The modern Cane Spree is held in broad daylight on University Field.
It is a vastly different affair from the Spree we used to watch with
chattering teeth at midnight, kneeling on the wet grass in front of
Witherspoon, with a full moon watching over West College and Mat.
Goldie and two assistants waiting by the lamp-post to join in the
fierce rush which followed each bout.
Nowadays it is one of the regular events of the Annual Fall Handicap
Games, and is advertised in large special feature letters on the
posters hanging in the shop windows and on the bulletin elm. It is a
perfectly proper and legitimate proceeding, and is watched like any
other field event from the bleachers and Grand Stand, with girls there
to catch their breath and say "Oh!" The class that wins is glad. They
cheer awhile and then watch the final heat of the 2.20.
In our day you could seldom see much of anything, and there was
nothing proper about it. But it was one of the things a fellow lived
for, like Thanksgiving games and Spring Term. To win a cane for one's
class was an honor of a lifetime, like playing on the 'Varsity, or
winning the Lynde debate. Men are still pointed out when back at
Commencement as the light or middle weight spreers of their class, and
a member of the faculty is famous for having "described a parabola
with his opponent." This trick and a book called "Basal Concepts in
Philosophy" bear his name, though it is maintained by some that he is
more proud of the book.
This is to be a story of "How we used to do when we were in college."
It would not do to revive the ancient cane spree. Things have changed
since then. We are a university now. We mustn't behave like a college
any longer. Besides, it was bad for the football men and training
hours. But all the same, those old times were fun while they lasted.
Weren't they?
* * * * *
High up over Clio Hall hung a moon, which a night or two before had
been full. Over there, on the balconies of Witherspoon, blue and red
and green lights were flaring. On the grass-plot in front was a huge
black circle. This was made up of the College of New Jersey.
Their hats were off, and the red and the green and the blue mingled
with the moonlight and glared upon the bare heads and the white of
the faces with an effect as ghastly as it sounds.
The elms over toward Reunion and West cast long ugly-looking shadows.
Beyond these everything seemed far away and dark and silent. Yet only
a few hours before this same spot had served the innocent purpose of
batting up flies and kicking footballs for points, with fellows
shouting in loud, careless voices, "Aw! Come off! That was over the
line!"
The circle was not yet perfectly formed. The crowd shivered and
fidgeted, and borrowed lights of one another. Those behind called
"Down in front!" And everyone wished it would begin. Some fellows kept
edging in and were shoved back again by those appointed for that
purpose. A few were moving about inside the circle displaying rolls of
bills with which they made bets, and a great impression on
under-classmen of a certain sort. The night was to be clear and
frosty, and the strain on the nerves tremendous. So all those who
believed in artificial warmth had it in their pockets, and some who
did not.
For a month it had been, next to football, the most discussed topic at
dinner-tables. Almost as soon as the rush was over--the annual cannon
rush of the second night of the term without which the freshmen would
not have considered themselves a class, while the underclassmen were
still occupied in hazing and being hazed, and putting up and pulling
down each other's proclamations throughout the state, and painting and
repainting water-towers, and losing sleep in other good causes; in
short, early in the term the candidates for the spreeing positions
went into training, and they had been spreeing vigorously every night
since--the freshmen back of the chapel and the sophs on the South
Campus, about where Brown Hall now stands.
All sorts of rumors and counter-rumors had floated about the campus.
The sophomores were frightened about a hinted-at dark horse of the
freshmen, only they did not show it; and the freshmen were scared to
death at the confident air of the well-known champion of the
sophomores, and tried not to show it. And each was awed at the
mysterious air of the other, and both had betted more than they had
any business to on the result, and were now lined up in front of
Witherspoon. All were as excited as they cared to be, and they had
been cheering for themselves since nine o'clock. The cheers echoed in
the frosty air from dark West and bright Witherspoon, and from far
away first Church.
