him if he faints."
They separated, and, on tiptoe, by various routes, departed from the
Upper, making wide circles in the darkness before seeking the baseball
cage, Lovely Mead supported on either side by Charley De Soto and
Turkey.
They gave the countersign at the door, and were admitted noiselessly
into the utter blackness of the baseball cage. Lovely waited in awe,
unable to distinguish anything, clutching at Turkey's arm.
"Is the Gutter Pup here yet?" said De Soto's voice, in a whisper.
Another voice, equally guarded, replied: "Just in."
From time to time the door opened on the starry night and vague forms
flitted in. Then other voices spoke:
"What time is it?"
"Midnight, Hickey."
"Lock the door; no admittance now. Egghead, show up with the light.
Strike up, Morning Glory!"
A bull's-eye flashed out from one corner, and then two lanterns filled
the gloom with their trembling flicker.
Out of the mist suddenly sprang forty-odd members of the Sporting Club,
grouped about a vacant square in the middle of the cage which had
been roped off. De Soto and Turkey pushed forward to their appointed
stations, where chairs had been placed for the principals. Lovely
seated himself and glanced across the ropes. The Gutter Pup was already
in his corner, stripped to the waist, and being gently massaged by the
Triumphant Egghead and Billy Condit, captain of the eleven.
In the middle of the ring, Hickey, in his quality of president and
referee, was giving his directions in low, quick syllables. The
assembled sporting gentlemen pressed forward for the advantage of
position; the two front ranks assuming sitting or crouching positions,
over which the back rows craned. Lovely gazed in awe at the select
assembly. The élite of the school was there. He saw Glendenning,
Rock Bemis and Tough McCarthy of his own house, scattered among such
celebrities as Crazy Opdyke, the Mugwump Politician, Goat Phillips,
who ate the necktie, and the Duke of Bilgewater, Wash Simmons, Cap
Kiefer, Stonewall Jackson, Tug Moffat, Slugger Jones, Ginger-Pop
Rooker, Cheyenne Baxter, Red Dog, Hungry Smeed, and Beauty Sawtelle,
all silently estimating the strength of the freshman who had to go up
against the veteran Gutter Pup.
Referee Hickey paid a quick visit to the contending camps, and was
assured that each antagonist was restrained from flying at his
opponent's throat only by the combined efforts of his seconds.
"Gentlemen of the Sporting Club," said Hickey, scraping one foot and
shooting his collar, as referees do, "Before proceeding with the
evening's entertainment, the management begs to remind you that the
labours incident to the opening of the school have been unusually
heavy--unusually so; and, as we particularly desire that nothing
shall be done to disturb the slumbers of our overworked Faculty, we
will ask you to applaud only in the English fashion, by whispering to
your neighbour, 'Oh, very well struck, indeed,' when you are moved
to excitement. We gently remind you that any one breaking forth into
cheers will be first slugged and then expelled.
"Gentlemen of the Sporting Club, I have the honour to present to
you the evening's contestants. On the right, our well-known sporting
authority, Mr. Gutter Pup Lazelle, known professionally as the
Crouching Kangaroo. On the left, Mr. Lovely Mead, the dark horse
from Erie, Pennsylvania, who has been specially fed on raw beef in
preparation for the encounter. Both boys are members of the Woodhull
branch of this club. The rounds will be of three minutes each--one
minute intermission. Mr. Welsh Rabbit Simpson will act as timekeeper,
and will return the stop-watch _immediately_ on conclusion of the
exercises. Both contestants have signified their desire to abide
strictly to the rules laid down by the late Marquess of Queensberry,
bless him! No fouls will be tolerated, and only one blow may be struck
in the break-away.
"In the corner for the Gutter Pup, Mr. William Condit, the
tiddledy-winks champion, and the only Triumphant Egghead in captivity.
"In the corner for Lovely, Mr. Turkey Reiter, the Dickinson Mud Lark,
and Mr. Charles De Soto, the famous crochet expert. Doctor Macnooder,
the Trenton veterinary, is in attendance, but will _not_ be allowed to
practice. The referee of the evening will be that upright and popular
sportsman, the Honourable Hickey Hicks. Let the contestants step into
the ring."
Lovely was shoved to his feet and propelled forward by a resounding
slap on his shoulders from Turkey Reiter. He had sat in a daze, awed
by the strange, imposing countenances of the school celebrities, duly
submitting to the invigorating massage of his seconds, hearing nothing
of the directions showered on him. Now he was actually in the ring,
feeling the hard earth under his feet, looking into the eyes of the
Gutter Pup, who came up cheerfully extending his hand. Surprised,
Lovely took it, and grinned a sheepish grin.
