THE LAST HAZING OF "THE MEEK BUTT OF ALL CLASSES"
It was all Young's fault that his little friend Lee was, like himself,
in the embarrassing embrace of these Sophomores, and he knew it; and
that worried him more than anything they might do to himself. This was a
fine way to repay Lee for his kindness!
Channing was still sticking the lantern up close to Young's blinking
eyes, and saying, mockingly, "Well, well, you poor old fool of a Deacon!
you poor old pathetic fool."
If Young could only jerk himself free he thought he could snatch Lee
away from the two Sophomores holding him and then in the darkness they
could surely escape. There was everything to gain and nothing to lose in
the attempt.
"Now," said Channing, "let's see who the other foolish Freshman is."
Then through Young's mind there darted the thought: "Now's the time!
Their attention is diverted." The dazzling light had been taken off his
eyes. At the same instant, and as quick as the flash of the lantern, he
neatly whisked his arms out of the hands that held them, sprang
backward, throwing, as he did so, the two startled Sophomores forward by
the shoulders, and wheeled around toward Lee.
Now little Lee, you may be sure, was watching for a chance to make a
dash for liberty. Hearing the scuffle of feet in front of him he tried a
similar trick. But his captors also had heard the scuffle; instinctively
they tightened their grasps. Lee shook off but one of them, whirled
around, and started off; the smaller of the two Sophomores was hanging
like a bull-dog to his left arm.
Young, half-blinded in the change to darkness from dazzling light,
bumped into Lucky, hurriedly grabbed him by the free hand and away they
dashed. It was not quite two seconds from when Young made his first jump
to the time he was going down Nassau Street and making good speed
considering that he was pulling Lee by the left hand, who in turn
dragged unwillingly with the other hand the Sophomore whose knees were
scraping the flagstones.
Of course, by this time the other Sophomores were after them--were now
only a few yards behind and were gaining at every stride.
For about forty yards Young ran as he never ran before. The only hope
was that the clinging Sophomore would get tired of sweeping Princeton
pavements with his knees; a moment more and he would surely drop. "Stick
to him," the other Sophomores were shouting in the dark. Two of the
pursuers were almost up to them. Lee gave a furious wrench. It was a
little too furious. He tripped and fell. Young slackened up and tried to
pull Lee to his feet, but Lee purposely loosed his hand and cried, "I'm
a goner, run!" At that instant two Sophomores dropped on him as they
would on a rolling football and cut off his wind.
But Young did not run--he turned around to try and free his friend--a
third Sophomore running at full speed tackled him furiously, as football
players tackle. They both tripped over the bodies on the ground. Lee
felt two more men come tumbling down in a tangle upon those already on
him.
"We got 'em both, fellows," screamed one of the Sophomores in the
darkness to the others behind.
"Are you hurt, Lee?" asked a voice near the back of his neck.
"How'd you--get--in this?" Lee panted. "Thought you were--block 'way
by--this time."
Young was panting, too, so he only said, "No--still here." He had got
Lee into this mess and he meant to stick by him.
The Sophomores, keeping tight hold of Lee and tighter hold of Young,
slowly arose, allowing their recaptured prisoners to stand up.
"I hope you're not hurt, Lee?" asked one of them in a somewhat
sympathetic voice. He still kept tight hold of the Freshman, however.
"Nope, I reckon not," said Lee, who hadn't been playing football since
the age of twelve for nothing.
They all leaned against the fence and panted for a moment
Young made out nearly a dozen Sophomores in the half-dark.
Lee stopped panting and smiled. "Well, what are you going to do with
us?" he asked, grimly.
"Shut up, Freshman, that's our business," said one of them. It was the
same man that had asked Lee if he was hurt a moment before.
"So, Deacon," said Channing, "you _wouldn't_ come back when we told you
to, you old hay-seed Deacon!"
Young knew what he referred to, but only looked sober and said nothing,
as usual.
"Well, well," went on Channing, "so you two proc.-hunters thought you'd
get away, didn't you? Too bad, too bad; teaches Freshmen a good lesson:
little boys must not be out at night. It's not nice."
"Well, Channing, where shall we put these two foolish virgins?" asked a
gruff voice. The dawn was coming in and Young and Lee saw that it was
that big Ballard.
Now, it was customary on occasions of this sort to take all prisoners to
some room, generally right there in University Hall, and lock them up
for the rest of the night, and that's what the Sophomores would have
done in this case but for Channing. "Put them!" replied Channing,
indignantly, "we sha'n't put them anywhere until we have dealt out due
chastisement for their rash impudence in trying to escape from their
lawful lords and masters. Am I not right? They should make recompense
for the trouble they have given us." It was Channing's usual vein.
