[Illustration: The Yale quarter drove another forward pass to
Armstrong who caught it cleanly and was off like the wind.--_Page
279_]
FRANK ARMSTRONG
AT COLLEGE
By MATTHEW M. COLTON
AUTHOR OF
"Frank Armstrong's Vacation," "Frank Armstrong at
Queens," "Frank Armstrong's Second Term,"
"Frank Armstrong, Captain of the Nine,"
"Frank Armstrong, Drop Kicker."
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Printed in U. S. A.
Copyright, 1914,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
MADE IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FRESHMAN RUSH 5
II. A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE 18
III. THE CODFISH CREATES NEWS 35
IV. MAKING THE ELEVEN 49
V. FRANK LEARNS TO TACKLE THE DUMMY 65
VI. THE GREAT FRESHMAN BATTLE 79
VII. A WRECK AT THE HARBOR 95
VIII. FUN AT THE THEATER 110
IX. A JUMP IN BASEBALL AND THE RESULT 124
X. THE TRY-OUTS AT CAMBRIDGE 138
XI. A VOYAGE TO LONDON 149
XII. THE CODFISH LOSES HIMSELF 170
XIII. THE FLYING MACHINE TO THE RESCUE 187
XIV. PROGRESS AND A WRECK 201
XV. THE MATCH AT QUEEN'S CLUB 212
XVI. MAKING THE 'VARSITY NINE 229
XVII. THE SOUTHERN TRIP 241
XVIII. FOOTBALL IN JUNIOR YEAR 258
XIX. THE HARVARD-YALE GAME 273
XX. HOW ALL THINGS CAME OUT AT LAST 283
Frank Armstrong at College.
CHAPTER I.
THE FRESHMAN RUSH.
It was the evening of a day in late September and a noticeable chill
in the air hinted at the near approach of fall. Through the whole of
that day and for several days previous to the opening of our story,
incoming trains had deposited their burden of enthusiastic young
humanity in the old town of New Haven.
From mountain, shore, city, town and country came the throng of
students like an army of youth, to take up the work of the college
year at Yale, which opened her doors to them on the morrow. Men from
all classes were in that motley throng which surged and billowed
around the corner of College and Chapel streets, for this night was
the night of "the rush," which tradition says shall be the first
event of the college year. There were Seniors, in their new-found
dignity of seniority; Juniors, nearer by a year to the coveted goal
of a degree; Sophomores, who by the passage of time coupled with an
adequate stand escaped from the ignominious position of the youngest
class, and last, but not least, the Freshmen who, to-night, began
their existence as a class. But the Freshmen kept themselves aloof
from the upper class-men, perhaps for reasons of offense and defense
for they were to be tried out later on, and did not want to be found
lacking.
Bronzed giants whose bulk proclaimed them to be at least "football
material" shouldered their way through the crowd and the air was
filled with the chatter and hum of many voices. Greetings between men
who had been separated for the summer were heard on every side.
"Hello, Dick. Mighty glad to see you!"
"Glad to see you again. It's great to be back, eh?" and the speakers,
with a hearty hand-grip would pass on and repeat the formulæ with
little variation, to other friends.
Suddenly the blare of a brass band cut through the chatter. Marshals
sprang to the work of getting the parade in order, for a parade
always precedes and has come to be part of "the rush." These men,
conspicuous by their long-handled kerosene torches and the 'Varsity
Y emblazoned on sweaters (for only men who have won the coveted
letter are eligible for the position of marshals,) began to separate
the groups.
"Seniors, this way!" was the shout.
"Juniors, this way!"
"Sophomores, this way!" And, quickly following the command, the
various groups, in the order named, dropped into line and, led by the
marshals with torches swinging, went dancing down Chapel street to
the compelling melody of a popular college marching song.
"Freshmen, this way!" And to the shout, which was caught up and
echoed up and down the line, the new-comers to the halls of Yale
dropped in behind the Sophomores, feeling themselves, for the first
time, a class instead of merely a huddled group without a bond of
any kind. Dancing as merrily as their predecessors to the strains of
the band, the Freshmen went swinging down the street imitating to
the best of their ability the zigzag sweep of their elders. Hands
of strangers touched for the first time and arms were thrown over
strange shoulders and the feeling was good.
