Scott was gradually settling down in his new surroundings, getting
accustomed to his new associates, who had struck him as being so totally
different from the men he was used to, and becoming familiar with the
routine of the class work.
He found himself at a great disadvantage in competition with the other
members of the class. He had been taught by good teachers, but their
point of view had been different from that of the foresters who had
taught the men with whom he was now thrown. These fellows had been
looking forward to a definite end for several years and all their
training had been with the ultimate object in view. They had a different
view of the subjects from the one he had obtained from the academic men
who had taught him. He found that they had a grip of the subjects and
could apply them in a way that he could not. Moreover, he had a great
deal of extra work to make up and he had been allowed to take it only on
condition that if he was not up to the scratch at the end of the first
six weeks he would have to drop it all.
Not many men could have carried such a burden, and the chairman of the
Students’ Work Committee had told him that he was foolish to attempt it.
Most men would have either fallen short or have overworked themselves;
but Scott did neither. He had always believed in system in his work. He
allotted so much time to his studies and allowed nothing to interfere
with them; he made it a point not to study for an hour in the evening
after supper, and never looked at a book from Saturday noon to Monday
morning. He knew that he was able to accomplish more in the long run in
this way. As most of the student sports were scheduled for Saturday
afternoon he was able to take in most of them and did not become stale.
He had just closed his book one Saturday morning preparatory to going to
lunch when Johnson bounced into the room in high feather.
“Come on, Scotty, let’s go to the football game this afternoon. It’s
only Lawrence, and won’t be much of a game, but it will give us a chance
to get a line on the team.”
Scott agreed readily, the more readily because he had never seen a big
football game. They ate lunch hastily, for it was already a little late
and the game was scheduled a little earlier than usual. The car was
crowded with people going to the field and when they got off the car
they found the streets full of people flocking in the same direction.
Johnson led the way into two good seats where they did not belong and
succeeded in holding them against all comers. The stands were full, for
though it was not considered one of the big games, it was the first game
of the season, and the students all turned out to see their team in
action. It was the basis for sizing up the chances for the team in the
struggle for the Western supremacy. The stands were a brilliant mass of
color and the cheer leaders were performing all kinds of contortions to
wring the greatest volume of noise from the crowd.
As they took their seats the door of the Armory opened and a squad of
players trotted briskly onto the field. There was a restless movement of
the crowd on the big stand and a few scattering cheers from the smaller
stand opposite, but no organized yells.
“Is that one of the teams?” Scott asked anxiously.
“Yes,” Johnson answered, leaning eagerly forward to size each man up as
he took his place.
“Why don’t they cheer them?” Scott asked in surprise.
“That’s the other team,” Johnson answered carelessly.
“I should think that would be all the more reason for cheering them,”
Scott said.
Johnson turned a wondering look upon him, but was prevented from
answering by a deafening yell from the whole stand in which they both
joined heartily. Their own team had appeared.
“How’s that for yelling?” Johnson asked proudly.
“Rather discouraging for the other fellows,” Scott answered.
“Well, that’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Look there, they are lining
up already.”
The referee had called the captains together, decided the choice of
goal, and the two teams were taking their places.
“Their ball,” Johnson commented, intent on the field.
The referee blew his whistle and there was a moment of intense silence
as the blue line charged forward and the ball sailed far out on the
kick-off. It was a splendid kick, clear to the corner of the field and
high. It dropped neatly into a pair of maroon arms and the crowd cheered
wildly.
“Wasn’t that a dandy kick!” Scott exclaimed.
“Now watch them run it back,” Johnson exulted.
But they did not run it back so fast. One of the swift blue ends was on
the man and downed him in his tracks.
“That man’s some fast,” Scott said.
“Yes,” Johnson said, “too fast. They ought to look out for him. They’ll
carry it back fast enough now; that line can’t hold them.”
The ball was snapped, and an attempt made at an end run, but the same
man who had followed the kick downed the man for a loss. An attempt at
center fared no better and the fullback dropped back for a kick. The
ball went out of bounds almost in the center of the field.
Then the real surprise came. The Lawrence team formed quickly, and by a
series of lightning plays swept down toward the Minnesota goal. Nothing
seemed able to stop them. The stand was as silent as the tomb.
“Why don’t they yell?” Scott asked. “Now is the time the team needs it.”
“Who could cheer such an exhibition as that?” Johnson asked in disgust.
Suddenly the stand went wild. A Lawrence runner, rounding the end, far
out beyond the other team slipped in a puddle and fell. The ball rolled
toward the goal line and a Minnesota player fell on it on the five-yard
line.
