Читать книгу A Breath of Prairie and other stories - Will Lillibridge - Страница 9

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A month had passed by, bringing to Guy Landers a new Heaven and a new earth. Already the prosy old university town had begun to assume an atmosphere of home. The well-clipped campus, with its huge oaks and its limestone walks, had taken on the familiar possessive plural “our campus,” and the solitary red squirrel which sported fearlessly in its midst had likewise become “our squirrel.” The imposing, dignified college buildings had ceased to elicit open-mouthed observance, and among the student-body surnames had yielded precedence to Christian names––oftener, though, to some outlandish sobriquet which satirized an idiosyncrasy of temperament or outward aspect. 42

Meantime the farmer had learned many things. Prominent among these was a conception of the preponderant amount he had yet to learn. Another matter of illumination involved the relation of clothes to man. He had been reared in the delusion that the person who gave thought to that which he wore, must necessarily think of nothing else. Very confusing, therefore, was the experience of having representatives of this same class immeasurably outdistance him in the quiz room.

Again, on the athletic field he saw men of much lighter weight excel him in a way that made his face burn with a redness not of physical exertion. It was a wholesome lesson that he was learning––that there are everywhere scores of others, equally or better fitted by Nature for the struggle of life than oneself, and who can only be surpassed by the indomitable application and determination that wins all things.

Landers’ nature though was that of the born combatant. The class that laughed openly at his first tremblingly bashful, and ludicrously inapt answer at quiz, was indelibly photographed upon his memory. 43

“Before this session is complete––” he challenged softly to himself, and glared at those members nearest him in a way that made them suddenly forget the humor of the situation.

But youth is ever tractable, and even this short time had accomplished much. Already the warm, contagious, college comradeship possessed him. Violent attacks of homesickness that made gray the brightest fall days, like the callous spots on his palms, were becoming more rare. The old existence was already a dream, as yet a little sad, but none the less a thing without a substance. The new life was a warm, magnetic reality; the future glowed bright with limitless promise.

“The first day of the second month,” remarked Landers, meeting a fellow-classman on the way to college hall one morning.

“Yes, an auspicious time to quit––this,” completed the student with a suggestive shuffle of his feet. “We’ve furnished our share of amusement.”

Landers looked up questioningly.

“Is that from the class president?” he asked. 44

“Yes,” answered the other, “hadn’t you heard? No more dancing, ‘his nibs’ says.”

They had reached the entrance to the big college building, and at that moment a great roar of voices sounded from out the second-floor windows. Simultaneously the two freshmen quickened their pace.

“The fun’s on,” commented Landers’ informant excitedly, as together they broke for the lecture-room, two stairs at the jump.

The large department amphitheatre opened up like a fan––the handle in the centre of the building on the entrance floor, the spread edge, nearly a complete half-circle, marked by the boundary walls of the building, a full story higher. The intervening space, at an inclination of thirty odd degrees, was a field of seats, cut into three equal parts by two aisles that ran from the entrance, divergently upward. The small space at the entrance––popularly dubbed “the pit”––was professordom’s own particular region. From this point, by an unwritten law, the classes ranged themselves according to the length of their university life; the seniors at the extreme apex of the angle, the 45 other classes respectively above, leaving the freshmen far beyond in space.

As guardians of the two narrow aisles, the seniors dealt lightly with juniors and “sophs,” but demanded insatiable toll of every freshman before he was allowed to ascend.

That a first-year man must dance was irrevocable. It had the authority of precedent in uncounted graduate classes. To be sure, it was neither required nor expected that all applicants be masters of the art; but, agitate his feet in some manner, every able-bodied male member must, or remain forever a freshman.

When Landers and his companion arrived at the top of the stairs they found the hall packed close with fellow-classmates. The lower rows of seats were already filled with triumphant seniors, waiting for the throng that crowded pit and lobby to come within their reach. With regular tapping of feet and clapping of hands in unison, the class as one man beat the steady time of one who marches.

“Dance, freshies!” they repeated monotonously. “Dance!”

“Clear the pit for a rush,” yelled the president 46 of the besieging freshmen, elbowing his way back into the mass.

A lull fell upon the room, as both sides gathered themselves together.

“Now––all at once!” yelled the president, and pandemonium broke loose.

“Rush ’em! Shove, behind there!” shrieked the struggling freshmen at the front.

“Dance, freshies! Dance!” challenged the seniors, as they locked arms across the narrow aisle.

“Hold ’em, fellows! Hold ’em!” encouraged the men of the upper seats, bracing themselves against the broad backs below.

The classes met like water against a wall. To go up was impossible; advantage of gravity and of position was all with the seniors. For an instant, at the centre, there were frantic yelling and pulling of loose wearing apparel; then, packed like cotton in a bale, they could only scream for mercy.

“Loosen up, back there! Back!” they panted, squirming impotently as they gasped for breath.

Slowly the reaction came amid the triumphant, 47 “Dance, freshies!” of the conquering hosts.

The jam loosened; the seniors’ opportunity came. Like a big machine, the occupants of the front row leaned forward, and seized upon a circle of unsuspecting, retreating freshmen, among the number the class president.