In the middle of that swaying mass of Freshmen it does not take long
to discover our three friends, Frank Armstrong, Jimmy Turner and last
but not least the irrepressible Codfish, clad immaculately as usual.
To-night he wore a delicate gray Norfolk suit with a vivid blue tie
and socks to match, a tribute to the colors of the college he had
adopted.
"You are a brave one to appear in that Paris model," laughed Frank,
who had arrayed himself in the oldest clothes he could find in
anticipation of rough times before the evening was over.
"Merely trying to uphold the reputation of the class and inject a
little beauty into the occasion," returned the Codfish. "Look at our
friend James. He has the ear-marks of a hobo!"
Jimmy was far from being a beauty, it is true.
"Safe and sane, sonny. Safe because the attentive Sophomores won't
take a second look at me and sane because I need my good ones when I
go calling," retorted Jimmy.
"I think this Sophomore scare is pure bunkum," the Codfish suggested.
"A fellow told me to-night that hazing at Yale has been given up.
Someone was hurt a while ago in the merry pranks and the Faculty
stopped it, eh?"
He wasn't quite certain about it, and wanted verification.
"You're safe," said Jimmy, "they never trouble the lady members of a
class. Hello, what's the matter?" he went on as the parade came to a
sudden halt at the corner of Church and Chapel streets.
"Scrap, I guess," said Frank. "Bunch of town fellows trying to muss
up the leaders. Always do that, they say. There they go across the
street, and here we go!" as the band, which had stopped for a moment
while a gang of young rowdies tried to cut the line of parade and
were worsted in the attempt, began again and the merry zigzag went on.
Around the central Green or square of the city tramped the jolly
hundreds, occasionally giving voice to the chorus of a song the
band was playing or a cheer in which the Freshmen joined as well as
they were able, but in spite of their desire to be real Yale men,
stumbling badly on the nine "Yales" at the end.
Up Elm street, lined with hundreds of townsfolk glad to see the
college once again in full swing, their faces lit up by the red fire
and Roman candles in the hands of the marchers, swung the leaders.
At High street the procession turned and entered the Campus. The
gang of town boys and young men which had trailed the procession
tried to force themselves into line, but were summarily thrown out,
and without further molestation the marchers circled the Campus or
college yard, and, opposite the Library, finally halted at a spot of
green sward previously selected for the wrestling.
The instant the leaders stopped there was a grand rush of the
hundreds behind to gain a vantage point, and in a second the little
circle the leaders had formed was squeezed together like paper.
"Get back, get back," yelled the torch bearers, and emphasized their
commands by pushing the lighted torches under the noses of those
composing the living wall. Of course, there was only one thing to do
and that was to go back with all haste. Pushing the ever-widening
circle of spectators back with threatening fury, the marshals made a
circle of sufficient capacity to carry on the wrestling bouts, which
were the climax of "the rush."
"Down!" howled the chief marshal, at which the front rank of that
squeezed and straining wall squatted on the ground, but so great was
the pressure of the hundreds behind that a score of the second row
were shot clear over the heads of the first row and into the ring.
"Out with the intruders," yelled a marshal, and the unfortunates were
seized and thrown bodily into outer darkness over the heads of the
first rows and were lost to view in the ruck.
"Now I know why it is a good thing to put on your old duds," Frank
gasped to Turner as they bored their way toward the center of
activity. Our three friends had left the ranks of their class with
many others when the head of the parade reached the Campus, and
dashed over to a point where they were told the wrestling usually
took place, on a chance that it would be in that spot this time.
Their guess was right and for a moment they were actually within the
coveted circle, but when the marshals made their onslaught on the
crowd in order to expand the ring they were whirled into outer ranks
and had only, after a desperate effort and "under a pressure of a
hundred pounds to the square inch" as Turner expressed it, succeeded
in digging their way back to the third or fourth tier in that circle
of human faces. They were more fortunate than the hundreds who
prowled around outside without a chance of a glimpse at the wrestling.
"We've lost the Codfish," exclaimed Frank. "Oh, Gleason," he called,
but there was no answering voice.
"Lost in the shuffle," said Turner. "He was with us a minute ago but
he'll turn up. He won't miss any tricks, don't you forget it."
"He isn't much for this kind of a scramble game," returned Frank. "I
thought he was holding back a bit when we struck in this last time,
but----"
"Sophomores, bring out your candidates," roared a big man who wore
the football Y on his blue sweater.
