Читать книгу The Adventures of a Freshman - Jesse Lynch Williams - Страница 8

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Freshman Young had an experience on the second night of his college course that he was never to forget. And few of those who shared it with him forgot it, and not many of the hundreds of other men that have been in college before and since have forgotten similar experiences of their own on the second or third night of college existence. Not one of them would care to miss it if he had it to do over again.

He was in his room going over for the fifth time the Latin passages in Livy, Book I. The recitation came the first thing in the morning. That meant at half-past eight, immediately after chapel.

His room was on the third story, back, of a queer, old-fashioned house in a still queerer, old, crooked street called Canal Street, because, he supposed, it led down to the canal. The little room seemed quite bare and cheerless, but he did not mind that. He had got down to work as a "college man."

That day, for the first time, he had met his professors in the classroom along with the other Freshmen of his division. He was the last man of the last division, because his last name began with Y. Later on in the term, when they were to be divided according to rank, he would not be in the last division; he had made up his mind to that. So he was going over the Livy lesson for the fifth time, although he had worked it all out during the afternoon.

Perhaps there was another reason for keeping his mind so busy. The old white farmhouse with the well-trimmed lawn and the evergreen trees in front and the tall, straight wind-pump to the west, and beyond that the long, level sweeps of rich prairie acres, all seemed very far away to-night. "I'm not homesick—of course not," he told himself, but all the same he thought he could study better if he could hear the old wind-pump go "kitty-chunk, kitty-chunk," as when he was studying his High School lessons on windy winter nights, long ago; so long that it all seemed like a different existence.

It was because he was thinking very hard about that previous existence that he started so when he suddenly heard a sound—away off in the distance. It was in the direction of the campus. It was someone singing. It was nothing to get excited over; men in the upper classes were all the time going around in groups lazily singing, laughing and talking, and looking as if they never thought of their studies. So he turned over the leaves of his book again. But after awhile this singing came nearer and nearer.

There were many voices, all singing in concert, if not all in tune, but Young did not notice that fault, for just then the singing stopped—the quick, short college cheer cut through the air, and on the end of the cheer the Freshman class numerals—his class numerals. He waited a moment to make sure. Then it came again:

"Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger! Siss-boom-ah! Ninety-blank!"

Then another one, a "long cheer" this time—the same as the other except that the Siss, the Boom, and the Ah were prolonged impressively: "Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger—sisses! Boom-m! Ah-h-h—Ninety-blank!"

Now, it gives a freshman a peculiar thrill the first time he hears many voices shouting in concert for his class. Young's heart began to thump. "That's my class," he said to himself, and then he turned to his books again because he had not come to college to have a good time, but to study. But he sighed a little.

Now the voices began singing to the tune of "Balm of Gilead":

"Here's to Ninety—blank—Drink her down—drink her down—

"Here's to Ninety-blank—

Drink her down—drink her down,

Here's to Ninety-blank—

For she's always——"

something that rhymed with the other part of Ninety.

Young put down his book for a minute.

They were coming still nearer.

He could hear some of the individual voices now.

Up Dickinson Street they came.

They turned the corner at Canal Street.

Now they halted.

Then a shrill voice shouted, "Now then, altogether, fellows, Hip! hip!"

"Ninety-blank! this! way!!" the many shouted in unison. It made a great noise.

Young opened his window.

"Once more," cried the shrill voice.

The call was repeated.

Young stuck his head out.

"Now then, fellows, a good rousing cheer for the honor of your class. Let everybody talk. Hip, hip!"

And the cheer fairly shook the house.

"Now then," commanded the clear, shrill voice, "Ninety-blank this way again once more—Hip, hip!"

Young drew his head in from the window and the next minute he was running downstairs three steps at a time. He could not help it.

Two other Freshmen joined him from neighboring houses on the way to the corner.

There, with the street light glaring dimly upon them, stood the Freshman class, or most of it, closely drawn up four abreast, cheering for itself with all its might. The Juniors were leading the cheers with energetic waving of the arms; other Juniors were marshalling the forces.

