A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE.
"First blood for the Freshman. Wow!!"
Both principals were now in their corners being fanned with towels
and put in shape for the second bout which was to follow immediately,
for there were three in each event as the Codfish learned to his
sorrow. His eyes wandered again to where Frank and Turner were wedged
in the crowd, almost speechless at what they saw before them.
"The Codfish of all creatures in the world to be wrestling for his
class," laughed Jimmy.
"We live and learn. He may be out for football yet."
The subject under discussion just at this moment bent his head
and whispered something to one of his seconds, then looked up and
nodded in the direction of his friends agape on the other side of
the circle. For a moment the gaze of the second rested on Armstrong
and Turner. Then the whistle blew and the boys sprang again to the
center of the ring.
This time it was different. The Sophomore did not rush in so
fearlessly. He circled round and round with arms outstretched and
figure crouching. Then he sprang at the Freshman's leg and before the
latter knew it he was on his back with his opponent squarely across
his chest.
"Fall for the Sophomore," announced the referee, slapping the victor
on the shoulder. Sophomore yells rent the air.
"A tie, a tie! Now bury the Freshman this time. Go to it."
Again the seconds ministered to their men, and after a two-minutes'
rest the boys went at it, but the Codfish, who was not noted for his
physical prowess, went down after a brief tussle, and the lightweight
event was awarded to the Sophomores amid yells by that class which
echoed back from the buildings of the quadrangle. Gleason struggled
into his clothes, and ducked through the living wall as fast as he
could go, while the calls for the middleweight wrestlers were being
yelled by the marshals.
A husky young Sophomore quickly responded, but again the Freshmen
were slow with their man.
The big football captain, who had been in conference with some of his
aides, walked across the ring.
"You red-head, there," pointing to Turner, "come out here and defend
the honor of your class. The Freshman who just wrestled says you're a
good one."
Frank and Jimmy looked at each other.
"So that's the game the Codfish put up on me," said Jimmy. "Wait till
I get at him. I'll dirty his clothes worse than they are now."
"Come on, Freshman," said the Captain peremptorily.
"I can't wrestle," said Jimmy.
"Get out here and learn then. Come on," and the Captain reached a
big hand over the heads of the squatters in the ring. Jimmy felt
compelling hands pushing from behind, and with the eyes of everyone
on him, there was nothing to do but go forward. A path was cleared
for him and he stepped into the ring.
"Good boy, Red. You've got to even this thing up."
"Show us you have the goods!" yelled someone whose sympathies were
with the Freshmen.
The Freshman and Sophomore took their corners after the referee had
satisfied himself that the pair would be well matched as to weight,
and soon they were down to wrestling condition with bare backs and
sock feet, because a wrestler is never allowed to wear anything that
might in any way injure his opponent.
"Does your friend know anything about the game?" inquired the
news-heeler of Frank.
"Not much, he did a little of it at school, but he is very strong,"
was Frank's reply.
"Well, he'll need it. That fellow who is pitted against him is
Francis who won the lightweight event for his class last year, and is
one of the best men in his class at the wrestling game."
When the Sophomore got to his feet, it was seen that he was a head
taller than his opponent, but not so heavily built. His slender body
was finely muscled, and his face wore a smile of confidence which
said quite plainly what his opinion was of the outcome.
"Middleweights--Sophomore Francis, weight 148; Freshman Turner,
weight 154," bawled the announcer. Then the whistle shrilled and the
boys sprang forward to shake hands. That preliminary over, they
backed away from each other and circled around, sparring for an
opening. Francis rushed, but Turner cleverly evaded him. Again he
tried and was thrown off by Turner, the "spat" of the meeting bodies
sounding sharp and clear in the night air.
"Good boy, Turner. Don't let him get that grip on you," yelled a
Senior as Turner eluded another bull-like rush which carried both
the contestants in among the torches. It was Francis' method of
wrestling to carry the fight fast and furious from the beginning.
More skirmishing, and finally a savage rush, and Francis got a hold
on Turner's leg, lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards.
Both crashed to the ground. There was a twisting, squirming struggle
with Turner at the bottom, but not downed yet for he managed to break
away from Francis' hold and got to his hands and knees with Francis
across his back.
The picture at this point was one worthy of the brush of an artist.
Riding in a clear sky, a round moon looked down through the branches
of the big elms to where the boys fought it out on the grass, panting
with their exertions. Most of the torches had by this time burned
themselves out and lay smoking at the feet of the human circle. For
a background to the picture hundreds of lights twinkled on in the
dormitory windows facing the Campus, and in the dim light of the moon
could be seen scores of people who had taken advantage of the Dwight
Hall porch from whence they could get a distant view of the struggle.
But the boys struggling on the ground and those crowded around
the ring were not interested in the pictures. Back and forth the
wrestlers went, the advantage first with one and then with the other.
Francis could not get his famous holds on Turner for the latter, with
extraordinary strength, either evaded or broke them before he was
caught irrevocably. Time was up for the bout before either had scored
a fall.
