Apple Hazing
Girls of various sizes, types, and descriptions were hurrying into the
building, and their clothes, of all colors, gave a luster otherwise
lacking in the dull, sand-colored structure. The freshmen were easily
distinguished from the other students by the fact that they were all
carrying or scanning yellow cards which told them in what rooms to report
for their first classes.
Sim was surprised to see Arden and Terry still outside the hall.
"I thought you had to hurry in to class," she said, hoping they wouldn't
notice her broken nails.
"Wrong number," remarked Terry. "We went in and were told to come back in
fifteen minutes, so we came up for air."
"Where were you?" asked Arden, glancing sharply at Sim.
"Oh--just walking around. I think I'm about in time for my class. Let's
go in."
The three found they were to be separated for the morning session though
the first class in the afternoon would find them in the same room for
English literature.
"And we must try to sit together," called Arden to Sim and Terry as they
parted.
Inside the hall all was confusion. Girls were running hither and yon.
Stairways were crowded with students going up or coming down, and all
were excited. Doors were suddenly pushed open by uncertain freshmen and
again by oversure sophomores. The latter, in a spirit of fun, several
times sent a poor "frosh" up to the top floor when she should have
remained on the first.
Another warning bell rang and, almost at once, the corridors were empty
and quiet. Inside their classrooms the three girls from 513 looked,
listened, and answered somewhat in a daze. That first day always remained
more or less of a hazy recollection. Something of an organization was
arranged, the roll was checked and corrected, names were asked and given,
everyone was on edge and nervous, even the instructors. Strange faces,
many of them timid, looked on other strange faces, also somewhat timid.
Then came welcome noon, and the rush out of Bordmust and some of the
other study buildings to the dining hall was comparable only to the New
York subway rush at five o'clock.
The afternoon classes were attended by all more pleasantly and with less
strain. To their delight, Arden, Sim, and Terry managed to get into the
same room and sat near one another.
As they were leaving Bordmust Hall, at the close of the afternoon
session, Arden heard someone say:
"Here come our three!"
Toots Everett, Jessica, and Pip were regarding the other trio with
sardonic smiles and, as Terry said later, "with murder in their eyes."
"Good afternoon, freshies! How about a little song for my friends, here?"
Jessica was mockingly speaking. "A song befitting your talents. Arden
Blake, come here!"
Arden stepped forward, blushing. "I can't sing," she quavered.
"You shall learn. Your friend here, with the red hair, looks like a
singer. And while you two sing, Sim Westover shall dance. On with the
dance, freshies!"
The trio from 513 looked at one another in dismay, but there was no help
for it. Amused seniors and juniors had gathered to see the fun. From the
classmates of Arden and her chums two kinds of advice was forthcoming,
the "don't-you-do-it!" and "go-on-be-sports!"
Finally, in a weak and uncertain voice, Arden and Terry, after a moment
of embarrassed consultation, sang one verse from their prep-school song;
something about "Bring Me Violets for My Hair," while Sim tapped about
more like a sparrow than a swan.
At last it was over.
"Not bad," commented Toots.
"I've seen worse," said Pip.
"But not much," was Jessica's opinion.
Then the sophomores delivered a rhyming ultimatum. They stood with their
heads together and chanted:
"_From yonder orchard, old and green,_
_Where, 'tis said, strange things are seen,_
_You three, upon this fatal day,_
_Must gather apples while ye may._
_At once repair to that dread spot,_
_And in your quest dare pass it not._
_Then bring, for our symbolic use,_
_Fair apples with but smallest bruise._
_Ten perfect fruits, no less, must we_
_Your mentors have, in time for tea._"
There was a dramatic pause, following this delivery, and then, as though
they had rehearsed it, as, indeed, they had, the three sophomores picked
up the books they had deposited on the ground in front of them while
singing, and marched away, leaving the trio from 513 the center of an
excited and thrilled group.
"What does it all mean?" asked Sim.
"Is it part of the hazing?" asked Terry.
"Must we really go after the apples?" asked Arden in astonishment.
"Yes," said Mary Todd. "It's just part of college life. And you may as
well go to the orchard now, while it is still light and bright. I
certainly hope I don't have to do that stunt. No orchard in mine."
"Some of us probably will have to gather the apples later," declared Jane
Randall. "But a soph, who got a little friendly with me, said that the
best apples were at the far side of the orchard. So you girls had better
go there at the start, as Toots and her crowd won't accept nubbins, and
you don't want to have to make two trips."
"I should say not," murmured Sim. "One is bad enough."
Arden and Terry were still a bit bewildered, even after this well-meant
advice, and Sim declared she was "dying from embarrassment."
"I suppose we may as well go. What do you say, girls?" asked Arden.
"Yes, let's! Anything to get away from here!" Sim was regarding the
circle of amused girls.
"You take our books to our room, will you?" Terry asked Mary Todd. "We'll
let you know later how we make out."
The fated trio started down the southern slope of Bordmust Hall hill
toward the picturesque orchard where, even now, though it was not very
late, the shadows were lengthening and the sun had lost some of its
brightness. They crossed a field, deep with grass, crawled through the
bars of a snake-rail fence, and found themselves beneath the trees.