“That was hard luck,” Scott remarked when the cheering had subsided.
“Hard luck!” Johnson exclaimed. “Who do you want to win this game?”
“Minnesota, of course,” Scott retorted indignantly, “but to win on a
thing like that does not do them any credit.”
“Kept ’em from scoring, anyway,” Johnson answered doggedly.
The ball was kicked into safety once more and the Lawrence team started
on another rush for the goal. Again they seemed irresistible, and only a
fumble on the ten-yard line saved a score. What had started as a
practice game had developed into a real struggle for victory with
Minnesota continually on the defensive.
At the end of the first quarter neither team had scored. Again and again
in the next period, the fast Lawrence team carried the ball through
their heavier opponents only to lose it near the goal line by some slip
of their own. Not once were they held on downs. But fate seemed to be
against them, for the whistle blew at the end of the second quarter with
the first down on the Minnesota two-yard line.
No sooner had the teams left the field for the ten minutes’ rest between
halves than the big University band formed in front of the grandstand
and marched around the field playing lively airs to try to put some
heart into the crowd. It did not succeed very well; the crowd seemed
utterly beaten and without hope.
“Is Lawrence a big college?” Scott asked when the music ceased.
“No,” Johnson groaned in disgust.
“They seem to have a mighty good team,” Scott continued.
“You mean we have a mighty rotten one,” Johnson retorted. “They ought to
bury Lawrence, and if they can’t they ought to be ashamed of
themselves.”
“They are doing the best they can,” Scott said, “and they ought to be
supported. They can’t help it if the other fellows are better.”
“That won’t stop them from getting licked,” Johnson growled.
“What difference does it make if they do get licked?” Scott argued. “You
ought to give the other people credit—” he began, when there was a half
hearted cheer and the teams trotted out on the field again.
“Now let’s see if the ‘old man’ has put a bug in their ear.” Johnson
said, leaning forward with renewed hope.
The game started out pretty much as before, but not so fast. The ball
was creeping steadily down into Minnesota territory when a poor pass
carried it over the head of the Lawrence fullback, he fumbled in trying
to recover it, and a Minnesota man got it. The crowd cheered the poor
pass wildly.
Scott looked around in astonishment. “What are they yelling for now?” he
asked.
“Didn’t you see that pass?” Johnson asked excitedly.
“Don’t see anything to cheer in that, it was just a poor pass such as
you could see on any corner lot.”
“Meant ten yards and the ball to us,” Johnson answered shortly. He had
made his own way in the world and had usually found the other fellow’s
loss to be his gain.
That seemed to be the turning point in the game. The light Lawrence team
had expended its strength in the early part of the game. Their
substitutes, as in most small colleges, were poor, and the overwhelming
weight of the maroon team began to tell. Following up their advantage
they carried the ball steadily down the field, crushing the lighter team
before them. The crowd went wild with enthusiasm. The yelling was almost
a continuous roar.
But the little Lawrence team was game. On their five-yard line they took
a brace and would not yield an inch. The big machine which had carried
the ball surely, for almost the entire length of the field, lost it on
downs, and saw it kicked far over their heads out to the center of the
field. The crowd was still in an instant and there was even a slight
tendency to hiss, but the better element instantly suppressed it.
The third quarter ended and still there was no score.
The teams changed sides amidst a deathlike silence. The next instant all
was wild excitement again. The captain of the Minnesota team had broken
away with a clean forward pass, and was speeding away down the field
with no one between him and a touchdown but the little Lawrence quarter.
Scott yelled with the loudest of them. “Wasn’t that a corker?” he
screamed in Johnson’s ear.
The yelling ended, as suddenly as it had begun, in a groan. The little
quarterback agily kept in front of the big runner, followed his every
feint, and brought him to the ground with a crash.
“Blame it,” Scott exclaimed. “Wasn’t that a beautiful tackle?”
“Beautiful tackle?” Johnson raged. “I wish he had broken his neck.” This
last remark must not be taken to represent the attitude of the majority
of the crowd, but it fairly represented Johnson’s attitude in everything
but his own actions.
The setback, however, was only temporary. The big team gathered itself
together, and carried the ball over for a touchdown. Goal was kicked
just three minutes before time was called, and the game ended with a
score of seven to nothing in favor of Minnesota.
The big crowd jostled slowly out of the gate and it seemed to Scott that
for people who had been so wildly desirous of winning, they were very
silent about it when it was accomplished.