"Ready--go!" came the command.
Instantly the Gutter Pup sprang back, assuming that low, protective
attitude which had earned from Hickey the epithet of the Crouching
Kangaroo. Lovely, very much embarrassed, extended his left arm,
holding his right in readiness while he moved mechanically forward on
the point of his toes. The Gutter Pup, smiling at him, churned his
arms and shifted slightly to one side. Strangely enough, Lovely felt
all his resentment vanish. He no longer had the slightest desire to
hurl himself on his antagonist. Indeed, it would at that moment have
seemed quite a natural act to extend his hand to the joyful Gutter Pup
and close the incident with a laugh. But there he was, irrevocably
destined to fight before the assembled Sporting Club, under penalty
of everlasting disgrace. He made a tentative jab and sprang lightly
back from the Gutter Pup's reply. Then he moved forward and backward,
feinting with his left and right, wishing all the time that the Gutter
Pup would rush in and strike him, that he might attack with anger
instead of this weakening mental attitude to which he was at present a
prisoner. Twice the Gutter Pup's blows grazed his head, and once landed
lightly on his chest, without his being at all moved from his calm. The
call of "Time" surprised him. He went to his seconds frowning.
"What's wrong, young'n?" said De Soto. "You're not in the game."
"No," said Lovely, shaking his head. "I--I've got to get mad first."
"All right, that'll come. Keep cool and play to tire him out," said De
Soto, satisfied. "Make him do the prancing around; don't you waste any
energy."
"Time!" whispered the Welsh Rabbit.
Again he was in the ring, experiencing once more that same
incomprehensible feeling of sympathy for the Gutter Pup. The more he
danced about, shaking his head and feinting with quick, nervous jabs,
the more Lovely's heart warmed up to him. Wasn't he a jolly, genial
chap, though? Desperately Lovely strove to remember some fault, a word
or a look that had once offended him. In vain; nothing came. He liked
the chap better than he had ever liked any one before. He struck out as
one strikes at his dearest friend, and a low groan of disgust rose from
the Sporting Club.
"Ah, put some steam in it!"
"Do you think you're pickin' cherries?"
"That's it--be polite!"
"Sister, don't hurt little brother!"
The Welsh Rabbit spoke:
"Time!"
Not a real blow had yet been struck. Lovely went to his corner
perplexed.
"That's the boy," said De Soto, with a satisfied shake of his head.
"That's the game! Don't mind what you hear. Play the long game. The
Crouching Kangaroo style is all very pretty, but it doesn't save the
wind."
"Never mind the ballet steps, Sport," added Turkey, vigorously applying
the towel. "Hold in, but when you do start, rip the in'ards out of
things."
"They think I'm doing it on purpose," said Lovely to himself.
"Time!" called the Welsh Rabbit.
The Gutter Pup, changing his tactics, as though he had sufficiently
reconnoitred, began to attack with rapid, pestiferous blows that
annoyed Lovely as a swarm of gnats annoys a dog. He shook his head
angrily and sought an opportunity to strike, but the fusillade
continued, light but disconcerting. When he struck, the Gutter Pup
slipped away or ducked and returned smiling and professional to attack.
Lovely began to be irritated by the Gutter Pup's complacency. He wasn't
serious enough,--his levity was insulting. Also, he was furious because
the Gutter Pup would not strike him a blow that hurt. His jaw set and
he started to rush.
"Time!" said the Welsh Rabbit.
Lovely went to his corner unconvinced.
"Are the rounds three minutes?" he asked.
"Sure," said Turkey. "Don't worry; they'll get longer."
Lovely looked across at the opposite camp. The adherents of the Gutter
Pup were patting him on the back, exulting over his work.
"What's he done?" said Lovely, angrily, to himself; "that sort of work
wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Time!" said the Welsh Rabbit.
Lovely walked slowly to meet the Gutter Pup, bursting with irritation.
He waited, and as the Gutter Pup attacked he plunged forward, taking
a blow in the face, and drove his fist joyfully into the chest before
him. The Gutter Pup went back like a tenpin, staggered, and kept his
footing. When he came up there was no longer a smile in his eyes.
They threw boxing to the winds. It was give and take, fast and furious,
back and forth against the ropes, and rolling over and over on the
ground.