The sophomores were closely massed in the segment of the circle on the
higher ground toward Reunion. Their cheering sounded blatant, and to
the freshmen sickeningly confident. And the freshmen--they were
opposite, with their sweet scared faces still more closely huddled
together. Each freshman had his little cap safely tucked away in his
innermost pocket, and none of them was saying a word, except when he
opened his mouth to cheer with all his heart for his dear class. It
was all new to them. They only waited and waited with the same aching
suspense that you had on Thanksgiving-day, when you saw the referee
toss the coin and one team take the ball while the other crouched, and
then waited and waited, and you felt certain that something awful was
the matter, but you did not know what.
Presently, though no official sign was given, every one felt that the
important moment was at hand. The cheering sounded as if
reinforcements had arrived. A compact circle was now formed by
composite consent. Those in the front row sat down on the grass and
caught cold. The next row kneeled. Those behind leaned on them, and so
on back to those who stood on tip-toe and craned their necks for an
occasional glimpse. Outside the circle, over by the Witherspoon
lamp-post, leaned Proctor Matthew Goldie, Esquire, in a careless
attitude.
Everyone's heart jumped up a little when a voice cried, "Here they
come!" as though it were he who had to spree.
Led by their coachers, the two light weights scudded out mysteriously
from different wings of Witherspoon with overcoats wrapped about them.
As they crossed the light, the crowd, which had hushed for a moment,
broke out in wild prolonged cheering; the two upper classes, who were
not immediately interested, joined in. So did the sporting gentlemen
of the town, and even the little muckers cheered shrilly for their
favorite class.
A path was forced through the crowd, and the two nimble light weights
began peeling their sweaters. The sophomore was dressed in black, the
freshman in pure white. They resined their hands. Everyone felt
things.
The referee held out the stout piece of hickory called cane by
courtesy. He put the freshman's hands outside. The cheering ceased.
Mat. Goldie stretched and changed his position.
There was a hurting stillness as they stood there with their feet
braced, frozen in the ghastly glare, the one in white and the one in
black, while the referee said, in earnest tones, "Are you ready,
freshman?"
You could see his chest filling up from the bottom as he answered,
"Um."
"Are you ready, sophomore?"
"Yes."
"Spree!"
One of them dropped as if shot, the other followed him down, both
turned over, each began struggling and straining; the coachers began
coaching, the referee dropped down on his knees to see fair play, and
then someone in the rear said, "Down in front!" in healthy, human
tones, and you came to yourself and remembered that this was only a
struggle for class honor, after all, and that whichever way it came
out it was not going to kill you. Then you breathed.
Meanwhile, locked up in a room in East Middle Witherspoon, wrapped in
sweaters and blankets, were five other freshmen, and to them the
strain was worst of all. These were the other freshmen spreers, the
light weight, the middle weight, and the three substitutes. They could
only wait and listen and try to guess from the sound of the cheers
which side had the advantage. It was too far off to distinguish
anything but a ring with something undefined inside. The juniors said
they must not go out on the balcony or get excited. This was easy to
say.
While the crowd was in the room and fellows were clattering up and
down the stairs and everyone was talking and the crowd outside was
making a noise, it was not so bad. But now it was so silent they could
almost hear the two contestants straining and wrenching below. Now and
then the shrill, earnest voice of a coacher would cut through the
silence. "Now! Now!" with an echo from the Presbyterian Church. "Right
over with him. Remember what I told you." Once the middle weight arose
from the divan; then he sat down again. A little later one of the subs
whistled two bars of a tune and stopped as if he had forgotten
something. Once in a while someone glanced at one of the others and
then looked away again. They did not say much.
The only one who did not seem to mind it was Hill, the substitute
heavy weight, and that was only because he had not sense enough. He
was a big, thick-headed, sleepy-looking farmer, and the only reason he
was up here with these nimble athletes was that he was such a
tremendous buck and so stupid that when once he put his big hands on
the stick he would not let go. But he would be used only in case the
regular heavy weight died or had a fit or something before time was
called, and that was improbable.
But Hill was enjoying everything. He thought the colored lights were
"pretty," and he considered it good fun, loafing in this large,
luxurious room. He glanced approvingly at the water-colors and
examined the photographs and knocked down a few of them, and looked
over the mugs and the foils and the antlers and the usual dust
collectors of a well-furnished room. Then, because he approved of what
he saw, he grinned.