“That’s what I call a good game,” Scott said.
“That’s what _I_ call a rotten game,” Johnson retorted. “They ought to
have beaten Lawrence thirty to nothing, instead of that they barely
succeeded in making seven, and were nearly scored against three or four
times.”
“What has that got to do with it?” Scott argued. “It would have been
just as good a game if we had not won it at all. The good playing is
what you want to see, no matter who does it.”
“Do you mean to say that you would enjoy seeing a good play if the other
people made it and it counted against you?”
“Certainly,” Scott answered stoutly. “I enjoyed seeing that quarterback
make that tackle though it knocked us out of a touchdown. It would not
have been nearly so pretty if he had missed it.”
“That’s one of your Eastern ideas of sport,” Johnson jeered
contemptuously. “You can watch the pretty plays the other people make;
they look better to me when our own team makes them.”
“If that game had been at home,” Scott continued, “every good play those
Lawrence people made would have been cheered the same as our own.”
“Do you call that being loyal to your team?” Johnson asked.
“Certainly. It’s simply giving the other fellow credit for what he does.
There is no team loyalty in pretending the fellows they beat are no
good, and still less in saying that the team that defeated them was no
good.”
That seemed to put the question up to Johnson in a new light. He
pondered over it for a minute and then looked up cheerfully.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Scotty. We play to win and let the other
fellow look after his credit, but there’s some sense in that last. Can
you really see the beauty of the play that goes against you?”
“Certainly.”
“Well,” Johnson laughed, “wait till I see you praising some fellow’s
skill in blacking your eye in some boxing bout. Then I’ll believe you.
Come on, let’s walk home. We’ll have plenty of time before supper.”
There was a little talk at the supper table of the football game, most
of the men taking the same view as Johnson, that it was a pretty poor
exhibition because Lawrence had not been completely overwhelmed, but
most of the time was taken up with a discussion of the coming campfire.
The upper classmen hinted mysteriously of the sacred rites that had been
prepared for the new members.
“Ormand,” Morgan hissed in a stage whisper which could be plainly heard
by every one at the table, “did you feed the goat tonight?”
“No,” Ormand answered in the same tone, “he’ll be more savage if he is
hungry, and besides, he’ll get plenty of green stuff to eat tonight.
“Johnson,” he continued, “if you and Scotty had taken my advice and
paddled each other every night for half an hour for the past two weeks
you would be better prepared.”
Scott could not help feeling nervous, but it did not seem to worry
Johnson.
“You don’t know that we have not been doing it,” he answered flippantly.
“It won’t be the first goat I have ridden, and I don’t believe he can
out-butt the old ram I tried to herd in Wyoming one summer.”
“You’ll have a good chance for comparison, anyway,” said Ormand rising.
“Come on, Morgan, let’s go prepare the torture chamber at the
clubhouse.”
The new men at the table responded with varying degrees of bravado
according to their natures, but a very apparent feeling of nervous
excitement pervaded everyone except Johnson. Nothing could perturb his
cheerful good humor.
“Cheer up, Tubby,” he cried to a stout freshman who sat opposite him.
“They may sting you a little but there is no chance of their striking a
bone. And look at little Steve over there with a face a mile long. Don’t
you know they dasent touch you for fear of breaking your glasses?”
In two minutes he had broken the spell and had them all at ease. The
self-reliance he had gained through his life of hard knocks was
infectious. He enjoyed the influence that it gave him over the others,
and he lorded it over them on all occasions, but always in a way that
pleased them.
“Now,” he said with a patronizing air, “all of you kids go home, put on
two pairs of trousers apiece, and be at the clubhouse at seven o’clock
sharp. Come on, Scotty, let’s go read up a little on the nocturnal
habits of that sportive goat.”
Scott recognized the subtle influence which Johnson exercised over his
classmates and admired his power. He even smiled at the readiness with
which he himself left his dessert half eaten to obey his orders.
The football game had made them late for supper and all those who wished
to join the forestry club had to be at the clubhouse at seven sharp.
They had little time to spare. Scott was at a loss how to dress to do
the proper honor to the rites at the clubhouse and yet be ready for the
campfire. Johnson suffered from no such perplexity.
“Believe me, Scotty, you can wear your dress suit if you want to, but
the ‘sacred rites’ at the clubhouse can, in my humble opinion, be
observed a good deal more appropriately in sweater and overalls.”
Scott finally decided to accept Johnson’s better judgment, relied on
that gentleman’s knowledge of his surroundings, and donned his sweater.