"Time!" announced the Welsh Rabbit, and Hickey had to pry them apart.
Lovely thought the intermission would never end. He sat stolidly,
paying no heed to his seconds' prayers to go slow, to rest up this next
round, to make the Gutter Pup work. He would fight his fight his own
way, without assistance.
"Time!" said the Welsh Rabbit.
Lovely started from his corner for the thing that came to meet him
without yielding, exchanging blows without attempt at blocking,
rushing into clinches, locking against the heaving chest, looking into
the strange, wild eyes, pausing for neither breath nor rest.
Once he was rushed across the ring, fighting back like a tiger, and
jammed over the ropes into the ranks of the spectators. Then he caught
the Gutter Pup off his balance, and drove him the same way, his arms
working like pistons. The rounds continued and ended with nothing to
choose between them.
Lovely felt neither the blows received nor the rough rubbing-down
of his seconds. He heard nothing but the sharp cries of "Time!" and
sometimes he didn't hear that; but a rough hand would seize him (was it
Hickey's?) and tear him away from the body against him.
He went down several times, wondering what had caused it, quits for
standing moments triumphantly, while the fallen Gutter Pup raised
himself from the ground.
Then he lost track of the rounds; and the rows of sweaters and
funny white faces about the ring seemed to swell and multiply into
crowds that stretched far back and up. The lights seemed to be going
out--getting terribly dim and unsteady.
[Illustration: "Then he lost track of the rounds"]
Once in his corner he thought he heard some one say: "Fifteenth
round"--fifteen, and he could remember only six. In fact, he had
forgotten whom he was fighting or what it was about, only that some one
on whose knee he was resting was shrieking in his ear:
"He's all out, Lovely. You've got him. Just one good soak--just one
_lovely_ one!"
That was a joke, he supposed--a poor joke--but he would see to that
"one soak" the next round.
"Time!" cried the Welsh Rabbit.
For the sixteenth time the seconds raised their champions, steadied
them, and sent them forth. One good blow would send either toppling
over to the final count. So they craned forward in wild excitement,
exhorting them in hoarse whispers.
The two contestants gyrated up and stood blankly regarding each other.
About them rose a murmur of voices:
"Sail in!"
"Soak him, Lovely!"
"Clean him up, Gutter Pup!"
"One to the jaw!"
"Now's your time!"
With a simultaneous movement each raised his right and shot it
lumberingly forward, past the hazy, confronting head, fruitlessly into
the air. Renewed whispers, dangerously loud, arose:
"Now's your chance, Gutter Pup!"
"Draw off and smash him!"
"He's all yours, Lovely!"
"Oh, Lovely, hit him! hit him!"
"Just once!"
They neither heard nor cared. Their arms locked lovingly about their
shoulders, and they began to settle. New cries:
"Break away!"
"Don't let him pull you down!"
"Keep your feet, Lovely!"
"They're both going!"
With a gradual, deliberate motion, Lovely and the Gutter Pup sat down,
still affectionately embraced; then, wavering a moment, careened over
and lay blissfully unconscious. Amazement and perplexity burst forth.
"Why, they're done for!"
"They're out--they're both out!"
"Sure enough."
"What happens?"
"Who wins?"
"Well, did you ever----"
Suddenly Hickey, standing forward, began to count:
"One, two, three----"
"What's he doing that for?"
"Aren't they both down?"
"Four, five, six, seven----"
"But Lovely went first!"
"No, the Gutter Pup."
"Eight, nine, _TEN_!" cried Hickey. "I declare both men down and out.
The Sporting Club will register one knockout to the credit of the
Gutter Pup and one to Lovely Mead. All bets off. The Welsh Rabbit will
proceed to return that watch!!"
* * * * *
At seven o'clock the next morning Lovely, from his delicious bed, gazed
across at the swollen head of the Gutter Pup. At the same instant the
Gutter Pup, opening his eyes, perceived the altered map of Lovely's
features.
"Lovely," he said brokenly, "you're the finest ever. You're a man after
my own heart!"
"Razzle-dazzle," replied Lovely, choking, "you're the finest sport and
gentleman in the land. I love you better than a brother."
"Lovely, that was the greatest fight that has ever been fought," said
the Gutter Pup. "You are the daisy scrapper!"
"Razzle-dazzle----"
"Call me Gutter Pup."
"Gutter Pup, you've got the nerve market cornered."
