected to patronize a restaurant, for the rooming house did not provide commons.
“I’ll walk,” decided Joe, and, inquiring the way from a friendly hackman, he started off. As he did so he was aware of a tall lad standing near him, and, at the mention of the street Joe designated, this lad started, and seemed about to speak.
For a moment Joe, noticing that he, too, wasalone, was tempted to address him. And then, being naturally diffident, and in this case particularly so, he held back.
“He may be some stand-offish chap,” reasoned Joe, “and won’t like it. I’ll go a bit slow.”
He swung away from the station, glad to be out of the turmoil, but for a time it followed him, the streets being filled with students afoot and in vehicles. The calling back and forth went on, until, following the directions he had received, Joe turned down a quieter thoroughfare.
“That must be the college over there,” he said after he had swung across the city common, and saw looming up in the half mist of the early September night, the piles of brick and stone. “Yale College—and I’m going there!”
He paused for a moment to contemplate the structures, and a wave of sentimental feeling surged up into his heart. He saw the outlines of the elms—the great elms of Yale.
Joe passed on, and, as he walked, wondering what lay before him, he could not help but think of the chances—the very small chances he had—in all that throng of young men—to make the ’varsity nine.
“There are thousands of fellows here,” mused Joe, “and all of them may be as good as I. Of course not all of them want to get on the nine—andfewer want to pitch. But—Oh, I wonder if I can make it? I wonder——”
It was getting late. He realized that he had better go to his room, and see about supper. Then in the morning would come reporting at college and arranging about his lectures—and the hundred and one things that would follow.
“I guess I’ve got time enough to go over and take a look at the place,” he mused. “I can hike it a little faster to my shack after I take a peep,” he reasoned. “I just want to see what I’m going to stack up against.”
He turned and started toward the stately buildings in the midst of the protecting elms. Other students passed him, talking and laughing, gibing one another. All of them in groups—not one alone as was Joe. Occasionally they called to him as they passed:
“Off with that hat, Fresh.!”
He obeyed without speaking, and all the while the loneliness in his heart was growing, until it seemed to rise up like some hard lump and choke him.
“But I won’t! I won’t!” he told himself desperately. “I won’t give in. I’ll make friends soon! Oh, if only Tom were here!”
He found himself on the college campus. Pausing for a moment to look about him, his heart welling, he heard someone coming from the rear. Instinctivelyhe turned, and in the growing dusk he thought he saw a familiar figure.
“Off with that hat, Fresh.!” came the sharp command.
Joe was getting a little tired of it, but he realized that the only thing to do was to obey.
“All right,” he said, listlessly.
“All right, what?” was snapped back at him.
For a moment Joe did not answer.
“Come on, Fresh.!” cried the other, taking a step toward him. “Quick—all right—what?”
“Sir!” ripped out Joe, as he turned away.
A moment later from a distant window there shone a single gleam of light that fell on the face of the other lad. Joe started as he beheld the countenance of Ford Weston—the youth who had laughed at his pitching.
“That’s right,” came in more mollified tones from the Sophomore. “Don’t forget your manners at Yale, Fresh.! Or you may be taught ’em in a way you won’t like,” and with an easy air of assurance, and an insulting, domineering swagger, Weston took himself off across the campus.
For a moment Joe stood there, his heart pounding away under his ribs, uncertain what to do—wondering if the Sophomore had recognized him. Then, as the other gave no sign, but continued on his way, whistling gaily, Joe breathed easier.
“The cad!” he whispered. “I’d like to—to——” He paused. He remembered that he was at Yale—that he was a Freshman and that he was supposed to take the insults of those above him—of the youth who had a year’s advantage over him in point of time.
“Yes, I’m a Freshman,” mused Joe, half bitterly. “I’m supposed to take it all—to grin and bear it—for the good of my soul and conscience, and so that I won’t get a swelled head. Well,” he concluded with a whimsical smile, “I guess there’s no danger.”
He looked after the retreating figure of the Sophomore, now almost lost in the dusk that enshrouded the campus, and then he laughed softly.
“After all!” he exclaimed, “it’s no more thanI’ve done to the lads at Excelsior Hall. I thought it was right and proper then, and I suppose these fellows do here. Only, somehow, it hurts. I—I guess I’m getting older. I can’t appreciate these things as I used to. After all, what is there to it? There’s too much class feeling and exaggerated notion about one’s importance. It isn’t a man’s game—though it may lead to it. I’d rather be out—standing on my own feet.
“Yes, out playing the game with men—the real game—I want to get more action than this,” and he looked across at the college buildings, now almost deserted save for a professor or two, or small groups of students who were wandering about almost as disconsolately as was Joe himself.
“Oh, well!” he concluded. “I’m here, and I’ve got to stay at least for mother’s sake, and I’ll do the best I can. I’ll grin and bear it. It won’t be long until Spring, and then I’ll see if I can’t make good. I’m glad Weston didn’t recognize me. It might have made it worse. But he’s bound to know, sooner or later, that I’m the fellow he saw pitch that day, and, if he’s like the rest of ’em I suppose he’ll have the story all over college. Well, I can’t help it.” And with this philosophical reflection Joe turned and made his way toward his rooming house.
