OMEGA LAMBDA CHI.
Behold a transformation scene.
At half-past six P. M. the campus was quiet and deserted, as it
usually is at that hour. Streaks of yellow sunlight streamed in
from over the low buildings of the quadrangle, making lighted
blotches on the ground beneath the canopy of the great elms, and
not even the twang of a banjo was to be heard.
The students were all at their eating-clubs and boarding-houses.
Ten minutes later the fence running from Alumni Hall to the space
in front of Battell Chapel and curving away to the south was the
meeting-place of streams of students coming from all directions.
The first to arrive perched on the fence, and the later comers
leaned against the knees of those on the fence. It did not take
much more than ten minutes for them to assemble.
Then the singing began.
“Chi-Rho! Omega Lambda Chi!
We meet to-night
To celebrate
The Omega Lambda Chi!”
The tune was supposed to be that of “Sailing, Sailing, Over the
Deep Blue Sea,” but some of the men sang it to any old tune. They
were not particular as long as they could whoop ’er up to the full
capacity of their voices.
Somehow it had been noised around among the freshmen that the sophs
had already made a move and got the start on them by spiriting away
their leader; but when they looked around to confirm the truth
of this, or detect its falsity, there was Dade Morgan, with his
particular friends about him, and big Starbright, surrounded by his
set, both ready for anything that might happen.
“It’s a bluff!” declared the freshmen. “But it’s a mighty poor one.”
And Boltwood was not missed at all, which must have given Ready a
feeling of chagrin and perplexity, had he known it.
Usually the beginning of the singing was the signal for the seniors
to fall into line and start the ball to rolling, but to-night there
seemed to be delay, while the singing continued, growing louder and
louder. There was hurrying and skurrying among the seniors. Their
leader was not on hand.
“Where is Merriwell?” was the question.
They sent to Frank’s room, but the messenger came back with the
information that he was not there. Then it was found that he had
not been at his eating-club, and no one remembered having seen him
for an hour or more.
“He’s done it!” growled Browning, who was as mystified as anybody.
“But I’d give a peanut to know what it is that he’s done.”
Bruce hesitated about taking the lead, for he was not sure the
seniors would follow him, and the singing continued.
“Where the deuce is Frank?” asked Bart Hodge, getting hold of Bruce.
“I’ll never tell,” grunted the big fellow.
“He ought to be on hand.”
“Said he might not.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t make known.”
“What shall we do?”
“Got to call the men out. Come on.”
Then Hodge and Browning cried for the seniors to “fall in,” and the
singing lulled a little. There was a moment of hesitation, for the
class that had followed Frank Merriwell never cared to accept any
other leader.
“Fall in!” thundered Browning, in his most commanding manner.
“Fall in!” cried Hodge, in a clear, distinct tone.
The hesitation was over, and a scramble from the senior fence
took place at once, the men running to get into line behind the
two leaders. They formed in rows of eight, with arms across each
other’s shoulders, and were ready in a remarkably short space of
time.
“Forward!” roared Browning.
Then, still singing, they started down the campus, dancing with a
running step, three steps to the right and three to the left, in
time with the song. Every third step ended with a skirt-dancer’s
kick into space.
The lines had fallen in so swiftly that more than two hundred men
were in motion behind Browning and Hodge, shouting the words of
the song. It was a queer sight to see that great mass of men dance
forward with three running steps to the right and end with a kick
of the right foot, followed by the same action to the left, all the
while singing as loudly as they could.
The seniors were not fairly in motion when Hock Mason, with two
others, were marshaling the juniors. When the time came, the
juniors fell in behind the seniors and followed them with the same
skipping, dancing step, singing the same song in the same shrieking
manner.
Bingham and Ready brought out the sophomores, three hundred and
fifty strong, and they promptly followed the juniors.
None there were that night so eager to get into the sport as the
gay young freshmen. They responded to the calls of Starbright and
Morgan with alacrity.