"Aw, see here, Chan," said one of the others, "we've got a lot of work
still to do and it's getting light already. We can't stop to do any
hazing. Let's lock them up in George Black's room."
But Channing was not going to let this opportunity slip by for getting
square for what Young had done only a few hours previous. He did not
know that there had been witnesses to the spanking--as yet. "Let the
prisoners follow," he said, and he led the way back to the corner where
the two parties had met.
Near by, on the ground beside the iron fence, stood a bucket of paste, a
big brush, and a roll of proclamations. Young and Lee had not seen them
before.
"Here are paste and proclamations," said Channing, "and here are strong
hands and willing. What is to hinder the strong hands being set to work?
Arise, Freshmen, gird up your loins and paste procs, for the day soon
cometh when no man can paste."
"Right," said the others, smiling. "Kill two birds with one stone."
Little Lee fairly gasped to himself: "Going to make us paste
procs--procs against our own class!"
Ballard, who had apparently just got the idea through his head, began to
laugh, and said, "That's a good scheme, Chan, haw, haw, haw!"
"Don't laugh so loud," said Channing. "Come on, Freshmen, that blank
wall across the street is a good place to begin."
They were led across the street to the corner grocery store. A tight
hold was kept on Young and Lee this time.
"Now, this is the way it is done." Channing quickly and rather daintily
pasted up a proclamation.
By this time it was light enough for the letters to show green, and the
Freshmen read the thing.
Up near the top Lee, the class secretary, was called "a puppy drum
major" and "Mamma's blue-eyed baby boy, the little toy secretary." In
the portion in finer type, beneath the slurs on the baseball team and
the arrogant prohibitions against the wearing of the college colors and
silk-hats and the smoking of pipes and carrying of canes, Young spied
his own name.
"Next in the line of freaks," it said, "will amble that poor, meek butt
of all classes, Deacon Young, the overgrown baby of Squeedunk, who
always does everything you tell him to, and says 'Thank you, marm!'"
"That means me," thought Young, scowling, as he remembered how important
he had always been considered by everyone out at home. "What would they
think of me now, I wonder?"
Channing had finished his work.
"Now then," he said, and unfolded another proc and advanced toward the
Freshmen. "Don't all speak at once, children; will Little Willie Young
show us how they handle the brush when they whitewash the fences on the
farm?"
"Naw, let the class secretary do it first," interrupted Ballard, in his
rough voice.
Though the crowd had often hazed Lee they had always found him such a
bright, good-natured little chap that Ballard was never allowed to
humble him as much as since the rush he had always wanted to. Here was a
fine chance. Young could wait; it was not much fun to haze Young,
anyway, he was so meek.
"Get to work there now, Secretary," Ballard shouted in his loud voice.
He did not have brains enough, Young thought, to be sarcastic, but he
had plenty of lungs. "Close in around them, fellows."
Of course the Freshmen required the use of their hands if they were to
paste procs, so the two were shoved in toward the wall and the dozen
Sophomores with locked arms formed a semi-circle about them. It would be
out of the question for the two to try and escape now.
Young and Lee were standing by the paste-bucket with their backs to the
Sophomores, who were about twelve feet away from them.
"Come, get to work there, little boys," said Channing. "You and Young
have nearly fifty more to paste before breakfast."
"Hurry up there," Ballard echoed, shouting in a tone to wake the
neighborhood.
Just then a lazy voice was heard. "Heads out! Sophomores are making
Freshmen paste procs! heads out--, everybody look!" It was a Senior
leaning from an upstairs window of University Hall. He was in his
pajamas.
Meantime, Ballard, who loved to show his power, had stepped arrogantly
into the ring saying, "Do you hear what I say, you little fool! Pick up
that brush and get to work."
"Heads out, everybody, heads out! Lots of fun," cried the sleepy-looking
Senior.
Windows began to open and frowsy heads and yawning faces to stick out
from all over the University Place side of the big building.
Lee thought, with true loyal horror, of how, if he should do as Ballard
said, the Sophomores would taunt him forever afterward. He fancied how
his own classmates would feel about it when they heard that their
secretary had aided in posting those scurrilous proclamations. But what
was there to do? He had only one classmate with him and there were a
dozen Sophomores about him--no, eleven, for the twelfth was now standing
close beside him, shaking a big fist in his face and saying, "See here,
you little fool, are you going to do what I tell you or not?"
Little Lee calmly looked up into Ballard's face and said, "No, and you
can't make me."