Young and his two unknown companions began to run as they drew nearer, and those in the rear ranks hearing their footsteps gave a yell of welcome. It sounded like a prolonged "Yea-a-a."

The three new-comers modestly fell in at the rear. A quick-stepping nervous Junior came down the line looking each row over as he came along. He wore glasses, Young noticed, and a faded orange-and-black blazer.

"Here, you big fellow, you'll do to go in front," he said, in a voice husky from cheering, and with that Young was taken by the arm, led way up to one of the front rows, shoved in beside three other fellows, and the Junior said, "Now, Tommy, that row's complete."

The Freshman next to Young grabbed him by the coat-sleeve and locked an arm through his as if they had been comrades for four years instead of just about to be.

He had on a soiled canvas football jacket and was hatless. His hair was long. "How much do you weigh, old man?" he asked in an excited manner. There was a lull in the cheering; everyone seemed to be whispering and chatting nervously; some of those in the rear were laughing at what one of the Juniors was telling them.

"About one hundred and eighty-five pounds," said Young to his neighbor wondering who he was and what kind of a fellow.

"Good! I weigh a hundred and seventy-nine and a half, stripped, just now—go up, though, after training awhile. You play football, I suppose?"

Young had never seen real football played, but he did not like to say so—and he did not have to, for just then another cheer was demanded and they both joined in with the rest of the class, shouting with all their might, and then the command to march was given, and the line started forward, irregularly at first and with much treading upon heels, until one of the Juniors shouted, "Spread out, fellows, spread out; you'll have" (laughing) "all the close rank work you want when you get on the campus," and then someone put them in step by saying, "Hep!... Hep!... Hep!" And when the column was in step, a Junior in the rear who had a high tenor voice started up the famous marching time of

"Hoorah! Hoorah!

The flag that set us free.

Hoorah! Hoorah!

The year of jubilee."

only the words they used were:

"Nassau! Nassau!

Ring out the chorus free—

Nassau! Nassau!

Thy jolly sons are we.

Care shall be forgotten, all our sorrows flung away,

While we are marching through Princeton!"

"Oh, we'll do 'em!" remarked Young's comrade, excitedly, at the conclusion of the song.

Young wanted to say something in reply, but he did not know who "they" were or how they were to be done. So he only said, "Think so?"

"Dead easy—we outnumber them three to two."

Soon the main street, Nassau Street, was reached; and by that time, after much cheering and many "This ways," nearly two hundred Freshmen were in the ranks and shouting like good fellows.

The line turned down toward the main college gate.

Along both sides of the streets walked a crowd of onlookers: upper-classmen in flannel clothes seeming mildly interested in what was to them an old story; little town boys in short trousers shouting "Ray for de Freshmans!" and looking forward with excitement to what was never an old story to them. The shopkeepers were standing in their doors to see them pass. Upstairs windows opened and heads stuck out.

In a pause between the verses of a song Young heard, far off in the distance, the quick eager: "Ray! Ray! Ray! Tiger, siss, boom, ah!" of the short cheer. It was much more sharply and crisply given than the cheers he had joined in, and on the end of it came the numerals of the Sophomore class.

Now, he had understood vaguely that there was to be some sort of contest between his class and the Sophomores, but this blatant, confident cheer away off somewhere in the distant, indefinite darkness, gave him a start; just for a moment he felt frightened. He was not the only one.

"Oh, we'll do 'em," said the man next to Young.

"Dead easy!" said Young, this time.

They had passed the first gate by the Dean's house and were marching in good order down the broad old street.

"Column right—wheel!" said the Junior in front, and they turned in at the carriage entrance.

Before he quite realized it Young found himself walking on the soft, green turf of the campus itself.

The singing had ceased. The talking stopped now. Nothing could be heard but the "tr'm, tr'm, tr'm," of many feet taking many steps at the same instant.

"Halt!" said one of the Juniors in a whisper. "Form close ranks—lock step." The long line began to concentrate.