Johnson was already equipped. He cast a longing glance at a sofa cushion
on the couch. “Sorry I haven’t room for you, old fellow, if I had I’d
sure take you along. Five minutes of seven, Scotty, just time to make
it.”
They hurried to the clubhouse in silence. The front door stood open and
a carefully shielded light cast a dim glow on a notice pinned to the
door jamb. They read the notice eagerly.
Follow this string.
Speak only when you are spoken to.
Be good and you’ll be happy.
Beware of the Goat.
Farewell.
A thin cord was tied to the door knob and led away up the dark stair.
They laid their hands gingerly on the string and started carefully up
stairs with nerves on edge. At the first turn on the landing a bright
electric light flashed in their eyes for an instant and left them
totally blinded in the utter darkness. They groped their way along
apprehensively holding to that winding string. There was not a sound to
be heard except the noise they themselves made as they stumbled through
the rooms littered with all the obstructions that ingenious minds could
devise. After what seemed like almost interminable scrambling they
mounted another flight of stairs. More winding through obstructed
passageways, and down another flight of stairs, then another and
another. Scott was beginning to have visions of old medieval dungeons
when his wrist bumped into something cold that snapped with a metallic
click, and he found himself brought to a stop by a handcuff. It was too
dark to distinguish anything, but he could hear the hard breathing of
many nervous people. It seemed to him that he had stood there for an
eternity with nothing to break the silence save occasionally a cautious
step on the stairs which always stopped with the same metallic click.
Suddenly there was a shuffling of many feet and the handcuff led him
slowly forward. Much to his surprise he passed through a door directly
onto the ground outside—he had thought that he must be at least one
story below the level of the street—and found himself in the middle of a
long string of men all walking in single file. They were all handcuffed
to one long rope. This chain gang was guarded by a line of scouts on
either side, and led on by six husky fellows who dragged the front end
of the rope.
Slowly the procession marched up the middle of the street, across the
campus, through the auditorium where a popular lecture was in progress,
and out into the open fields. After a half-mile of winding march in the
darkness they entered a black forest. A little farther and the line
stopped.
“Prepare to meet your fate,” came from a deep voice immediately in front
of them.
More than one man in the crowd trembled so that the links of his
handcuffs clinked audibly. Scott, now that the time had really come,
felt perfectly calm.
After a few seconds’ pause a long screen of burlap dropped from in front
of them and they saw the upper classmen of the club standing in a
semi-circle around a small campfire.
Ormand, the president of the club, stepped forward a few paces.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the new members of our club. And for
you, new members, may your enthusiasm for the club and the College never
be less than your surprise at the present moment. Release them.”
The guards quickly unlocked the handcuffs, and the astonished “victims”
looked uneasily about them, not knowing what to expect. But the upper
classmen came forward to welcome them, and they found themselves really
accepted on an equal footing with the rest. Their stunned expression
brought forth shouts of laughter.
Johnson was the first to recover. “Well, fellows,” he admitted with a
grin, “as I was telling you, I have ridden several goats before and some
of them were pretty rough riding, but none of them ever shook me up like
this.”
The tension was broken, and the reaction turned the crowd of half
stunned men into an hilarious bunch of boys. They danced around the
campfire in dizzying circles, and the fantastic shadows flashed weirdly
through the surrounding forest. At last they settled down in a contented
circle, and the entertainment committee rolled out a barrel of apples, a
barrel of cider, a bushel of peanuts and a set of boxing gloves.
They were all hailed with a shout of welcome, but some of the new
members looked rather anxiously at the padded gloves. Sam Hepburn, the
chairman of the entertainment committee, explained the program.
“Pile in, fellows,” he cried, “and help yourselves. Don’t be bashful. I
reckon you all know how to eat, if you don’t, watch Pudge Manning. But
we must have some entertainment while we eat. Since we have no orchestra
to dispense sweet music, we shall try another form of amusement not
unknown to the ancient Gormans. I have here in this hat the names of all
the old members. Each new man must draw a slip. In addition to the name
each slip has a number on it. Each man must box for two minutes with the
man he draws, and the bouts will be pulled off according to the numbers
on the slips. I’ll pass around the hat. Each man must draw one and only
one.”
The hat was passed quickly around the circle and the drawers examined
the slips eagerly to see what sort of opponents they had drawn. There
were sighs of relief from some and groans of despair from others.
“Now, fellows,” called Hepburn, “the first bout will start at once. Let
the man who has number one come forward and call out his opponent. The
ring will be this circle and the bunch the referee. Step lively now.”