"You'll see whether I can make you or not," returned Ballard, and with
that he grabbed the little fellow by the coat-collar and shaking him
back and forth roared, "Now, you little fool, you paste that proc or
I'll paste you on the jaw with this fist." Possibly he really meant to
do it, but, at any rate, he did not, for just then Young cried: "No, you
won't, Ballard! No, you won't! Don't you shake him that way; don't you
lay hands on him; don't you touch him." The voice was very high and
earnest.
"Yea-a. Good enough for you, big Freshman." The upper-classmen were
becoming interested. By this time in the windows across the street were
about twenty lookers-on. Ballard knew that, and he was a Sophomore.
Young was a Freshman. He laughed scornfully. "What have you got to do
with it, you big, overgrown baby?"
"I'll show you what I've got to do with, you big bully." Young's voice
trembled. "Let go that boy," and much to everyone's astonishment the
Freshman took hold of the Sophomore very much as Ballard had hold of
Lee.
At this, Ballard, in sheer astonishment that any Freshman should have
the audacity to touch him, Ballard, the centre rush of the Sophomore
team, dropped Lee, wrenched away from Young and whirled around toward
him with fist drawn up in fighting position, dancing up and down, and
saying, "You impudent pup of a Freshman, you impudent pup!"
["Yea-a! big scrap!" shouted those upstairs--"Aw! Freshman's afraid."]
Now, Young considered himself the better man, but all he wanted was to
make Ballard let go of Lee, and he had succeeded.
["Aw! Freshman's bluffed out--too bad!"]
Ballard had turned once more toward Lee. "Get to work," he bawled.
Lee stood still.
Ballard drew back as if to demolish the little fellow. "Now," he
began--but just then in ran Young. His unclenched hands were stuck out
awkwardly in front of him; it made the upper-classmen in the windows
shout with laughter; some of the Sophomores in the ring giggled
excitedly. Young did not hear it. He guarded off one blow, was struck on
the chest by the second, dodged the third--and as he ducked, he plunged
in and grappled.
They clinched and began to wrench and twist and scuffle about the ring;
the rest of the Sophomores falling back to keep out of the way whenever
the two big fellows came over too near the edge.
Now, Young was no boxer, but he had, like many another country boy,
wrestled ever since he first put on trousers, and he had not forgotten
all his tricks. He made a feint as if to try a hip throw, then slipped
his arms down on Ballard, twisted his feet around, threw his chin and
his weight forward, and down they both came, Young on top, while the
voices up in University Hall yelled approvingly: "The Freshman is doing
him! the Freshman is doing him!" This made Ballard beside himself with
rage.
But Young having proved himself the better man, released Ballard
quickly, jumped up, stepped across to Lee, and in a sober manner was
saying, "Now, Lee, I think----" when a staggering blow from Ballard's
fist on the half-turned face nearly upset Young, who was entirely
unprepared for this unexpected attack; he might have fallen but for Lee.
Up to this point Young, though very much in earnest, had been quite cool
and deliberate. But now, with the cowardly blow stinging on his face, he
became infuriated. He turned and charged at Ballard like one of the
bulls on his father's farm, with his head down and regardless of
consequences. His eyes were wide open and teeth set. His fury gave him
double strength.
Paying no more attention to Ballard's blows than to so many raindrops,
he dived down and grasped him around the middle, lifted him up, got him
on the right hip, and whirled him over and down upon the ground between
the sidewalk and the curbstone, a full, clean throw.
The men up in the windows were now really excited, "Good enough,
Freshman! good enough! Served him right! Do it again!"
That was just what Young, with teeth set and nostrils distended, was
proceeding to do, though not because they told him to, for he was now
oblivious to everything but showing Ballard that there was a limit to
hazing and to Freshman meekness!
Up went Ballard's legs in the air once more with the enraged Freshman's
long, strong arms locked tightly about him. And again he came down hard
upon the ground. And he had barely got to his feet when in rushed the
Freshman again with his head down, and for the third time Ballard was
thrown flat and fair. This time it was in the gutter, and it was lucky
for Ballard that it was full of leaves, for Young fell heavily on top of
him.
Up to this point Ballard's classmates had been busy keeping out of the
way of his whirling heels. Now they began to realize that they were
becoming disgraced; something must be done. Channing was calling,
excitedly, "Get in there, somebody; don't let a Freshman do that,
fellows," while he himself kept well out of the way.