"Keep him off, Turner," counseled one of his seconds, while he
pummeled the wrestler's arm and shoulder muscles. "Tire him out in
this next bout, and you will get him in the last one."
"Don't let him get that half-Nelson on you or you are going sure
as shooting," advised the man who fanned the panting Turner with a
towel. "You've taken some of the confidence out of him already."
Francis in his corner was getting the same kind of advice.
"You'll get him this time," cheered his advisers. "Carry it right to
him and don't let him get out of your grips."
"He's strong," said Francis. "He nearly broke my arm, but I'll get
him. Don't worry." But the confident smile had gone from his face.
It was going to be a bitter struggle in which his skill was pretty
nearly evened by the Freshman's unusual strength.
"Ready," shouted the referee, and once again the boys sprang at each
other. Francis was more cautious this time; Turner watchful and wary.
Round and round they circled until Turner seeing what he thought was
an opportunity rushed with such a tremendous drive that Francis,
unable to escape, was borne off his feet. He managed to save himself
from a bad position by driving Turner's head down, and mounting his
back, rode half way round the ring like an old man of the mountains,
while the crowd yelled and laughed. The laughter seemed to madden
Jimmy. With a herculean effort he freed himself from Francis who
dropped to the ground on hands and knees firmly braced. Using all
his strength to turn him over without success, Jimmy relaxed his
muscles, rested for a moment, and then putting every pound of energy
into one supreme effort, picked his opponent up by the middle and
threw him backwards over his head. Francis struck on his shoulder,
rolled over on his back and lay still. He had been stunned by the
fall.
A little fanning brought Francis back to consciousness, but he had
enough for that night, and the referee awarded the bout to Turner. A
few moments of conference and the announcer cried:
"Turner wins the middleweight bout for the Freshmen. The third bout
will not be pulled off."
The Freshman cheer that went up rattled the windows in Durfee Hall.
As Turner was putting on his clothes, and while calls were going out
for heavyweight candidates, a man wearing the 'Varsity Y stepped up
to him.
"Do you play football?"
"Yes, a little," said Turner, rubbing tenderly a red welt across his
right forearm, which had been raised by one of the Sophomore's love
taps.
"Report to me at the Field next Monday. I'm the Freshman football
coach. Maybe I can use you."
Turner thrilled. "So the old Codfish didn't get me in wrong after
all. I'll forgive him," he thought to himself. Finished with his
dressing, he was allowed to pass through the thinning wall of
spectators, and was picked up by Frank who had wriggled from his
position with difficulty.
"Great stuff, Jimmy," cried Frank. "It was worth real money to see
you in action!"
"I don't deserve any credit for it," said Turner. "I happened to get
a lucky lift on him. He knows more about the game than I'll ever
learn. I hope I didn't hurt him."
"Never fear, his pride was hurt more than his body," returned Frank.
"I wonder where Hercules Gleason went to. He disappeared after his
meteoric burst of wrestling form."
"As I'm a sinner, there he is now," exclaimed Jimmy, pointing to a
dejected figure leaning against the bole of a huge elm tree. The
boys pranced up to him, and sure enough it was the Codfish, mussed
and bedraggled. Great blotches of green grass stain ornamented his
beautiful light gray trousers, and one knee peered out through a
six-inch rent which had been made when his overzealous opponent
dragged him along the ground in the second bout. His usually sleek
hair was all awry and a zigzag scratch beautified the side of his
face.
"How did you like my début?" he asked weakly.
"Great, but how in the name of Mike and the rest of the family did
you come to get roped in?"
"They noticed my special fitness for the job, I guess," murmured the
Codfish, "and they threw me into the ring, and when I got there, what
was there left but to take my medicine?"
"Who was it that chucked you over our heads, and why didn't you
follow us when we made a break?" demanded Frank.
"O, you ducked off so fast that I lost track of you, and then while I
was hunting around for you a bunch of fellows came along and asked me
if I were a Freshman."
"And you said no, of course," said Jimmy.
"No, I said yes with the result as you saw it. I was lucky to escape
with my life. How that Sophomore came to let me throw him is more
than I can understand."
"It was the blue socks that did it," declared Frank. "He simply
couldn't withstand them."
"Come on home," said the Codfish, groaning. "I'm a mess."
"Not till this match is over," said Frank. "We've got to stick by the
class. There's one for us I guess," as Freshmen yells betokened a
fall for the candidate of the youngest class in the heavyweight match
now going on desperately in the ring they had left.
Five minutes more, and a great burst of cheering announced the end of
the match with the Freshman candidate a winner.
"That gives us the championship," shouted Frank, and the three
friends grasped each other about the shoulders and whirled around in
a wild dance, the Codfish favoring his lame knee as much as possible.
Like magic the great crowd of students faded from the Campus and
headed for York street. At the corner of High street and Elm the gang
of town roughs, now augmented to a hundred or more, yelled defiance
at the students, and occasionally fell upon some of them who were on
the outskirts of the crowd.