He had grinned at the staring crowd when, half an hour before, it had
stood to one side for him and the other spreers to pass by on the way
back from weighing at the gymnasium. He thought lots of things were
funny. He grinned broadly when, before the spree began, an excitable
junior approached him in the corner where he was sitting alone and
said, in jerky, tremulous tones, "Say, which do you think will win?"
This was before the crowd was put out. That was the funniest thing of
all--the way Cunningham put the crowd out. "Dash it! I wish to dash
you fellows would dash quickly get to dash out of here. This is my
room and, dash it all, I loaned it to the dash freshmen spreers and
not to the whole dash college, dash it!" That was so funny that Hill
let loose his huge laugh and filled up the room with it. This caused
the other freshmen to look at one another and smile pityingly. But
Hill did not notice it.
The other freshmen had little in common with Hill. It was not so much
because he was uncouth as that he had no class spirit. He had entered
college two days late, and those two days are like two years in some
respects. He had missed the class meeting, where freshmen get a first
sight of one another which lasts always, and he had missed the class
rush about the cannon, where freshmen are so closely pressed together
that they never after get quite apart. But the farmer should have
wakened up by this time. Lack of class spirit is never pardonable.
This is the way Hill happened to be here this evening.
One day early in the term, as he was pushing his big chest across the
campus to recitation, he heard someone call: "Hold up, there, you big
freshman!" So he smiled and took off his ugly derby hat.
"No, I'm not a sophomore; I'm a junior," said the stranger, who then
explained that he wanted to talk to him. "You come to my room at one
o'clock, and don't forget about it," said the junior. "Run along, now;
the bell is stopping."
Hill came, and found several other freshmen there. "Take hold of this
stick," said the junior.
He put his big fists about it and found himself flying across the
room. He landed against the door and beside him lay a table, which
never arose.
"Now, that is cane-spreeing," said the junior casually, as one would
say, "Down there is the new Art building," "and I want all you fellows
to meet me at eight o'clock back of chapel."
That night they gave Hill a cane and said, "Take hold of this and
don't let go." He held it for an hour against every one except the
junior that was sophomore heavy weight the previous year. But he had
never yet been quick enough to take it away from anyone, even the
light weights. And that was the reason he was a substitute waiting in
Montie Cunningham's room wrapped in two sweaters and a blanket. His
eyes were closed and he was thinking about what a bully time his
younger brother Ike must be having among the chestnuts this month.
The big leather chair was soft and he might have fallen asleep had not
at that moment a tremendous yell burst into existence down below--a
loud, shrill, fiendish yell which lasted nearly a minute before it
was shaken down to an organized cheer. Hill stretched.
The others were out on the balcony. "Tell us which has it! For
heaven's sake, tell us!" they cried to every one below; and no one
below answered. So all they could do was to bite their lips and wait
until the yelling became cheering, and then they knew from the
exultant tones of the sophomores what they did not want to know.
Just then they caught a glimpse of the victor waving the cane in his
hand as he was borne high on the shoulders of his class-mates to West
Witherspoon.
Then they had a confused view of the rush. The upper classes fell to
one side and the other two fell upon one another. This was the
fiercest sort of rushing known to the proctors. The two sides were
not, as in the cannon rush, evenly lined up four abreast. Not a bit of
it. There were two thickly massed bodies of men, one running up a
grade, the other charging down, and the roll of their footsteps was as
the sound of much cattle, running. For a moment each tried to keep in
solid form. But only long enough for some one to be knocked down and
run over by the rest. After the first crash it was mixed fighting. In
the moonlight one could not invariably distinguish friend from foe.
So each man doubled up both fists and let drive at everyone he saw. It
was glorious.
As soon as they became hopelessly mixed and each class had cheered
itself hoarse and the proctors had carried off an armful of sophomores
to appear before the Discipline Committee the next day, and to be
cheered off at the depot by lamenting classmates later on, everyone
turned up his coat-collar and helped form the ring again.