But what’s this? Can it be possible? Is that fellow with the long
hair Rolf Boltwood? Had Ready observed the man, he would have had a
fit. Boltwood, where in the world did you come from? Didn’t Ready,
Bingham, and Carker thrust you into a strong room in the basement
of an old storage-warehouse, and leave you there locked fast in a
room that had held many a prisoner securely before? Did they not
inform you that you might pound on the doors and yell as loudly as
you liked, for there would be a man outside to keep everybody away
from the place, and you would not be heard? When they were gone,
didn’t you try the door, and find it solid as granite? Didn’t you
examine the walls, and quickly decide that your prison might hold
you till you died of starvation, unless you were released by those
who placed you in it, or by their orders? And didn’t you sit down
on an old box and despairingly bury your face in your hands?
Such being the case, Boltwood, how does it happen that you are
here, whispering to Starbright, who nods and laughs, saying
something to Morgan, who seems delighted, making yourself generally
useful by aiding in mustering the men into line? Boltwood, your
escape from that old warehouse is a mystery! How did you do the
trick? Are you too busy to tell us now? Then we’ll have to wait a
while before we find out.
Both Starbright and Morgan gave out a word that was passed along
from man to man. Boltwood was to be obeyed implicitly in every
order. He was to be followed in any move he might make.
And thus, in some mysterious manner, Boltwood became a leader at
short notice.
But he did not form in line with Starbright and Morgan at the head
of the line. Instead of that, he plunged into the very middle of
the freshmen, and got into line there, where, for a long time, he
was hidden from view.
The freshmen began to move, singing as loudly as the others, but
showing they were not familiar with the dancing-step. However, they
made a brave showing, and they were happy, for every man had been
tipped off that this night they would “Lambda Chi” the sophomores,
who were entirely unprepared for what was to happen.
But what was to happen? No one seemed to know, unless, perhaps, it
might be Starbright and Morgan and this queer man Boltwood, who had
suddenly developed into a leader, not a little to the wonderment of
the men he was leading.
For Boltwood, hidden in the middle of the mass, was in command of
the rear half of the freshmen, and every man back there knew it.
Some of them objected, but others silenced them by saying that
Starbright and Morgan knew what they were about, “so shut up your
heads and keep on singing.” An order it would have been rather
difficult to obey.
Having carried the roaring line the length of the campus, Browning
piloted it back to the fence, from which it started out again.
In front of Alumni the seniors halted, the first line of dancing
juniors bumping into them before stopping.
“Ready!” roared Browning, who had found a baseball-bat somewhere,
which he now flourished in the air as if it had been a mere
feather. Having taken command, he was a leader in every sense of
the word, full of action, energy, and power, utterly unconscious of
himself. “Three times three for Alumni!”
Then came the barking cheer that echoed back from the walls of the
quadrangle, Browning timing it with the jerky motions of his bat:
“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! Alumni!”
“Forward!” roared Bruce, with a sweeping wave of the bat.
All the seniors were off again with the same step, singing the same
song.
Mason gave the word for the juniors, and they cheered Alumni in the
same manner as had the seniors.
The sophomores came up and followed suit, and the happy freshmen
barked like a pack of young hyenas.
Well, say, freshmen! this is sport, isn’t it? This is something
you’ll not soon forget. Here is where you have a chance to vent
your kittenish feelings to the full extent. Whoop her up,
freshmen, but look out for the finish. The sophs are laying for
you, and Jack Ready regards himself as remarkably clever in the
way of fooling freshmen. If you get ahead of him to-night, you may
congratulate yourselves.
The seniors had saluted Dwight Hall and danced on. The juniors
took their turn at cheering there, and so they continued on their
way from the Treasury to the Old Library, singing and cheering and
growing hoarser and hoarser as they progressed. In front of the
statue of President Wolsey they nearly roared their heads off. They
howled at the Chittenden Library in joyous abandon, and finally
they packed into the court of Vanderbilt, where, between the close
space of the walls, the cheering sounded like the thunder of
thousands.