"I vote we pick up the first apples we can see," voiced Terry.
"Certainly!" agreed Arden.
"Apples are apples," quoth Sim. "Why should we go to the far end to
gather fine fruit when windfalls may answer?"
"Why, indeed," assented Arden. "But still I suppose we had better not
pick up these." With her foot she kicked out from amid the fallen leaves
some withered, wrinkled, and partly rotted specimens.
"No, they won't do," declared Sim.
"Then let's separate a bit. We can cover more ground that way," suggested
Arden. "Whoever first finds some decent apples must give a shout, and
we'll gather there." She was quite businesslike.
"All right, Colonel!" laughed Terry. "'You take the highland and I'll
take the low,'" she sang softly. "Scatter, my lassies!"
They separated and began the search in the growing dusk.
Apples there were, but such poor things, windfalls and rots, that even
the enthusiastic Arden began to feel discouraged. They might, after all,
need to go to the far end of the orchard. Still, it was delightful
beneath the old, gnarled trees. Their trunks were shaped like dragons,
their branches like Chinese letters, and the roots, where they cropped
out above the ground, like intertwined serpents grim and black, seeming
to writhe in the shifting shadows. A little wind rustled the leaves,
swung the hanging fruit, and made the limbs squeak as they rubbed one on
the other.
Here and there they wandered, growing more and more apprehensive and
nervous as the darkness deepened. There seemed to be something sinister
about that orchard, although it was so close to the life and joy of Cedar
Ridge College. The taxi-man had surely warned them--but of what? This was
no time to think about that.
"Ah!" Sim suddenly exclaimed. "A perfect apple, red and round!" She
picked it up from beneath a large gnarled tree. "And there are others,"
she called. "This way! Over here, girls!" Her voice was joyous.
Arden and Terry ran toward Sim. But as Sim stooped to pick up another
apple she saw something in a pile of leaves. It looked like--surely not
the leg of blue overalls! A last lingering gleam of the setting sun,
shining through a cleft in the hills, glinted upon that leg. Sim glided
closer. Could it be----?
It was part of an overall suit, and there, thrust out of the lower end
and twisted grotesquely to one side, was a foot!
"Oh-h-h-h-ee!" screamed Sim, dropping her apples. "Oh, girls, look here!
Quick! Hurry!"
She stood in a panic of terror, rooted as firmly to the spot, for the
moment, as one of the black gnarled trees.
"What is it, Sim? What's the matter?" gasped Terry, the first to arrive.
"Look!" Sim pointed, breathless. She and the others, for Arden was now
one of the trio beneath the tree, saw more than just the overall leg and
the foot. They saw the huddled form of a man partly buried in the fallen
leaves. And they could see--his face!
"Why, it's Tom--the porter!" cried Arden. Instantly she was down on her
knees beside him. "His head is cut. We must get help. Sim! Terry! Come
here to me!"
Arden was dependable in a real emergency. She attempted to lift the
death-like head. Terry struggled to help her while Sim bravely tried to
straighten out a crooked arm beneath the senseless form.
It was so terribly tragic. The girls saw where all that blood was coming
from. Tom Scott's forehead was cut, and the wound appeared to be serious.
Realizing this, the three hesitated about what to do next.
"Oh!" gasped Terry. "Is he--dead?"
"No," Arden answered. "I can feel him breathing. But he's had a hard
blow."
"What shall we do?" faltered Terry, becoming more and more alarmed.
"If we only had some water," murmured Sim, "we could----"
The sound of approaching footsteps caused the girls to glance up. A man
was hastening toward them through the aisles of the black trees of the
orchard.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Arden as she let the inert head fall back on the
cushion of leaves.
"What is he saying?" asked Terry.
"Nothing yet," replied Arden, still watching closely the face of the
unconscious man as well as she could in the fast gathering gloom.
"Who is coming?" asked Sim, for the approaching footsteps were pounding
nearer.
No one answered.
Then they heard the voice of Tom Scott as he stirred on awakening from
the stupor of unconsciousness.
"My head!" he murmured. "It--hurts. But it was so black and it came at me
so quickly----"
The girls were so relieved to hear him speak that they all waited
breathlessly. The running footsteps came nearer. It was a man. He fairly
leaped through the dark tunnel of trees toward the group.
"Get away from here!" he snarled. "Get away--you girls! You're not
supposed to come in this orchard. Get away! I'll take care of him!"
By his voice, for it was now too dark to distinguish his features, Arden
and her chums knew him to be Anson Yaeger, the grim head farmer and
gardener of Cedar Ridge. They had seen him from a distance that
afternoon, had heard his snarling voice, and had been told who he was.
Now he was living up to his reputation in ordering them off.
Arden and the others moved away from the still recumbent form of Tom
Scott. But more life was coming back to him now. He murmured again:
"But I didn't know. I couldn't see--except that it was something
black--as black as the hedge--and it--got me!"
Then the voice of Anson Yaeger broke in:
"All right! All right! I'll look after you, Tom. You girls run away. It's
all right, I tell you! Go away!"
His angry command seemed to shatter the calm darkness of the night.