It was a little farther than he had thought, and he was a bit sorry he had not selected one nearerthe college. There were too many students to permit all of them to dwell in the dormitories proper, and many sought residences in boarding places and in rooming houses, and dined at students’ clubs.
“I suppose I’ll have to hunt up some sort of an eating joint,” mused Joe, as he plodded along. “I’d be glad to get in with some freshmen who like the baseball game. It’ll be more sociable. I’ll have to be on the lookout.”
As he rang the bell of the house corresponding in number to the one he had selected as his rooming place, the door was cautiously opened a trifle, the rattling of a chain showing that it was secure against further swinging. A rather husky voice asked:
“Well?”
Joe looked, and saw himself being regarded by a pair of not very friendly eyes, while a tousled head of hair was visible in the light from a hall lamp that streamed from behind it.
“I—er—I believe I’m to room here,” went on Joe. “Matson is my name. I’m a Freshman——”
“Oh, that’s all right. Come in!” and the tone was friendly at once. “I thought it was some of those sneaking Sophs., so I had the chain on. Come in!” and the portal was thrown wide, while Joe’s hand was caught in a firm grip.
“Are you—er—do you run this place?” asked Joe.
“Not yet, but I’m going to do my best at it as soon as I get wise to the ropes. You can help—you look the right stuff.”
“Aren’t you the—er—the proprietor?” asked our hero, rather puzzled for the right word.
“Not exactly,” was the reply, “but I’m going to be one of ’em soon. Hanover is my name—Ricky Hanover they used to call me at Tampa. I’ll allow you the privilege. I’m a Fresh. like yourself. I’m going to room here. Arrived yesterday. I’ve got a room on the first floor, near the door, and it’s going to be so fruity for those Sophs. to rout me out that I got a chain and put it on. The old man said he didn’t care.”
“The old man?” queried Joe.
“Yes, Hopkins, Hoppy for short—the fellow that owns this place—he and his wife.”
“Oh, yes, the people from whom I engaged my room,” spoke Joe understandingly. “I think I’m on the second floor,” he went on.
“Wrong guess—come again,” said Ricky Hanover with a grin, as he carefully replaced the chain. “There’s been a wing shift, so Mrs. Hoppy told me. She’s expecting you, but she’s put you downstairs, in a big double room next to mine. Hope you won’t mind. Your trunk is there, and yourvalise just came—at least I think it’s yours—J. M. on it.”
“Yes, that’s mine.”
“I had it put in for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Come on, and I’ll show you the ropes. If those Sophs. come——”
“Are they likely to?” asked Joe, scenting the joy of a battle thus early in his career.
“They might. Someone tried to rush the door just before you came, but the chain held and I gave ’em the merry ha-ha! But they’ll be back—we’ll get ours and we’ll have to take it.”
“I suppose so. Well, I don’t mind. I’ve been through it before.”
“That so? Where are you from?”
“Excelsior Hall.”
“Never heard of it. That’s nothing. I don’t s’pose you could throw a stone and hit Tampa School?”
“Probably not,” laughed Joe, forming an instinctive liking for this new chap.
“Right. Tampa hardly knows it’s on the map, but it isn’t a half bad place. Ah, here’s Mamma Hoppy now. You don’t mind if I call you that; do you?” asked Ricky, as a motherly-looking woman advanced down the hall toward the two lads.
“Oh, I guess I’ve been at this long enough notto mind a little thing like that,” she laughed. “You college men can’t bother me as long as you don’t do anything worse than that. Let me see, this is——”
“Matson, ma’am,” spoke our hero. “Joe Matson. I wrote to you——”
“Oh, yes, I remember. I have quite a number of new boys coming in. I’m sorry, but the room I thought I could let you have isn’t available. The ceiling fell to-day, so I have transferred you downstairs. It’s a double room, and I may have to put someone in with you. If you think——”
“Oh, that’s all right,” interrupted Joe good-naturedly, “I don’t mind. I’ll be glad to have a room-mate.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Hopkins, in relieved tones. “I can’t say just now who it will be.”
“Never mind!” broke in Ricky. “Have you grubbed?”
“No,” replied the newcomer. “I was thinking of going to a restaurant.”
“Come along then. I’m with you. I haven’t fed my face yet. We’ll go down to Glory’s place and see the bunch.”
Joe recognized the name as that of a famous New Haven resort, much frequented by the college lads, and, while I have not used the real designation, and while I shall use fictitious names for other places connected with the college, those whoknow their Yale will have no difficulty in recognizing them.
“Come on to Glory’s,” went on Ricky. “It’s a great joint.”
“Wait until I slip on a clean collar,” suggested Joe, and a little later he and Ricky were tramping along the streets, now agleam with electric lights, on their way to the famous resort.
It was filled with students, from lordly Seniors, who scarcely noticed those outside of their class, to the timid Freshmen. Joe looked on in undisguised delight. After all, Yale might be more to him than he had anticipated.
“Like to go a rabbit?” suggested Ricky.
“A rabbit?” asked Joe. “I didn’t know they were in season?”