Perhaps they did not admire Ballard for what he had done, but he was
their classmate. One of the bigger fellows dashed in and got Young by
the legs and began to pull. Quick as a flash little Lee ran in and
immediately tripped him up. No one had been watching Lee. Another Soph.
slipped in and pulled Lee off. A couple of them held him. Then the
others began grabbing Young's arms and legs. He held on like a bull-dog.
One man was sitting on his head. Two were on his body. Ballard was
wriggling and swearing. He got one arm over Young's neck.
"Here, here, give the Freshman a show; give him fair play!" cried some
authoritative voices. It was some Juniors and Seniors hurrying out from
University Hall--some half-dressed and some not dressed at all.
They ran across the street and brushed Sophomores right and left,
saying, "Get off there--get off there, I tell you!"
Some Sophomores jumped up; others were pulled off.
"Ballard has hurt his ankle! Ballard has hurt his ankle--let him up." It
was Channing's shrill voice.
"Well, if he's hurt let him up," said the Juniors. The Freshman was
still on top.
"Get off, Freshman, you did him; Ballard has hurt his ankle."
Young jumped up quickly. "Is he hurt?" he asked, panting, and looking
around; he was amazed to see so many people about him. He had an ugly
bruise under his left eye, where Ballard had hit him; he didn't feel it
now.
Ballard had hastily jumped up. He did not look at Young; he did not say
a word. He was panting hard; he leaned on Channing's arm and limped
quickly and quietly away. The other Sophomores followed behind; none of
them looked back. There was a dramatic silence.
"He's not much hurt," said a Junior who knew Ballard of old, and he was
right, for before the Sophomores quite reached the corner Ballard had
stopped limping and was walking as well as anybody. "Say, Channing,"
another upper-classman called after them, "how about that spanking?" and
before the small Sophomore was out of earshot he had the pleasure of
hearing the upper-classman begin a narration which was received with
squeals and shouts of laughter.
Meanwhile Young, in the centre of another ring, was sitting on the
curbstone panting like a good fellow. Lee was bending over him mopping
his face with his own handkerchief and patting him on the back and
laughing excitedly.
"Are you hurt, old man?" asked one of the Juniors.
Young shook his head.
"What's his name?" asked one of the others.
"Young's his name," answered little Lee, proudly, like the exhibitor of
something rare.
"Well, he's a good one," said one of the new arrivals. Others were
hurrying down the steps of University Hall and across the street every
moment; they all asked questions. Several of the first arrivals were
telling the new arrivals all about it, with gestures.
"Tried to make the big fellow paste procs," one man was saying, while
another was crying: "But you ought to have seen that beautiful spanking
last night! Oh, dear! I'll never forget Channing's look when...."
The big roll of proclamations, by the way, which had been lying on the
ground, had disappeared. Some of the new arrivals were Freshmen, and
Lee, who had hidden it under his coat, gave it to them to carry away.
First they tore down all the procs that were in sight. A Junior picking
up a piece was reading aloud, "the meek butt of all classes."
"This is 'the meek butt of all classes,'" said Lee, laughing.
Young got up from the curbstone.
"Come on, Lucky," he said, "we'll have to hurry to meet those other
fellows on the way from Trenton."
Lee tried to help him up; Young would not allow it. But as they started
off Lee insisted on putting his arm about him.
"What! that big, awkward-looking chap?" Young heard a new arrival ask
one of the others. Then just as they reached the corner Lee and Young
suddenly heard:
"Ray, ray, ray! Tiger, siss, boom, ah! 'Meek butt of all classes!'" It
was the Juniors giving a cheer for him in the early dawn.
Lee turned around and waved his hand at them. Young blushed, but did not
turn his head. Lee reached up and lifted Young's hat to them, which made
the others laugh. It made Young laugh a little, too. Then they turned
the corner and were out of the crowd.
[Illustration: MEEK BUTT OF ALL CLASSES!
Before curfew rang in Old North at the close of that day the whole
college was talking about it.]
Before curfew rang in Old North at the close of that day the whole
college was talking about it: "Big green Freshman ... thought he didn't
dare say his soul was his own.... That irrepressible little Channing,
first ... worm turned ... yes, on the third floor of University--Bob
Ellis saw the whole thing himself ... caught big Freshman this morning
with Lee--yes, that nice little fellow.... Sophs undertook to make him
paste procs--no, Lee first.... Little one was game.... Big Bally--yes,
went at Lee.... Big Freshman turned on Bally--Bally punched him--um,
right up here, under eye, a nasty one--then big, meek Freshman.... Oh,
my! lovely!----"
Only in the telling it became twenty or thirty Sophomores, and it was
over a fence that Ballard was thrown.
Deacon Young was a hero now.