"Lovely, I haven't felt so happy since the day I stood up five
rounds----"
Suddenly the Gutter Pup stopped and added apologetically: "Say, Lovely,
honest, does my au-to-biography annoy you?"
And Lovely replied happily:
"No, Gutter Pup, honest--not now."
[Illustration: chapter title decoration--THE HERO OF AN HOUR]
THE HERO OF AN HOUR
George Barker Smith was one of the four-hundred-odd boys whose names
figure in the school catalogue at the commencement of each year. He had
passed from the shell into the first form, from the first form into the
second, where he had remained an extra year, during the elongating,
dormant period of his growth, and another year, during the dormant,
elongating one. Then in the seventh year of his career he finally
achieved the fourth form and entered the Upper House.
During this generous stay he had done nothing to distinguish himself
from his neighbour. He had never accomplished anything heroic,
attempted anything daring, or done anything ridiculous. After seven
years his record was so blank that even the fertile imaginations of
Hickey and Macnooder could find nothing on which to hang a nickname.
Besides, it is doubtful if they ever stopped to think of George Barker
Smith. He filled in, he was the average--a part of the great background
of school life, which made up the second teams in athletic contests
and substituted occasionally on the banjo and mandolin clubs, after
borrowing a dress suit across the hall.
He ran in debt at the jigger-shop, like everyone else, or he might have
been called Miser. He flunked in Greek and mathematics sufficiently
to escape the epithet of Poler. He had occasionally been read out
at roll-call for absence from bath, thus invalidating the right to
Soapsuds or Wash.
Sometimes, when his neighbours dropped in on him in quest of stamps
or a collar or a jersey, they called him affectionately Smithy, old
Sockarooster. But he was not deceived, and loaned from his wardrobe
with a full comprehension of the value of endearing terms. Smithy!
After seven years he was just Smithy--his whole story was there.
And in the secret places of his heart, which no boy reveals, George
Barker Smith grieved. Covertly he felt his obscureness and rebelled.
After seven years' afflictions he would pass from Lawrenceville and
be forgotten. And all for the lack of a nickname! If Nature had only
formed him so that he might have aspired to the appellation of the
Triumphant Egghead. The Triumphant Egghead--that was a name to be proud
of! Who could ever forget that? There was fame secure and imperishable;
neither years nor distance could dim the memory!
No, Nature had not been considerate of him. His nose was just a nose,
not a Beekstein; his ears were ordinary ears, not Flop Ears; his teeth
were regular and all present. No one would ever call him Walrus or
Tuskarora Smith, which sounds so well. He was not tall enough to be
called Ladders or Beanpole; he was not small enough for Runt, Tiny,
Wee-wee, or The Man. He was just average size, average weight, which
barred a whole category, such as Skinny, Puff-Ball, Shanks, Slab-Sides,
Jumbo, Flea, Bigboy and Razors.
To pass into the world and be forgotten! To fade from the memory of
his classmates or to linger indistinctly as one of the Smiths between
Charles D. and George R.! And all for the lack of a nickname! George
Barker Smith, brooding thereon, envied the Gutter Pup, who likewise
rejoiced in the appellation of Razzle-dazzle and the Rocky Mountains
Gazelle; he envied the Waladoo Bird, the Coffee-Cooler, the Morning
Glory; he envied Two-Inches Brown, whose indiscreet remark that he
needed but that to make the 'varsity nine had at least enrolled
his name on the list of celebrities; but most of all he envied the
Triumphant Egghead. With that glorious title as model, he sought in
himself for something which might reclaim him--and found nothing.
From Barker Smith might be made Doggie or Bow-wow Smith, but even
that lacked naturalness and application. No, there was no turning his
destiny; Smithy it was decreed and Smithy it would remain.
It was not fame Smith sought. His spirit was not of the sort that
drags angels down. Naturally there had been periods in his youth when
he had dreamed of reaching the Homeric proportions of Turkey Reiter
or Slugger Jones; of scurrying over the gridiron, darting through a
maze of frantic tacklers like Flash Condit, who had scored against the
Princeton 'varsity in that glorious eight to four game; of knocking
out dramatic home runs like Cap Kiefer, that bring joy out of sorrow
and end in towering bonfires. These are glories which all may dream of
but few attain.