“The Welsh variety,” laughed Ricky. “They’re great with a mug of ale, they say, only I cut out the ale.”
“Same here,” admitted Joe. “Yes, I’ll go one. It’s made of cheese, isn’t it?”
“And other stuff. Great for making you dream. Come on, this is the Freshmen table over here. I was in this morning.”
“Do they have tables for each class.”
“They don’t—I mean the management doesn’t, but I guess it would be as much as your hair was worth to try to buck in where you didn’t belong. Know anybody here?”
“Not a soul—wish I did.”
“I didn’t when I came this morning, but there are some nice fellows at the Red Shack.”
“Red Shack?” Joe looked puzzled.
“Yes, that’s our hang-out. It’s painted red.”
“Oh, I see.”
“There are a couple of ’em now,” went on Ricky, who seemed perfectly at ease in his comparatively new surroundings. He was a lad who made friends easily, Joe decided. “Hi, Heller, plow over here!” Ricky called to a tall lad who was working his way through the throng. “Bring Jones along with you. They’re both at our shack,” he went on in a low voice to Joe. “Shake hands with Matson—he’s one of us chickens,” he continued, and he presented the newcomers as though he had known them all their lives.
“You seem at home,” remarked Jones, who was somewhat remarkable for his thinness.
“I am—Slim!” exclaimed Ricky. “I say, you don’t mind if I call you that; do you?” he asked. “That’s what the other fellows do; isn’t it?”
“Yes. How’d you guess it?” asked Jones, with a laugh.
“Easy. I’m Ricky—Richard by rights, but I don’t like it. Call me Ricky.”
“All right, I will,” agreed Slim Jones.
“I’m Hank Heller, if you’re going in for names,” came from the other youth, while Joe hadto admit that his appellation was thus shortened from Joseph.
“Well, now we know each other let’s work our jaws on something besides words,” suggested Ricky. “Here, do we get waited on, Alphonse?” he called to a passing waiter.
Joe thought he had never been in such a delightful place, nor in such fine company. It was altogether different from life at Excelsior Hall, and though there were scenes that were not always decorous from a strict standpoint, yet Joe realized that he was getting farther out on the sea of life, and must take things as they came. But he resolved to hold a proper rein on himself, and, though deep in his heart he had no real love for college life, he determined to do his best at it.
The meal was a delightful one. New students were constantly coming in, and the place was blue with smoke from many cigars, pipes and cigarettes. Ricky smoked, as did Hank Heller, but Slim Jones confessed that it was a habit he had not yet acquired, in which he was like Joe.
“Say, we’re going to have some fun at our joint,” declared Ricky on their way back, at a somewhat late hour. “We’ll organize an eating club, or join one, and we’ll have some sport. We’ll be able to stand off the Sophs. better, too, by hanging together. When the Red Shack gets full we’lldo some organizing ourselves. No use letting the Sophs. have everything.”
“That’s right,” agreed Joe.
As they passed along the now somewhat quiet streets they were occasionally hailed by parties of hilarious Sophomores with the command:
“Take off your hats, Freshies!”
They obeyed, perforce, for they did not want to get the name of insurgents thus early in the term.
“Come in and have a talk,” invited Ricky, as they entered the rooming house. “It’s early yet.”
“Guess I’ll turn in,” confessed Hank. “I’m tired.”
“I’ll go you for awhile,” agreed Slim.
“How about you, Joe?”
“No, I want to unpack a bit. See you in the morning.”
“All right. We’ll go to chapel together.”
As Joe entered his new room, and turned on the light, he saw a figure in one of the beds. For a moment he was startled, having forgotten that he was to share the room with someone. The youth turned over and gazed at Joe.
“Oh!” he exclaimed with a rather pleasant laugh. “I meant to sit up until you came back, to explain, but I guess I fell asleep. Mrs. Hopkins said you had no objections to a partner, and this was the only place available.”
“Not at all!” exclaimed Joe cordially. “Glad you came in. It’s lonesome rooming alone.”
“You’re Matson; aren’t you?” asked the youth in bed.
“Yes.”
“My name is Poole—Burton Poole.”
Then, for the first time Joe recognized the lad he had seen standing all alone on the depot platform—the one to whom he had been inclined to speak—but from which impulse he had held himself back.
“Shake hands!” exclaimed Joe, as he stepped over to the bed, on which the other raised himself, the clothes draping around him. Then Joe saw how well built his new room-mate was—the muscles of his arms and shoulders standing out, as his pajamas tightened across his chest.
“Glad to know you,” greeted Poole. “You are sure you don’t mind my butting in?”
“Not at all. Glad of your company. I hate to be alone. I wish you’d come in a bit earlier, and you could have gone down to Glory’s with us.”
“Wish I had. I’ve heard of the place, but as a general rule I like a quieter shack to eat.”
“Same here,” confessed Joe. “We’re talking of starting a feeding joint of our own—the Freshmen here—or of joining one. Are you with us?”
“Sure thing. Do you know any of the fellows here?”
“Three—in our shack. I just met them to-night. They seem all to the good.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll fill in anywhere I can.”
“Well, I’m going to fill in bed—right now!” asserted Joe with a yawn. “I’m dead tired. It’s quite a trip from my place, and we’ve got to go to chapel in the morning.”