"Who is that whale of a man?" asked Frank.
"That's Howard, the football captain," volunteered a boy just in
front of them, who had overheard the question. The speaker held a
notebook in his hand and they afterward learned he was a news-heeler
getting a story for the _News_, the official college paper.
"Freshmen?" inquired the heeler, looking our friends over.
Frank nodded.
"That fellow, yelling for a Freshman lightweight candidate, is the
crew captain," went on the heeler; "and over there to his left is
Dunnelly, the chap who kicked the goal against Princeton last year
and saved us the game." The heeler pointed out the celebrities as
they prowled around the ring, calling loudly for wrestling champions.
"You see," explained the heeler, "there are wrestling bouts in the
three weights,--light, middle and heavy, between the Sophomore and
Freshmen for the class championship. Three bouts in each event."
"O, you Freshmen, show your sand, trot out a candidate!" bawled one
of the men within the ring. The crowd outside clamored for candidates
from the Freshmen.
"We want a Sophomore lightweight!" roared another, and the crowd
took up the cry and repeated it. "Sophomore lightweight, Freshman
lightweight, don't be quitters, come across with the champions!"
"Sophomore lightweight, Sophomore lightweight!"
"Freshman lightweight!"
"Don't be quitters!"
"Show your sand, Freshmen!"
Suddenly there was a commotion on one side of the ring, and amid
yells and the shaking of torches, the living wall opened and a
slender, blond-haired youth stepped into the ring.
"Who is he?"
"What's his name?"
"Sophomore or Freshman?"
"Sophomore," said the boy.
"Your name," demanded a marshal.
"Ballard."
"Your weight?"
"One twenty-nine, stripped."
"You'll do."
Immediately two Juniors volunteered to second him, and fell to work
stripping him to the waist, the traditional custom for the friendly
combat.
Meanwhile the calling for a Freshman lightweight went on without
success, and the crowd was throwing red-hot taunts at the youngest
class for shirking their duty. The Freshmen had pushed one of their
number into the ring, but he proved to be over the required weight
and was cast out without ceremony.
A commotion on the outside of the ring started anew the calls for a
Freshman lightweight, and the call was unexpectedly answered by the
appearance of a young man in delicate light gray clothes with blue
necktie and socks to match, who was passed unceremoniously over the
hands of the crowd and deposited right-side-up on the green grass of
the enclosure.
Jimmy gasped. "The Codfish, or I'm a Hottentot!"
"No one else, for sure. How did they get him?" exclaimed Frank.
The Codfish was greeted by a rattling cheer, followed by much advice.
"Well done, Freshman!"
"Take off those pretty clothes!"
"He certainly is a Yale man, look at that tie!"
"Good work, Freshman, eat him up!"
The referee, the Captain of the Yale Wrestling Team, strode over to
the Codfish, and looked him up and down.
"You are not a very promising specimen," he said. "Ever wrestle
before?"
"Never," said Gleason. "All I know about wrestling wouldn't hurt
anyone."
"What's your name and weight?"
"Gleason, and I weigh one twenty-five."
"Stripped or with those clothes on?"
"Clothes and all," said the Codfish with a grin, and his eyes
wandering around the sea of faces, chanced to light on his two
friends, Armstrong and Turner. He waved an airy salute to them, and
began with his seconds, two Seniors, to divest himself of his coat,
shirt and undershirt.
"He really means to wrestle," gasped Frank. "Can you beat it?"
"He certainly has his nerve with him," returned Jimmy.
"His middle name is nerve."
The preliminaries over, Ballard and the Codfish faced each other in
the flickering light of the torches, shook hands, and at the shrill
scream of the referee's whistle, rushed at each other. Neither was
versed in the art of wrestling, but both were about the same size.
Down they went on the ground, Gleason underneath, the Sophomore
struggling to pin the shoulders of the Freshman to the ground, which
meant victory. But just at the moment when things looked bad for
the under-dog, he slipped out of the hold, squirmed free and threw
himself with all his force against the Sophomore, bearing him over
sideways. The assault was so sudden that Ballard was taken unawares,
and before he could gather himself, Gleason sprang on the prostrate
boy and shoved his shoulder points on the grass. A resounding slap on
the back by the referee testified to the success of the attack, and
it was the Freshmen's turn to cheer, which they did right lustily.