"Look out for your caps," came the warning, but it was not given
soon enough to prevent some of the unwary from losing their headgear
at the hands of the roughs who were out for the particular business
that night of cap-snatching. Hot blows were struck, the whole body
of students uniting against the common enemy. At every few steps a
rough, backed by a half dozen of his pals, dashed into the students
and for a moment there would be a whirlwind of fighting, ending
generally in the attacking party beating a retreat with bloody noses
but with the prized cap trophies.
Keeping out of the fighting, the three friends moved slowly with the
crowd in the direction of Pierson Hall on York street, where their
rooms were located. Frank supported the crippled Codfish with an arm
around his waist. Jimmy appointed himself as rear guard, keeping a
wary lookout for attacks.
Suddenly out of the crowd swooped two roughs and charged full at
Frank and the Codfish, bowling them over like nine-pins. One of the
roughs grabbed Gleason's cap, which he was unwise enough to wear, and
with it a handful of his hair. This brought a blood-curdling yell
from the victim of the assault, and drew the attention of the crowd.
For the second time that night Jimmy went into action. A
well-delivered punch knocked the cap-snatcher into the street, but
before he could do more execution he was set on by a half dozen of
the snatcher's friends who had followed closely on their companion's
heels. Frank dropped the Codfish and sprang to Jimmy's assistance,
and in a second a scrap of major proportions was in full swing. The
boys put up a whirlwind argument with their fists, and were holding
their own when through the mass came ploughing two officers of the
law, the light flashing on their brass buttons.
"Police, police, beat it!" yelled the roughs, and they fled
precipitately, all excepting the two that Frank and Jimmy were
pummeling with such exceeding vigor that they didn't have time to
escape.
Into the circle where the fight was going on strode the officers with
clubs drawn.
"Quit it and come with us," said one of the policemen. "We're going
to put a stop to this street fighting. A night in the lock-up will
take some of the spunk out of you fellows. Come on," and each
grabbed an arm of Armstrong and Turner while the roughs who had
started the trouble, with terrified looks, turned, dashed through the
crowd, and made their escape.
"They snatched my cap," said the Codfish.
"So you were in it, too? You better come along with your friends,"
said one of the officers, reaching for Gleason's arm.
"Why don't you take the roughs that started the muss?" remonstrated
Frank.
"No lip, young fellow," said the officer, scowling and shaking his
club. Both policemen started forward, pushing their captors ahead
of them, but the crowd blocked the way and began to hoot and yell.
It looked like serious trouble for a minute when, shouldering
through the crowd, came a giant of a man wearing the uniform of the
University police.
"What's the matter, boys?" he said in a soft tone.
"These young fellows were fighting and we're going to jug them for a
while."
"No, I wouldn't do that, now," urged the soft voice. "Maybe they had
a reason. Let me take charge of them. They're good boys."
"They were defending themselves," said a man who stepped forward
from the ring of spectators. "I saw the muss and these boys are not
to blame." Turner recognized in the speaker the man who had asked him
to report at the Field the next week, and his heart sank. It was a
bad way to start his Yale career, he thought.
"Let me take them in charge," urged the University officer, and
reluctantly the City policemen released their holds on the offenders.
"Well, see that they don't get into trouble again on the streets or
you can't save them."
"O, I'll take care of them," and then to Frank, "Come on, boys, let's
go over to your room. I wouldn't have you fighting for the world. It
isn't a good way to start, you know."
"We simply couldn't help it," Turner burst out. "What would you do in
such a case?"
"O, I'd just naturally run," said the officer, and a laugh shook his
huge bulk.
"But if you couldn't run?" urged Turner.
"Well, I'd just naturally have to fight, I s'pose," and he laughed
again his good-natured laugh which had numberless times quieted
turbulent spirits. "We'll forgive you this time. Now where do you
live? I'll see you to your rooms. You've had enough fun for the
night."
"We live together at Pierson, just around the corner," said Frank.
"Come on then," said the officer, and accompanied by a cheering
crowd, the procession moved onward while the roughs, regaining some
of their courage, followed at a safe distance and jeered.
The boys gained their room without further trouble, and for an hour
looked down on the seething mass on York street below where the
classes pushed and struggled in good-natured fun.
"Well, it's been some evening," said the Codfish reminiscently as he
daubed arnica on his bruised knee.
"Yes, Yale seems to be a lively little place," said Turner. "Hand
me over that arnica when you have done with it. I have a few tender
spots myself."
"I'll have a lick at it when you are through with it, Jimmy," laughed
Frank. "I lost a yard of skin in the last mêlée. I hope they don't
have many nights like this. I wouldn't last."
Sore and bruised the three crawled into their beds, but the sting of
broken skin could not stifle the feeling of radiant happiness that
was theirs because at last they were "Yale men," and a part of the
great institution about which their dreams had so long centered.