“That’s so. Are you a sound sleeper?”
“Not so very. Why?”
“I am, and I forgot to bring an alarm clock. I always need one to get me up.”
“I can fix you,” replied Joe. “I’ve got one that would do in place of a gong in a fire-house. I’ll set it going.” And from his trunk, after rummaging about a bit, he pulled a large-sized clock, noiseless as to ticking, but with a resonant bell that created such a clamor, when Joe set it to tinkling, that Ricky Hanover came bursting in.
“What’s the joke?” he demanded, half undressed. “Let me in on it.”
“The alarm clock,” explained Joe. “My new chum was afraid he’d be late to chapel. Ricky, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Poole.”
“Glad to know you,” spoke Ricky. “Got a handle?”
“A what?”
“Nickname. I always think it’s easier to get acquainted with a fellow if he’s got one. It isn’t so stiff.”
“Maybe you’re right. Well, the fellows back home used to call me ‘Spike’.”
“What for?” demanded Joe.
“Because my father was in the hardware business.”
“I see!” laughed Ricky. “Good enough. Spike suits me. I say, you’ve got a pretty fair joint here,” he went on admiringly. “And some stuff, believe me!” There was envy in his tones as he looked around the room, and noted the various articles Joe was digging out of his trunk—some fencing foils, boxing gloves, a baseball bat and mask, and a number of foreign weapons which Joe had begun to collect in one of his periodical fits and then had given up. “They’ll look swell stuck around the walls,” went on Ricky.
“Yes, it sort of tones up the place, I guess,” admitted Joe.
“I’ve got a lot of flags,” spoke Spike. “My trunk didn’t come, though. Hope it’ll be here to-morrow.”
“Then you will have a den!” declared Ricky. “Got any photos?”
“Photos?” queried Joe wonderingly.
“Yes—girls? You ought to see my collection! Some class, believe me; and more than half were free-will offerings,” and Ricky drew himself up proudly in his role of a lady-killer.
“Where’d you get the others?” asked Spike.
“Swiped ’em—some I took from my sister. They’ll look swell when I get ’em up. Well, I’mgetting chilly!” he added, and it was no wonder, for his legs were partly bare. “See you later!” and he slid out of the door.
“Nice chap,” commented Joe.
“Rather original,” agreed Spike Poole. “I guess he’s in the habit of doing things. But say, I’m keeping you up with my talk, I’m afraid.”
“I guess it’s the other way around,” remarked Joe, with a smile.
“No, go ahead, and stick up all the trophies you like. I’ll help out to-morrow.”
“Oh, well, I guess this’ll do for a while,” said Joe a little later, when he had partly emptied his trunk. “I think I’ll turn in. I don’t know how I’ll sleep—that Welsh rabbit was a bit more than I’m used to. So if I see my grandmother in the night——”
“I’ll wake you up before the dear old lady gets a chance to box your ears,” promised his room-mate with a laugh. And then our hero crawled into bed to spend his first night as a real Yale student.
Joe thought he had never seen so perfect a day as the one to which the alarm clock awakened him some hours later. It was clear and crisp, and on the way to chapel with the others of the Red Shack, he breathed deep of the invigorating air. The exercises were no novelty to him, but it was very different from those at Excelsior Hall, andlater the campus seemed to be fairly alive with the students. But Joe no longer felt alone. He had a chum—several of them, in fact, for the acquaintances of the night before seemed even closer in the morning.
The duties of the day were soon over, lectures not yet being under way. Joe got his name down, learned when he was expected to report, the hours of recitation, and other details. His new chums did the same.
“And now let’s see about that eating club,” proposed Ricky Hanover, when they were free for the rest of the day. “It’s all right to go to Glory’s once in a while—especially at night when the jolly crowd is there, and a restaurant isn’t bad for a change—but we’re not here for a week or a month, and we want some place that’s a bit like home.”
The others agreed with him, and a little investigation disclosed an eating resort run by a Junior who was working his way through Yale. It was a quiet sort of a place, on a quiet street, not so far away from the Red Shack as to make it inconvenient to go around for breakfast. The patrons of it, besides Joe and his new friends, were mostly Freshmen, though a few Juniors, acquaintances of Roslyn Joyce, who was trying to pay his way to an education by means of it, ate there, asdid a couple of very studious Seniors, who did not go in for the society or sporting life.
“This’ll be just the thing for us,” declared Joe; and the others agreed with him.
There was some talk of football in the air. All about them students were discussing the chances of the eleven, especially in the big games with Harvard and Princeton, and all agreed that, with the new material available, Yale was a sure winner.
“What are you going in for?” asked Joe of Ricky, as the five of them—Joe, Ricky, Spike, Slim Jones and Hank Heller strolled across the campus.
“The eleven for mine—if I can make it!” declared Ricky. “What’s yours, Joe?”
“Baseball. But it’s a long while off.”
“That’s right—the gridiron has the call just now. Jove, how I want to play!” and Ricky danced about in the excess of his good spirits.
“What are you going in for?” asked Joe of Hank Heller.