“Pass ’em up! Pass ’em up!” insisted the men above, reaching out eager hands to aid; and with an irresistibility that seemed miraculous, the squirming, kicking, struggling freshmen found themselves rolling upward––head foremost, feet foremost, position unclassified––over the heads of the upper classmen; bumping against seats, and scattering the contents of their pockets loosely along the way.

“Up with them,” repeated the denizens of the front row as they reached forward for a fresh supply.

But there was no more material available; the besieging party had retreated. On the top row the dishevelled president was confusedly pulling himself together, and grinning sheepishly. The rebellion was over.

“Dance, freshies,” resumed the seniors mockingly; 48 and once more the regular tap of feet and clapping of hands beat slow march-time.

One by one the freshmen came forward, and, shuffling a few steps to the encouraging “well done” of the seniors, mounted the steps between the rows of laughing upper classmen.

It happened that Landers came last. He wore heavy shoes and walked with an undeniable clump.

“He’s Dutch, make him clog,” called a man from an upper row.

The class caught the cry. “Clog! Clog!” they commanded.

A big fellow next the aisle made an addition. “Clog there, hayseed,” he grumbled.

Landers stopped as though the words were a blow. That one word “hayseed” with all that it meant to him––to be thrown at him now, tauntingly, before the whole class! His face grew white beneath the remaining coat of tan, and he stepped up to the big senior with a swiftness of which no one would have suspected him capable.

“Take that back!” he blazed into the man’s face. 49

The senior hesitated; the room grew breathlessly quiet.

“Take it back, I say!”

The big fellow tried to laugh, but his voice only grated.

“Damned if I will––hayseed,” he retorted with a meaning pause and accent.

Before the words were out of his mouth Landers had the man by the collar, and they were fighting like cats.

For a time things in that pit were very confused and very noisy. Both students were big and both were furiously angry. By rule they would have been very evenly matched, but in a rough-and-tumble scrimmage there was no comparison. The classes made silent and neutral spectators, as Landers swung the man around in the narrow pit like a whirlwind, and finally pushed him back into his seat.

“Now will you take it back!” he roared breathlessly, vigorously shaking his victim.

The hot lust of battle was upon the farmer, and he forgot that several hundred students were watching his every motion. 50

“Take it back,” he repeated, “or I’ll––” and he lifted the man half out of the seat.

The senior seized both arms of the chair, and looked up in a dazed sort of way.

“I––” he began weakly.

“Louder––” interrupted Landers.

“I––beg your pardon,” said the reluctant, trembling voice.

That instant the amphitheatre went wild. “Bravo!” yelled a hundred voices over the clamor of cheering hands.

“Three cheers for the freshman!” shrilled a voice over the tumult; and the “rah, rah, rah” that followed made the skylight rattle.

Landers stepped back and looked up bewildered; then a realization of the thing came to him and his face burned as no sun could make it burn, and his knees grew weak. He gladly would have given all his present earthly belongings, and all in prospect for the immediate future for a kindly earth to open suddenly and swallow him. Perspiration stood out on his face as he went slowly up the stairs, at every step a row of friendly hands grasping him in congratulation. 51

Slowly the room became quiet. The whole confusion had not taken up even the time of grace at the beginning of the hour; and a great burst of applause greeted the mild old dean as he came absently in, as was his wont, at the tap of the ten-minute bell. He looked up innocently at the unusual greeting, and the cheer was repeated with interest. As first in authority he was supposed to report all such inter-class offences; but in effect he invariably happened to be conveniently absent at such times––the times of the freshman rebellion. He began lecturing now without a word of comment, and on the instant the peaceful scratching of fountain pens on notebooks replaced the clamors of war.

The lecture was about half over when there was a tap on the entrance door; and the white-haired dean, answering, stepped out into the hall. In a second he returned carrying a thin, yellow envelope.

“A message for––,” he studied the writing with near-sighted eyes, “––for Guy Landers,” he announced slowly.

The message went up the incline, hand over 52 hand toward the top row, and the boy who waited felt the room growing gradually close and dark. To him a telegram could mean but one thing.

The class sat watching silently until they saw him take the paper from his neighbor; then in kindness they turned away at the look on his face. In the pit below the mild old dean began talking absently.

Landers tried to open the envelope, but his nervous hands rebelled. He laid the broad side firmly against his knee and tore open the end raggedly, drawing out the inclosed sheet with a trembling rustle that could be heard all over the room.

The open page was before him; but the letters only danced before his eyes. He spread the paper as before, flat upon his knee, ere he could read.

The one short line, the line of which every word was as he expected, stood clear before him. He felt now a vague sort of wonder that the brief, picked sentences should have affected him as they had. He had already known what they told for so long––ever since his name was 53 spoken at the door––ages ago. He looked hesitatingly around the room. Several students were scrutinizing him curiously, as though expecting something. Oh, yes––that recalled him. He must go––home. He hated to interrupt the lecture, but he must. He got up unsteadily, and started down the stair, groping his way uncertainly, as a man walks in the dark.

The kind old dean waited in silence until Landers had passed hesitatingly through the door; then followed him out into the hall. A moment, and he returned, standing abstractedly by the lecture table. He picked up his scattered notes absently, shaking the ends even with a painstaking hand; then as carefully scattered them as before. He looked up at the silent, waiting class, and those who were near saw the tears sparkling in the mild old eyes.

“Landers’ father is dead,” came the simple, hushed announcement.