Those on the balcony, who had been panting and chafing like tied
deer-hounds, now heard the feet of them bearing bad tidings and the
defeated freshman up the entry stairs. The door was kicked open and
three winded juniors laid their burden gently on the bed, which had
been dragged in from the other room for this purpose. With them many
others pushed in who did not belong there, and the room was full of
people once more. Many voices were explaining how it all happened.
Ramsay, the little freshman, was completely done. He had fainted as
they brought him upstairs. His face was set and white, and he lay
there with his tough little resiny hands hanging limp at his side
while his classmates poured brandy down his throat and told each other
what to do. Through the window came a sharp freshman cheer with "Runt
Ramsay" on the end.
Meanwhile the middle weight had stripped to the waist. He was bending
forward with his forearms upon the mantel-piece and his forehead
resting on them, as one bows during prayers in chapel. Two men were
vigorously rubbing his long strong back with whiskey. The coach was
standing beside him, giving final admonitions in a quick, tense
manner. "Now, if he does this, you do this. See? He can't get you on
that shoulder-throw of his. And if he tries this trick you know how to
meet it. Why, you can do him dead easy. I won from him last year, and
you can take it away from me," and so on. As they started from the
room, he added, "Now remember your whole class is watching you
and----" But the door closed and they hurried down the stairs, and in
a moment the wild cheering announced their entrance in the ring. Hill
was sorry, because he thought it right funny.
He went out on the balcony and looked down on the crowd. The noise and
the moonlight and the specks of cigarlight had a grotesque effect. He
had never seen anything like it before.
"Oh, cork up that laugh, Farmer Hill," said Bushforth, the heavy
weight, who was also centre of the freshman team and had a right to
patronize. "It's bad enough as it is, without that bark of yours."
Hill stopped laughing. He grinned instead. His feelings were not hurt.
He had none.
Again the cheering was hushed. It was so still that those on the
balcony might have heard the hard breathing or the whimpering of the
freshman on the bed. The farmer heard it and went inside.
The liquor and exercise had made Ramsay warm. He had thrown off the
blankets and lay half naked with his hands clasped across his eyes.
Drops of sweat were running off his palpitating chest. Hill looked at
his prettily developed arms and at the slender, well-turned wrist and
at the tough little hands, which, Hill decided, had never done much
farm work. Then because he liked what he saw, he laughed.
The light weight uncovered one eye and then covered it again.
"There, there," said the farmer, patting the black curly hair, which
looked "pretty" against the white pillow. "I wouldn't take on so,
little one, we'll get some of those canes yet."
Brandy and defeat had made Ramsay cross. He said: "Oh, go to the
devil, won't you please?"
"All right," replied the big fellow. "Only you'll catch cold that way.
Let me fix them." He carefully tucked the blankets around his
classmate, who said, "That's so. Much obliged." Hill smiled at his
uncomfortable tone.
When, after seven hard-fought rounds, Murray, the middle weight, was
brought up breathless and caneless, there was great discouragement in
the freshman camp. The middle weight was the one above all others upon
whom they had relied to defend the honor of the class. Murray, the
long-winded, himself had felt confident of winning; and probably he
would have by sheer endurance had not the sophomore taken him unawares
by a very easy finger trick as they lay together on the ground
resting.
But it was all over now, and the middle weight was stretched out on
the bed beside Ramsay. He had not, however, fainted, and he was
sullenly chewing a piece of gum he had had in his mouth during the
struggle. He looked unconcerned. He made no excuses to those who told
what a nervy fight he had made.
All the week previous the betting on the heavy weight had been two to
one on the sophomore. But now three seniors from the enemy's camp
swaggered into the room shouting, "Here's four to one on Parker. Who
wants it? Why don't you back your man?" They smiled at the junior
coachers. "Drake don't want any of it," said another, in a dry tone;
"he knows Parker too well."
Drake was the man who met Parker, unsuccessfully, the year before.
"Wait a moment," he said. His sporting blood was stirred. "I'll take
all you have, at four to one. Charlie, will you hold it, please?"