“I’d like to make the crew, but I don’t suppose I have much chance. I’ll have to wait, as you will.”
“If I can get on the glee club, I’m satisfied,” remarked Slim Jones. “That’s about all I’m fit for,” he added, with a whimsical smile. “How about you, Spike? Can you play anything?”
“The Jewsharp and mouthorgan. Have they any such clubs here?”
“No!” exclaimed Ricky. “But what’s the matter with you trying for the eleven? You’ve got the build.”
“It isn’t in my line. I’m like Joe here. I like the diamond best.”
“Do you?” cried our hero, delighted to find that his room-mate had the same ambition as himself. “Where do you play?”
“Well, I have been catching for some time.”
“Then you and Joe ought to hit it off!” exclaimed Ricky. “Joe’s crazy to pitch, and you two can make up a private battery, and use the room for a cage.”
Football was in the air. On every side was the talk of it, and around the college, on the streets leading to the gridiron, and in the cars that took the students out there to watch the practice, could be heard little else but snatches of conversation about “punts” and “forward passes,” the chances for this end or that fullback—how the Bulldog sized up against Princeton and Harvard.
Of course Joe was interested in this, and he was among the most loyal supporters of the team, going out to the practice, and cheering when the ’varsity made a touchdown against the luckless scrub.
“We’re going to have a great team!” declared Ricky, as he walked back from practice with Joe one day.
“I’m sure I hope so,” spoke our hero. “Have you had a chance?”
“Well, I’m one of the subs, and I’ve reported every day. They kept us tackling the dummy forquite a while, and I think I got the eye of one of the coaches. But there are so many fellows trying, and such competition, that I don’t know—it’s a fierce fight,” and Ricky sighed.
“Never mind,” consoled Joe. “You’ll make good, I’m sure. I’ll have my troubles when the baseball season opens. I guess it won’t be easy to get on the nine.”
“Well, maybe not, if you insist on being pitcher,” said Ricky. “I hear that Weston, who twirled last season, is in line for it again.”
“Weston—does he pitch?” gasped Joe. It was the first time he had heard—or thought to ask—what position the lad held who had sneered at him.
“That’s his specialty,” declared Ricky. “They’re depending on him for the Yale-Princeton game. Princeton took the odd game last year, and we want it this.”
“I hope we get it,” murmured Joe. “And so Ford Weston pitches; eh? If it comes to a contest between us I’m afraid it will be a bitter one. He hates me already. I guess he thinks I’ve got a swelled head.”
“Say, look here, Joe!” exclaimed Ricky, with a curious look on his face, “you don’t seem to know the ropes here. You’re a Freshman, you know.”
“Sure I know that. What of it?”
“Lots. You know that you haven’t got the ghost of a show to be pitcher on the ’varsity; don’t you?”
“Know it? Do you mean that Weston can so work things as to keep me off?”
“Not Weston; no. But the rules themselves are against you. It’s utterly impossible that you should pitch this year.”
“Why? What rules? I didn’t know I was ineligible.”
“Well, you are. Listen, Joe. Under the intercollegiate rules no Freshman can play on the ’varsity baseball nine, let alone being the pitcher.”
“He can’t?” and Joe stood aghast.
“No. It’s out of the question. I supposed you knew that or I’d have mentioned it before.”
Joe was silent a moment. His heart seemed almost to stop beating. He felt as though the floor of the room was sinking from under his feet.
“I—I never thought to ask about rules,” said Joe, slowly. “I took it for granted that Yale was like other smaller universities—that any fellow could play on the ’varsity if he could make it.”
“Not at Yale, or any of the big universities,” went on Ricky in softened tones, for he saw that Joe was much affected. “You see the rule was adopted to prevent the ringing in of a semi-professional, who might come here for a few months, qualify as a Freshman, and play on the ’varsity.You’ve got to be a Sophomore, at least, before you can hope to make the big team, and then of course, it’s up to you to make a fight for the pitcher’s box.”
Once more Joe was silent. His hopes had been suddenly crushed, and, in a measure, it was his own fault, for he had taken too much for granted. He felt a sense of bitterness—bitterness that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to come to Yale against his own wishes.
And yet he knew that it would never have done to have gone against his parents. They had their hearts set on a college course for him.
“Hang it all!” exclaimed Joe, as he paced up and down, “why didn’t I think to make some inquiries?”
“It would have been better,” agreed Ricky. “But there’s no great harm done. You can play on the Freshman team this coming season, and then, when you’re a Soph., you can go on that team, and you’ll be in line for the ’varsity. You can play on the Junior team, if you like, and they have some smashing good games once in a while.”
“But it isn’t the ’varsity,” lamented Joe.
“No. But look here, old man; you’ve got to take things as they come. I don’t want to preach, but——”
“That’s all right—slam it into me!” exclaimed Joe. “I need it—I deserve it. It’ll do me good.I won’t be so cock-sure next time. But I hoped to make the ’varsity this season.”
“It’ll be better for you in the end not to have done so,” went on his friend. “You need more practice, than you have had, to take your place on the big team. A season with the Freshmen will give it to you. You’ll learn the ropes better—get imbued with some of the Yale spirit, and you’ll be more of a man. It’s no joke, I tell you, to pitch on the ’varsity.”