Then, having cheered for Vanderbilt, they bethought themselves of
one who roomed there, but was mysteriously absent from their ranks.
“Three times three for Merriwell!” roared Browning.
Then, to the jerking of his bat, they simply roared:
“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! ’rah! Merriwell!
Merriwell! Merriwell!”
By the time the head of the line came back to Durfee again, the
song had turned to a hoarse shriek. Then Browning and Hodge led
down the three-flag-wide stone walk that runs the length of the
campus.
And the freshmen followed on, singing joyously.
When Lyceum and South Middle was reached the seniors turned and led
the way through the narrow passage between the two buildings, which
is known at Yale as the Pass of Thermopylæ. The juniors followed
the seniors, and the sophomores came close after.
As is the custom, the sophomores broke ranks at the farther end of
the pass, and prepared to fall on the freshmen as they came through.
The head of the freshmen line came on gaily, but the sophomores
could not see what the latter half of the line was doing.
“At ’em!” yelled Ready, as he saw the freshmen halt, as if in
alarm at the sight of the massed lines waiting for them to run the
gantlet.
The freshmen seemed to waver and crowd back, which filled Ready’s
heart with fear that they would somehow turn about and escape.
Crying for the others to come on, he plunged into the pass. The
sophs were eager to have part in the fun, and they followed,
choking the exit to the pass and trying to jam in.
Then round Lyceum on the dead run charged in a compact body the
second rear half of the freshmen, led by Rolf Boltwood, whose long
hair seemed to wave wildly in the breeze. Without a sound, like the
rush of a mighty wave, they came upon the sophomores packed and
struggling at the exit of the pass, sweeping them back into it.
And thus the sophomores were caught between two fires. Neither
seniors nor juniors had been given a hint of what was going to
happen, and so they were quite unprepared for this astonishing move
on the part of the freshmen.
There were shrieks of alarm from the sophomores, but too late they
realized that they had been caught in a trap. They were driven into
the pass, hurled down, piled up, stood on end, and battered in the
most heartless manner.
But what was worse than anything else was the fact that
preparations had been made to drench the freshmen who should be
caught in this manner, and now the sophomores’ own allies threw
open windows above and hurled down bucketful after bucketful of
wet, wet water onto the heads of the poor wretches beneath.
What shrieks went up! What frantic struggles were made! What fury
filled the hearts of the tricked and outwitted sophomores!
And the seniors and juniors, themselves delighted by the cleverness
of the freshmen, helped rush the sophomores into the pass by
crowding upon them as if eager to see the fun, giving no chance to
break through and escape.
The slaughter was something terrible to behold. The freshmen were
merciless. Starbright, the blond giant, led them on, with Morgan,
equally fierce, taking active part.
But the new leader among the freshmen was the marvel of that night.
Rolf Boltwood, the poet, his long hair flying about his head, was a
perfect cyclone. No one could stand before him. He hurled men right
and left as if they were mere children. He piled them up in heaps
of four or five, laughing as he did so. He swept them aside as if
possessing the arms of a Samson.
They were astounded, for till now no man had ever fancied Boltwood
possessed such strength. Some had imagined that he was too timid to
do anything but run away on an occasion like this. His own class
had not trusted him, and now the sight of him mowing the enemy down
in such an irresistible manner set them wild with joy, and made
them a hundred times more fierce.
For once in his life, Jack Ready was bewildered. He could not tell
just what had happened.
“For the love of goodness!” he gasped. “My, my, my! Where are we
at?”
“We’re trapped, you thundering fool!” roared Bingham. “The freshies
have played it on us!”
“Oh, lud! oh, lud!” murmured Ready. Then he shouted: “Charge,
fellows! Rip a hole through ’em! Come on!”