All of this must have been soothing to the nerves of the freshman
heavy weight who was taking off his clothes for a final rub and trying
not to hear the class cheers outside.
"Now then," said Montie Cunningham, slamming the door as the seniors
hurried down the stairs, "this thing's got to stop right _here_." He
brought a baseball bat down on the table so hard that every one
stopped talking and looked up. "You've simply got to win that cane. If
those dash sophomores win all three they'll crow over you for the rest
of their course. They are arrogant enough already, dash them. And you
fellows will be disgraced forever, and your class will be handed down
in history as no good. People will refer to you as a class who lost
all three canes. This is a crisis in your history. You made a good
showing in the rush, but you were badly defeated in the baseball
series. This is the third test. This decides it. Win this cane and you
are all right. One out of three is a defeat, but not a disgrace,
because you are only freshmen. But _none_ out of three _is_. _You've
got to win this cane!_"
No one uttered a sound for a moment. Farmer Hill did not laugh.
"Come here, Bushforth," said Drake, in a low, solemn voice; "I'll rub
you myself."
The heavy weight was beautifully built and exceedingly quick for his
size. He came to college with a good prep-school record of centre
rush. But there was something disappointing about him, and you felt it
every time you saw him move. You know the kind. One of those fellows
who are splendid to look at in a football suit, and who will always
put up a fair game on the scrub, but who are never going to make the
'Varsity.
Just now he was biting his lip and looking down at his own good legs.
When he raised his glance he found Hill standing with arms akimbo,
gazing at him with an earnest expression.
Bushforth smiled good-humoredly to show how cool he was.
"Think you can take that cane?" Hill asked with a grin.
"I really don't know, Hill," answered the beautifully built man.
"Do you think you can take it?" repeated the other.
"Well, Hill, Parker will have to work for it," said the heavy weight,
indulgently. "Why? Would you like to take my place? I'd be glad to
resign in your favor."
"All right," said Hill, simply. He began pulling up his sweater.
"Go on and sit down and stop your nonsense." It was hard to stand
horse-play at such a moment, when your whole class was cheering for
you outside.
"I ain't fooling," said the big farmer, with his arms still in the
sweater, his head and body out.
"Hurry, Bush," said one of the juniors at the window. "The sophs have
yelled across at me that they are ready."
"All right," said Bushforth, lacing his Jersey as he started for the
door. He forgot to answer the other freshman.
"Wait a minute," said the big, cheerful voice of the farmer, "I think
I'll go down this time."
"Oh, cork up, you big cow!" said Drake.
Hill corked up and then pushed Bushforth out of the way and started
for the door.
"Will you please go back where you belong and sit down?" said Drake,
impressively.
It failed to impress Hill. "Well, you see, it's this way," he began
pleasantly, "he can't take that cane, I'm afraid. I can, though. I've
got my blood up." He began contracting his biceps playfully. "Isn't it
time to----"
"Freshman," interrupted Drake, with irony, "we have chosen the heavy
weight representative of your class, and we are of the opinion that we
know about as much of this business as you do. I never heard of such
foolishness. Go sit down, and shut your big face. Your services will
not be required unless Billy is laid off before he reaches the foot of
the entry stairs. Come on, Billy."
"Then," Hill answered, smilingly, "I'll have to lay him off." He
suddenly grabbed his big classmate by the shoulders, jerked him back
into his arms, grasped him like a bag of flour, and hoisted him on his
shoulders as if he had been one. "Now you lie down there, and be a
good boy." He dropped Bushforth, but not roughly, in the corner
behind the door, and then looked beamingly about at the others as
though he had performed quite a feat. And so he had. Bushforth weighed
one hundred and eighty-nine, stripped.
Outside the crowd was yelling concertedly in quick, jerky notes,
"Shake it up! Shake it up! Shake it up!" and the sophomores were
singing "Where, oh, where are the verdant freshmen?" etc., "Lost now
in the green, green soup." But upstairs everyone was so tense and so
excited that nothing was heard but the angry words of the coachers
addressed to Hill, who was grinning.