“No, I imagine not,” agreed Joe, slowly. “Then, I suppose there’s no use of me trying to even get my name down on a sort of waiting list.”
“Not until you see how you make out on the Freshman team,” agreed Ricky. “You’ll be watched there, so look out for yourself. The old players, who act as coaches, are always on the lookout for promising material. You’ll be sized up when you aren’t expecting it. And, not only will they watch to see how you play ball, but how you act under all sorts of cross-fire, and in emergencies. It isn’t going to be any cinch.”
“No, I can realize that,” replied Joe. “And so Weston has been through the mill, and made good?”
“He’s been through the mill, that’s sure enough,” agreed Ricky, “but just how good he’s made will have to be judged later. He wasn’t such a wonder last season.”
“There’s something queer about him,” said Joe.
“How’s that?”
“Why, if he’s only a Soph. this year he must have been a Freshman last. And yet he pitched on the ’varsity I understand.”
“Weston’s is a peculiar case,” said Ricky. “I heard some of the fellows discussing it. He’s classed as a Soph., but he ought really to be a Junior. This is his third year here. He’s a smart chap in some things, but he got conditioned in others, and in some studies he is still taking the Soph. lectures, while in others he is with the Juniors. He was partly educated abroad, it seems, and that put him ahead of lots of us in some things. So, while he was rated with the Freshmen in some studies last year, he was enough of a Sophomore to comply with the intercollegiate rules, and pitch on the ’varsity. He did well, so they said.”
“I wish fate handed me out something like that,” mused Joe. “If I had known that I’d have boned away on certain things so as to get a Sophomore rating—at least enough to get on the big nine.”
“Why, don’t you intend to stay at Yale?” asked Ricky. “A year soon passes. You’ll be a Sophomore before you know it.”
“I wish I was in Weston’s shoes,” said Joe softly.
Since that meeting on the campus, when the Sophomore had not recognized Joe, the two had not encountered each other, and Joe was glad enough of it.
“I’m glad I didn’t meet him in Riverside,” thought Joe. “It won’t make it so hard here—when it comes to a showdown. For I’m going to make the nine! The ’varsity nine; if not this year, then next!” and he shut his teeth in determination.
Meanwhile matters were gradually adjusting themselves to the new conditions of affairs at Yale—at least as regards Joe and the other Freshmen. The congenial spirits in the Red Shack, increased by some newcomers, had, in a measure, “found” themselves. Recitations and lectures began their regular routine, and though some of the latter were “cut,” and though often in the interests of football the report of “not prepared” was made, still on the whole Joe and his chums did fairly well.
Joe, perhaps because of his lack of active interest in football, as was the case with his room-mate, Spike, did better than the others as regards lessons. Yet it did not come easy to Joe to buckle down to the hard and exacting work of a collegecourse, as compared to the rather easy methods in vogue at Excelsior Hall.
Joe was not a natural student, and to get a certain amount of comparatively dry knowledge into his head required hours of faithful work.
“I’m willing to make a try of it—for the sake of the folks,” he confided to Spike; “but I know I’m never going to set the river on fire with classics or math. I’m next door to hating them. I want to play baseball.”
“Well, I can’t blame you—in a way,” admitted his chum. “Of course baseball isn’t all there is to life, though I do like it myself.”
“It’s going to be my business in life,” said Joe simply, and Spike realized then, if never before, the all-absorbing hold the great game had on his friend. To Joe baseball was as much of a business—or a profession if you like—as the pulpit was to a divinity student, or the courts to a member of the law school.
The Yale football team began its triumphant career, and the expectations of the friends of the eleven were fully realized. To his delight Ricky played part of a game, and there was no holding him afterward.
“I’ve got a chance to buck the Princeton tiger!” he declared. “The head coach said I did well!”
“Good!” cried Joe, wondering if he wouldhave such fine luck when the baseball season started.
Affairs at the Red Shack went on smoothly, and at the Mush and Milk Club, which the Freshmen had dubbed their eating joint, there were many assemblings of congenial spirits. Occasionally there was a session at Glory’s—a session that lasted far into the night—though Joe and his room-mate did not hold forth at many such.
“It’s bad for the head the next day,” declared Spike, and he was strictly abstemious in his habits, as was Joe. But not all the crowd at the Red Shack were in this class, and often there were disturbances at early hours of the morning—college songs howled under the windows with more or less “harmony,” and appeals to Joe and the others to “stick out their heads.”
“I think we’ll get ours soon,” spoke Spike one night, as he and Joe sat at the centre table of the room, studying.
“Our what?”
“Drill. I heard that a lot of the Freshmen were caught down the street this evening and made to walk Spanish. They’re beginning the shampoo, too.”
“The shampoo—what’s that?”
“An ancient and honorable Yale institution, in which the candidate is head-massaged with a bucket of paste or something else.”
“Paste or what?”
“You’re allowed your choice, I believe. Paste for mine, it’s easier to get out of your hair if you take it in time.”
“That’s right. I’m with you—but—er—how about a fight?”
“It’s up to you. Lots of the Freshmen stand ’em off. It’s allowed if you like.”