Slosh!--down came a bucket of water on his head, making him gasp.
“This will be the death of me!” he groaned.
“It ought to be!” roared Bingham. “You did a nice thing carrying
Boltwood off, didn’t you?”
“You helped.”
“Well, what good did it do?”
“Merriwell fooled us! Boltwood never could lead in anything like
this.”
Then again Jack tried to rally the sophomores and fight his way
through. He had turned back now, fancying it might be easier to
escape into the mass of juniors and seniors than to get out the
other way. In some manner he struggled along, trying to dodge the
descending cloudbursts of water. In the midst of his struggles he
came face to face with--Boltwood!
Ready nearly fainted.
“Good lud!” he palpitated.
“Good eve,” said Boltwood.
Then he hit Ready with a stuffed club he had captured from a
sophomore.
“Wow!” howled Jack.
“Yoop!” laughed Boltwood.
“You long-haired varlet!” snarled Ready.
Biff--the club sent Jack up against the wall.
“You should be more choice in your language, sir,” said the poet
pleasantly. “How are you enjoying the fun?”
Then, having made this inquiry, he biffed Ready again. Jack tried
to catch hold of the club, but failed.
“Oh, I’m having a perfectly elegant time!” he panted. “But how the
dickens did you get here?”
“Me?” inquired Boltwood, in surprise. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”
“Why, you know you ought to be locked fast in that old basement.”
“What old basement?” asked the poet innocently.
“You know; but I don’t know how you escaped. Gimme that club.”
“Thanks! Take it!” Then Boltwood soaked Jack again.
But this time Ready caught hold of the club and tried to wrench
it away. Boltwood held on, and they tussled for possession of the
weapon, while all round them raged the battle most furiously.
“I’d give a quarter to know how you got out,” said Jack.
“I’ve never been in,” said Boltwood; “so save your quarter. You’ll
need it for arnica and court-plaster.”
“Leggo!”
“Nit!”
Then Jack made a spring and tried to grapple with Boltwood.
“I’ll just toss you round a little,” he said, with confidence in
his ability to do so.
“That’s right,” said the freshman, getting Ready by the neck
somehow and kicking his feet into the air. “I shall enjoy it so
much!”
Down came Ready on the back of his neck. Boltwood placed a foot on
his breast, struck a pose, and began to recite poetry.
The shock and the surprise had deprived Jack of his breath for a
moment, but he quickly recovered and grabbed Boltwood by the leg,
exclaiming:
“Come down here a moment! I want to see you!”
Boltwood came down, but he fell so that both his knees gouged into
Ready and knocked the breath out of him again.
“Take a good look at me,” said the poet, “for I am the last person
you’ll see on earth. You die right here.”
“I’m willing!” came faintly from Jack. “After this death will be a
keen delight!”
He had been forced to let go his hold on Boltwood, but he scrambled
up as the freshman rose. Then they grappled again, but somehow
Boltwood tossed Jack into the air and let him fall upon a pile of
struggling sophomores, who were squirming and twisting and trying
to get up. A burst of mocking laughter came from the lips of the
freshman, and then a descending cloud of water struck Jack in the
face and eyes, blotting out the triumphant poet from his view.
When Ready untangled himself from that squirming mass, Boltwood had
vanished.
The slaughter went on joyously until the panting freshmen were well
satisfied. Then the juniors and seniors tore open the blocking mass
of men and opened long lines, down which the sophomores staggered
and ran in their wild efforts to escape.
And the men of the two upper classes held onto their sides and
roared with laughter. In all the history of Yale there had never
been such a Lambda Chi night as this. The tables had been turned
completely on the sophomores, and the freshmen were hilariously
triumphant.
Jack Ready was sick at heart.
“Confound Merriwell!” he grumbled. “He must have let that fellow
Boltwood free in some way, and this is the result! Oh, say! where
can I find some rat-poison? I want to take a lunch!”