Bushforth arose from the floor slowly.
"Shake it up, Billy," cried Drake, exasperated; "do you want to lose
your cane by default?"
"Say," replied Bushforth, soberly, "do you suppose there's anything
the matter with this hand?--Ugh! Great Scott! don't squeeze it."
Hill had not thrown him violently, but Bushforth, in throwing out his
arms to stop himself, had struck his left hand against the wooden
door-guard a few inches above the floor behind the door, and all his
weight was upon it. The junior coach shut his eyes, dropped into
Hill's big chair, and let his arms fall down to his sides. Everyone
looked at him. "That settles it," he gasped. "Billy's hand is
sprained. Let's give up the cane by default and----"
"Is it sprained?" interrupted Hill, removing his smile suddenly. "I'm
sorry I hurt his hand. I did not intend that--Mr. Bushforth, I beg
your pardon. I just wanted to show these fellows how strong I was. I
didn't think I had a fair trial at spreeing. And now, Drake, don't you
think we had better go down? They are clamoring down there. Are you
coming?"
His tones were very deliberate and his manner so calm in contrast to
the boiling condition of the others, that everyone seemed stunned for
a moment. They only looked at one another.
"Shake it up! Shake it up! Shake it up!" came from the crowd below,
and just then two representatives from the sophomores came running up
the stairs, shouting, "Say, if you fellows don't wish to lose this by
default come right now. Everyone's tired of waiting."
"Don't get excited," Drake shouted back. "Bushforth met with an
accident and the sub is going to take his place. Come on, Hill." It
was the only thing to do.
Hill saw the eyes of the two seniors brighten at the news, and heard
his own classmates in the room cursing him. He said to himself, "Now
then, I guess I've got to do something this evening," and followed
Drake down the stairs.
"You're stronger than he is. He's all bluff. You'll do him dead
easily," the two coachers were saying as heartily as they could. Hill
did not reply. They crossed the light from the entry door. A strong
cheer went up for Bushforth. Hill laughed. The coachers shivered.
Before they had pushed their way through the crowd to the ring, word
went around that at the last moment Bushforth was laid off, and that a
big sub named Hill had taken his place. Few had ever heard the name.
The freshmen groaned; Hill heard it.
As they emerged into the ring, he heard a strange voice saying, "Why,
he's that great big awkward chap the sophs guy so much, don't you
remember?" Again Hill laughed.
"That's all right," whispered one of the juniors as he helped him off
with his sweater. "You go in and win this cane, and your class will
give you anything you want. Keep cool now, and remember what you have
learned."
The farmer's big deformity-like shoulders looked more huge than ever
in the thin, white jersey as he now straightened up in the moonlight.
"'Ray! 'Ray! 'Ray! Tiger, Siss, Boom, Ah! Hill." It rang out sharply
on the frosty air. Then came a long cheer and then more short ones,
with "Hill" on the end of them.
There is a peculiar thrill at the sound of one's own name shouted by a
hundred voices on the end of a cheer. Hill felt it. He liked the
feeling. "Now that means me," he said to himself, and he recalled what
Drake had said to the middle weight: "Now remember, your whole class
is watching you." It was in that moment that Hill caught class spirit.
The heavy weight spree was usually the shortest and most exciting
contest of the evening. Everyone eagerly pressed forward on the wet
grass.
The sophomores were barking and guying and quacking exultingly. The
freshmen were cheering hard.
"Get ready, boys," said Jim, the athletic trainer, acting as referee.
He held out the stick.
The sophomore ran out briskly. Hill spat on his hands and took his
time about it. They grasped the cane. "Down in front, _please_!" a
voice pleaded. The cheering had ceased as suddenly as you turn off the
gas.
Hill was cool. He looked about at the theatre of faces on all sides.
Just over the sophomore's shoulder, down on the ground with moonlight
on his face, he spied an important-looking senior, with glasses, who
on the campus had always seemed oblivious to the existence of
freshmen. He was rocking back and forth and chewing a cold cigar to
bits.
"Are you ready, Hill?"