“Then I say—fight!” exclaimed Joe. “I’m not going to be shampooed in that silly fashion if I can help it.”
“Then we’ll stand ’em off?” questioned Spike.
“Sure—as long as we can,” declared Joe. “Though if they bring too big a bunch against us we’ll probably get the worst of it.”
“Very likely, but we can have the satisfaction of punching some of the Sophs. I’m with you.”
“Where’ll they do it?”
“No telling. They may catch us on the street, or they may come here. For choice——”
Spike paused and held up his hand for silence. There was a noise in the hall, in the direction of the front door. Then came the voice of Ricky Hanover saying:
“No, you don’t! I’ve got the bulge on you! No monkey business here!”
“Get away from that door, Fresh.!” shouted someone, half-angrily; “or we’ll bust it in!”
“Give him the shampoo—both of ’em!” yelled another.
“You don’t get in here!” cried Ricky. “I say——”
His voice was drowned out in a crash, and a moment later there was the sound of a struggle.
“Here they come,” said Spike in a low voice.
“Let’s take off our coats,” proposed Joe, in the same tone. “If we’re going to fight I want to be ready.”
“Say, Ricky is sure putting up a great fight!”
“Yes, and he’s as wiry as they make ’em!”
“He’ll make ’em wish they’d let him alone—maybe.”
“And maybe not,” returned Spike. He and Joe had passed these remarks after a grim silence, followed by a resumption of the crashing struggle in the hall near the front door. “There are too many of ’em for him,” went on Joe’s room-mate.
“Wait until I take a peep,” proposed the young pitcher. He advanced to the door, rolling up his sleeves as he went.
“Don’t!” snapped Spike. “They’ll be here soon enough as it is, without us showing ourselves. I’d just as soon they’d pass us up this trip—it’s an unpleasant mess.”
“That’s right. Maybe we can stand ’em off.”
“No such luck. I think they’re coming.”
The noise in the hall seemed redoubled. Ricky could be heard expostulating, and from that he changed to threats.
“I’ll make you wish you hadn’t tried this on me!” he shouted. “I’ll punch——”
“Oh, dry up!” commanded someone.
“Stuff some of that paste in his mouth!” ordered another voice.
“A double shampoo for being too fresh!”
“No, you don’t! I won’t stand——”
“Then take it lying down. Here we go, boys!”
“I—Oh——” and Ricky’s voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur.
“He’s getting his,” said Spike in a low tone.
“And I guess here is where we get ours,” said Joe, as the rush of feet sounded along the corridor, while someone called:
“Come on, fellows. More work for us down here. There are some of the Freshies in their burrows. Rout ’em out! Smash ’em up!”
The tramping of feet came to a pause outside the door of our two friends.
“Open up!” came the command.
“Come in!” invited Joe. They had not turned the key as they did not want the lock broken.
Into the room burst a nondescript horde of students. They were wild and disheveled, some with torn coats and trousers, others with neckties and collars missing, or else hanging in shreds about their necks.
“Ricky put up a game fight!” murmured Joe.
“He sure did,” agreed Spike.
“Hello, Freshmen!” greeted the leader of the Sophomores. “Ready for yours?”
“Sure,” answered Spike with as cheerful a grin as he could muster.
“Any time you say,” added Joe.
“The beggars were expecting us!” yelled a newcomer, crowding into the room.
“Going to fight?” demanded someone.
“Going to try,” said Joe coolly.
“Give ’em theirs!” was the yell.
“What’ll it be—paste or mush?”
Joe saw that several of the Sophomores carried pails, one seemingly filled with froth, and the other with a white substance. Neither would be very pleasant when rubbed into the hair.
“Maybe you’d better cut ’em both out,” suggested Joe.
“Not on your life! Got to take your medicine, kid!” declared a tall Sophomore. He made a grab for Joe, who stepped back. Someone swung at our hero, who, nothing daunted, dashed a fist into his antagonist’s face, and the youth went down with a crash, taking a chair with him.
“Oh, ho! Fighters!” cried a new voice. “Slug ’em, Sophs.!”
Joe swung around, and could not restrain a gasp of astonishment, for, confronting him was Ford Weston, the ’varsity pitcher. On his part Weston seemed taken aback.
“Jove!” he cried. “It’s the little country rooster I saw pitch ball. So you came to Yale after all?”
“I did,” answered Joe calmly. It was the first he had met his rival face to face since that time on the campus when Weston had not known him.
“Well, we’re going to make you sorry right now,” sneered Weston. “Up boys, and at ’em!”
“Let me get another whack at him!” snarled the lad Joe had knocked down.
There was a rush. Joe, blindly striking out, felt himself pulled, hauled and mauled. Once he went down under the weight of numbers, but he fought himself to a kneeling position and hit out with all his force. He was hit in turn.
He had a glimpse of Spike hurling a tall Sophomore half way across the room, upon the sofa with a crash. Then with a howl the second-year men closed in on the two Freshmen again.
Joe saw Weston coming for him, aiming a vicious blow at his head. Instinctively Joe ducked, and with an uppercut that was more forceful than he intended he caught the pitcher on the jaw.