Neither did he ask for the gifts of a Hungry Smeed, for to possess the
ability to eat forty-nine pancakes at a sitting was a talent that is
not lightly bestowed. No, he did not ask for fame; all he asked was
to be remembered; for some incident or accident to come which would
mark him with a glorious, fantastic nickname that would live with
the Triumphant Egghead and the Duke of Bilgewater. And Fate, which
sometimes listens to prayers, was kind and brought him not only a
nickname but fame--real enduring fame. For in the most extraordinary
way it came to pass that George Barker Smith unwittingly accomplished
a feat which no boy had ever dared before and which it is extremely
unlikely will ever be duplicated in the future. And this is the manner
in which greatness was thrust upon him.
* * * * *
In the last days of the month of September the school returned from
the fatiguing period of vacation to seek recuperation and needed
sleep in the classrooms. George Barker Smith found himself at
last a full-fledged fourth former, one of the lords of the school,
member of a free governing body, with license to burn the midnight
lamp unchallenged, to stray into the village at all hours, to visit
the jigger-shop during school and remain tranquilly seated when a
master bore down from the horizon, instead of joining the palpitating
under-formers that just at his back crouched, glasses in hand, behind
the counter. No longer did he have to stand in file once a week before
the Bursar to claim a beggarly half-dollar allowance. Instead, once
a mouth he strolled in at his pleasure and nonchalantly tendered
checks for fifty dollars, with which allowance his parents, for one
blissful year only, fondly expected him to purchase all the clothes
necessary--per agreement.
He could hire a buggy at ruinous rates and disappear in search of
distant cider-mills or visit friends in Princeton, who had gone
before. Finally, his room was his castle, where no imperious tapping
of a lurking undermaster would come to disturb a little party at the
national game, for chips only, of course.
George Barker Smith's room was on the third floor back and had
attached to it certain communal rights. Even as the possession of the
ground-floor rooms in the under-form houses entailed the obligation to
assist at all hours of the night the passage to the outer world, and to
assure the safe return therefrom, so room 67 was the recognised highway
to the roof of the Upper, when the thermometer had mounted above
seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit.
Those who sought the cooling heights sought security and (be it
confessed, now that an inconsiderate Faculty's sanction has made
smoking no longer a pleasure but a choice) the companionship
of the Demon Cigarette or the "Coffin Nail," as it was more
affectionately known. The guardianship of this highway, if it entailed
responsibilities, also brought with it certain perquisites and tariffs
in the shape of an invitation without expense.
Now, George Barker Smith did not like the odour of tobacco in the
least, and he particularly disliked the effects produced by the cheap
cigarette which the price rendered popular. But once a fourth former
there were so few rules to break that this opportunity had to be
embraced as an imperative duty, and so he resigned himself, pretending
(like how many others!) to inhale and enjoy it.
The last weeks of September were unusually hot and distressing. The
stiff collar disappeared. Two-piece suits became the fashion for full
dress and fatigue uniform consisted of considerably less. The day was
passed in long, grumbling siestas under the shade of apple trees or in
a complete surrender to the cooling contact of peach and strawberry
jiggers. Even games lost their attraction, and the only sign of life
was the pleasant spectacle of the heavy squad on the football team,
puffing protestingly about the circle under the cruel necessity of
reducing weight.
After dark, bands were organised which stole away, through negro
villages, arousing frantic dogs, to the banks of the not-too-fragrant
canal, where they spent a long, blissful hour frolicking in the moonlit
water or raising their voices in close harmony on the bank. Other
spirits, not so adventurous, contented themselves with lining up behind
the Upper in white, shivering line, where the hose brought comfort as
it played over grateful backs.
Naturally, at night, smoking up the flue, even with the whispered
conversations with the boy below and the boy across, lost all charm.
The roof became a veritable rookery. Mattresses were carried up and
hot, suffocating boys lolled through the raging night swapping yarns
and gazing at the inscrutable stars.
On a certain evening, hot among the hottest, George Barker Smith,
in that costume which obtained before the publication of the first
fashions, was sitting at his desk in a conscientious endeavour to
translate one paragraph of Cicero, which he held in his right hand, for
every chapter of the Count of Monte Cristo, which he held in his left.
At his door suddenly appeared the Triumphant Egghead and Goat
Phillips, whose title at this time had been conveyed solely for the
butting manner of his attack. Each had likewise reached that stage of
dishabille where there is little more to shed.
"Hello, old Sockbutts," said Egghead, genially.
"Hello yourself," returned Smith, non-committally.
"We're going up on the roof," continued the Egghead. "Anyone up yet?"
"Not yet."
"It's as hot as blazes," said the Goat. "Better come along."