Another of the Juniors went down the line saying, in a low voice, "Put your caps in your pockets, fellows—put your caps in your pockets, fellows." Many of them had already done so. Some only pulled theirs on tighter.

"Are you ready back there, Tommy?" asked one of the Juniors.

"Yes, Jack."

The man hugging Young's arm whispered, "That's Jack Stehman, the great tackle."

"Oh," said Young, looking admiringly at the powerful-looking football hero.

"Now then, fellows," Stehman was saying to the Freshmen, "the Sophomores are lined up and waiting for you over by West College; one of our men has just come from there. You fellows are nearly fifty men stronger than they are. Stick together and you'll rush them dead easy."

At this four or five excited Freshmen started a faint cheer but it was crushed down by several vigorous "sishes!" "Keep your mouths shut," said one of the other Juniors.

"Now, follow me and, mind, stick together, whatever you do. Stick together!" This was big Jack Stehman again. Young admired him; hoped to become well acquainted with him some day.

The compact mass moved forward, their bodies close together and their legs and feet beneath taking quick short steps as best they could. It was like a huge dark centipede, except that centipedes probably do not step on so many of their heels at once.

On either side walked upper-classmen, some calmly smoking pipes as if there was nothing to be excited about, laughing lightly and making remarks. The way they looked at Young and his companions reminded him of his father and the other farmers judging live stock at the county fair.

"Pretty good looking Freshman class, Harry," said one fellow whose face Young couldn't see in the dark.

"Um," said the one addressed, nodding. "There's a fellow, looks——" Young lost the rest of it.

Up the gravel driveway the black mass crept toward the opening between the dark Library and darker Dickinson Hall.

Young was grabbing tight hold of the Freshman in front of him and wondering what would come next.

They were just through the opening and were about to turn toward the quadrangle. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound, like distant thunder.

Then shouted Jack Stehman, the big Junior: "Here they come! here they come. Now then keep together, fellows, keep together, keep together—come at 'em hard!"

Now the many feet of the Freshman column began to rumble. On they plunged, increasing their speed every second.

The spectators on either side sprang back. On came the Sophomores with still more momentum, showing a front row of hardened football men with football suits. A distant light shone on them and Young had a vivid glimpse of their determined faces.

Then, with the Juniors crying, "Come faster! come faster! stick together!" and the Seniors who coached the Sophomores shouting, "Rush 'em, rush 'em, rush 'em!" the two lines came together.

Young was conscious of a dull crunching "thrump." It sounded as if bones were breaking, though none was. Then he saw the two rows in front of him lifted up in mid-air. The front rows of Sophomores were squeezed up also. It was like colliding trains of cars. Young could see them up there struggling, could hear them straining and grunting and pushing and shouting while the distant light gleamed on their dishevelled hair.

"Now! now! that's the way—now we're getting them!" one of the Juniors was shrieking.

"That's the way!" yelled another.

"Stick together!" roared Stehman, jumping in and shoving mightily himself. He seemed as strong and as regardless of his body as a mad bull, and yet he was as calm as a man loading hay.

"Rush 'em off the campus! Rush the Freshmen!" shouted the Seniors now becoming alarmed.

"Yea-a-! we're doing 'em," panted the well-built man beside Young. "Shove! shove! shove!"

Young was straining and shoving with his teeth set and he felt as if his ribs would soon break. But he had the exultant joy of victory. His feet were off the ground and he was being carried along by the force of those behind him.

The Sophomores had tried to take them by surprise before they got up the grade by the Library. If they had been successful they would have made short work of the Freshmen. As it was they had more momentum, but in hurrying across the campus to accomplish their design their lines had become loose. The Freshmen, on the other hand, were solid through and through, and now the compact mass in the rear was beginning to tell. The Freshmen were shoving the Sophomores back. Young heard shouts of victory.