Weston went backward, and only for the fact that he collided with one of his mates would have fallen. He clapped his hand to his jaw, and as he glared at Joe he cried:
“I’ll settle with you for this!”
“Any time,” gasped Joe, and then his voicewas stopped as someone’s elbow caught him in the jaw.
“Say, what’s the matter with you fellows?” demanded a voice in the doorway. “Can’t you do up two Freshmen? Come on, give ’em what’s coming and let’s get out of this. There’s been too much of a row, and we’ve got lots to do yet to-night. Eat ’em up!”
Thus urged by someone who seemed to be a leader, the Sophomores went at the attack with such fury that there was no withstanding them. The odds were too much for Joe and Spike, and they were borne down by the weight of numbers.
Then, while some of their enemies held them, others smeared the paste over their heads, rubbing it well in. It was useless to struggle, and all the two Freshmen could do was to protect their eyes.
“That’s enough,” came the command.
“No, it isn’t!” yelled a voice Joe recognized as that of Weston. “Where’s that mush?”
“No! No!” expostulated several. “They’ve had enough—the paste was enough.”
“I say no!” fairly screamed Weston. “Hand it here!”
He snatched something from one of his mates, and the next instant Joe felt a stream of liquid mush drenching him. It ran into his eyes, smarting them grievously, and half blinding him. Witha mad struggle he tore himself loose and struck out, but his fists only cleaved the empty air.
“Come on!” was the order.
There was a rush of feet, and presently the room cleared.
“Next time don’t be so—fresh!” came tauntingly from Weston, as he followed his mates.
“Water—water!” begged Joe, for his eyes seemed on fire.
“Hold on, old man—steady,” came from Spike. “What is it?”
“Something in my eyes. I can’t see!”
“The paste and mush I expect. Rotten trick. Wait a minute and I’ll sponge you off. Oh, but we’re sights!”
Presently Joe felt the cooling liquid, and the pain went from him. He could open his eyes and look about. Their room was in disorder, but, considering the fierceness of the scrimmage, little damage had been done.
But the lads themselves, when they glanced at each other, could not repress woeful expressions, followed by laughs of dismay, for truly they were in a direful plight. Smeared with paste that made their hair stand up like the quills of a fretful porcupine, their shirts streaked with it, they were indeed weird looking objects. Paste was on their faces, half covering their noses. It stuffed uptheir ears and their eyes stared out from a mask of it like burned holes in a blanket.
“Oh, but you are a sight!” exclaimed Spike.
“The same to you and more of it,” retorted Joe. “Let’s get this off.”
“Sure, before it hardens, or we’ll never get it off,” agreed Spike.
Fortunately there was plenty of water in their room, and, stripping to their waists they scrubbed to such good advantage that they were soon presentable. The removal of their coats and vests had saved those garments.
“They went for you fierce,” commented Spike. “Who was that fellow who came in last?”
“Weston—’varsity pitcher.”
“He had it in for you.”
“Seemed so, but I don’t know why,” and Joe related the little scene the day of the Silver Star-Resolute game.
“Oh, well, don’t mind him. I say, let’s go out.”
“What for?”
“It’s going to be a wild night from the way it’s begun. Let’s see some of the fun. No use trying to study, I’m too excited.”
“I’m excited too. But if we go out they may pitch onto us again.”
“No, we can claim immunity. I want to see some of the other fellows get theirs. We’ll get Ricky and the other bunch and have some fun.”
“All right; I’m with you.”
They dressed, and, having made their room somewhat presentable, they called for Ricky. He was busy trying to get rid of his shampoo, which had been unusually severe. He readily fell in with the notion of going out, and with Hank Heller and Slim Jones in the party the five set out.
They swung out into Wall street, up College, and cut over Elm street to the New Haven Green, where they knew all sorts of tricks would be going on. For the Sophomores had started their hazing in earnest.
It was indeed a wild night. The streets about the college buildings were thronged with students, and yells and class-rallying cries were heard on every side.
“Let’s go over to High street,” proposed Joe, and they ran up Temple, to Chapel, and thence over to High, making their way through throngs. Several times they were halted by groups of Sophomores, with commands to do some absurdity, but an assertion that they had been shampooed, with the particulars, and the evidence yet remaining in spots, was enough to cause them to be passed.
High street was filled with even a greater crowd as they reached it, a party of Freshman pouring out from the college campus endeavoring to escape from pursuing enemies.
Through Library street to York they went, with shouts, yells and noises of rattles and other sound-producing instruments.
“Let’s follow and see what happens,” proposed Ricky. “I want to see some other fellow get his as long as I had mine.”
Just then Joe saw several figures come quietly out from behind a building and start up York street, in an opposite direction from that taken by the throng. Under the glare of an electric light he recognized Weston and some of the crowd who had shampooed them. Some sudden whim caused Joe to say:
“There’s the fellows who shampooed us. Let’s follow and maybe we can get back at ’em. There are only five—that’s one apiece.”
“Right you are!” sang out Ricky. “I want to punch someone.”
“Come on then,” signalled Spike. “I’m out for the night. It’s going to be a wild one all right.”
And truly it seemed so.