But at this point the usual and natural result took place. The lines were too long for their width, and so it was only for a moment that they kept straight head to head; the pushing from behind bent them and they doubled in upon themselves. The Freshmen 'way back there in the rear thinking the Sophomores had retreated rushed on hard, shouting for their class and their victory, while at the same time part of the Sophomores did the same thing on the other side. And so sections of each column passed each other shouting, "Rush 'em!" and the rest turned around on each other and got hopelessly mixed up and excited. In this mix there was much shouting and considerable cap-grabbing and some rough work. And the confused, disorganized Freshmen did not know just what was going on until a sudden cry went up, "Look out! look out! Here they come again."

"Get in line—for Heaven's sake," hurriedly shouted a Junior, and "This way," roared big Stehman, "this way, I tell you, you fools!"

But it was too late. The rumbling was heard again, and from an unexpected direction, and before the huddling Freshmen could even get started, a compact mass of Sophomores came pounding down upon them, ploughed through them, knocked some of them over and came out solid on the other side.

Then there was great shouting among the Sophomores, with much blatant, exultant cheering.

Meanwhile the rallying cry of "Ninety-blank this way!" began ringing out again. It was over by the quadrangle and now the scattered Freshmen were scurrying over toward the sound of it.

"Ninety-blank?" shouted a boyish voice in Young's ear not two feet away from it.

"Yes," said Young, excitedly, and took the owner of it by the arm and hurried along through the crowd toward their comrades.

Just then an unseen hand made a grab at Young's hat—off it went; and the grabber dodged out of sight in the crowd and darkness.

"There goes my hat," said Young.

"Mine went long ago," said his new-found comrade, meaning ten seconds before. He was a little fellow and seemed very young. "We oughtn't to have taken them out of our pockets." He was laughing excitedly as he ran along.

They hurried into line with the others by West College.

A Junior dressed in a conspicuous white flannel suit came running over, shouting, "The Sophs are just beginning to form over there by the cannon. Hurry and you can get them on the flank."

"All right," cried Jack Stehman, "come on, fellows. Never mind weights and sizes. Now do something, do something for your class."

"Come on," called another, "this time we get the cannon!"

Without waiting for all the class to collect, or for perfect formation, the Freshman column dashed down at the thick of the Sophomores who now stopped giving "This-way" shouts and started forward to meet their opponents. They knew that to be caught napping meant to be rushed, and then the Freshmen would gain the coveted cannon.

Again the two columns met like two big waves, and like spray the front lines were dashed on high. Young was up there this time, literally face to face with the Sophomores. He could see them straining and grunting and pushing like himself. The little fellow that had fallen in rank beside him was up there too, being tossed about like a cork.

The Sophomores were only half prepared for the attack, and were being charged back; Young felt them giving way before him. It felt good.

"Hold them, hold them, fellows!" shouted the Seniors, and some of them pitched in to help their allies, the Sophomores.

But they could not hold them, and the little fellow beside Young began screaming, "We're rushing 'em! we're rushing the Sophs," in the Sophomores' very faces.

A big Sophomore in the front rank got one arm free, reached up and struck the little fellow in the face, then got hold of his coat and began to jerk the little one down.

Young reached over, grabbed the big Sophomore's wrist and freed his little classmate. "Hi! Deacon!" cried a disagreeable voice somewhere in the rows of Sophomores before him. Young was devoting all his energy to the little fellow whose nose was now bleeding; this did not seem to bother the latter, for he wriggled around, nimbly clambered up on Young's big shoulders, then kneeling on them and having free play for his arms he began to strike right and left at the Sophomores beneath him as fast as he could, and he seemed to be able to strike both fast and hard.

Seeing his pluck those behind him now plunged forward harder than ever.

"Yea-a-a—the cannon—the cannon, we've got it!" cried the little fellow.

Young felt himself brushing up against something hard and solid. Sure enough it was the big iron breech of the old cannon that he had seen standing muzzle down, in the centre of the quadrangle.

The little fellow jumped down from Young's shoulders upon it, and began to lead a cheer, though he did not know how to do it very well. But he waved his hands about his head and everyone yelled exultingly. They had won.

Then Jack Stehman, the Junior coach, hustled the little one off, jumped up on the cannon himself and led a cheer in the right way. The little fellow was out of sight now, but not out of memory. He was a hero.