A slight youth with a very scared expression stepped timidly forward and
called in a very faint voice for Pudge Manning, the biggest man in the
junior class. There was a great shout of laughter at the ill-matched
pair. Hepburn put the gloves on Manning and Johnson, who had appointed
himself the second for all the new members, equipped the frightened
little freshman, and tried to brace him up with good advice.
“Kick his shins, son; you can’t reach his face. You have the advantage
of him already, you can’t miss him and he will have to be a pretty good
shot to land on you. Now go for him.”
Johnson’s advice was in itself as good as a circus. It was hard to tell
which was the most ridiculous figure; the huge Manning sheepishly trying
to keep from hurting his little adversary, or the trembling little
freshman fighting wildly with the fury of desperation. The crowd howled
their delight, and when time was called gleefully awarded the decision
to the freshman.
Bout followed fast upon bout and the interest never flagged, for the
combinations were such that they furnished a plentiful variety. Some
were so unevenly matched as to be altogether ridiculous, others were
evenly enough matched but so ignorant of the game that the slugging
match was wildly exciting, in still other cases science showed its
superiority to brute force, but really scientific sparring on both sides
was rarely seen.
Johnson drove the crowd almost into hysterics by an exhibition of
wildcat fighting against a man almost twice his size. With the agility
of a cat he bounded around his big opponent, doing very little damage
himself, but continuously maddening the big fellow with ceaseless
taunts, and successfully wriggling out of reach of all punishment.
Scott looked on doubled up with laughter. He had not seen any very good
boxing, but viewed as a farce it certainly was a howling success. He was
well pleased that he had drawn Morgan, the best boxer in the College,
for he had not had any practice in a long time, and was eager to measure
himself against one of these Westerners who were inclined to look upon
the East with some contempt.
Finally his turn came and he called cheerfully for Morgan as he walked
over to Johnson to be gloved and given his facetious instructions.
Johnson was more serious with him than with most of the others. “You’re
up against the real thing now, Scotty. He can box like a fiend, and has
the strength of a moose. Keep your chin in,” he cautioned in a low voice
as Scott walked into the ring, “and remember your sporting views,” he
chuckled.
The match differed from any that had gone before. Both men were expert
with the gloves, and they were fairly matched physically. Morgan was a
trifle taller, giving him the advantage in the reach, Scott was a little
heavier in the shoulders. They shook hands, stepped back quickly and the
fight was on. Morgan had his reputation to sustain, Scott had his to
make. The crowd rose in a body to give better vent to its excitement.
The two circled rapidly, passing, parrying, sidestepping, dodging; now
almost in each other’s arms, now at arm’s length, and occasionally a
lightning pass, followed by a sharp spat told of a good blow gone home.
Scott found Morgan his equal in out-fighting, but his training with the
old prizefighter gave him much the best of the mix-ups.
Suddenly something happened. Scott invited a full swing from Morgan,
attempted to side-step, slipped on the damp sod, and received the full
blow on the point of his chin. The stars danced merrily before his eyes
and he sat down with a thud. He was up almost instantly. “Good shot, old
man,” he cried to Morgan, and was boxing again with as much vigor as
before.
“By George, he does believe it,” Johnson yelled. No one else knew what
he was talking about, but Scott smiled.
When time was called the match was declared a draw. Morgan shook Scott
enthusiastically by the hand. “Scotty, you are a winner and it will be
up to you to fight in the big fall meet. Why, you are not winded at
all.”
“No,” Scott answered quietly, “the old prizefighter who taught me always
insisted on each lesson going to ten rounds, and I am used to it.”
“Oh, ho! learned from a professional, did you? That accounts for your
not being phased by that blow on the chin, and your strong in-fighting.
I should not stand any show with you in a real fight. I’m winded now.”
All the fellows crowded around Scott to congratulate him and forgave him
his inability to play football in their admiration of a man who could
stand up to Morgan.
“Well, fellows,” Ormand shouted, “that bout was too good to be spoiled
by anything else. It’s half past eleven. Let’s put out this fire and
march home.”
The fire was soon extinguished, and the crowd filed out of the woods
singing familiar songs and yelling fiendishly at every sleeping house
they passed. Slowly it melted away as the fellows came to their various
rooming houses. When Scott and Johnson turned into their house they
heard the singing of the remnant of the band dying away in the distance.
“Scotty,” Johnson said with admiration written in every feature, “you
are the new White Hope of the College. When you took that wallop on the
jaw and praised the man who did it, I believed what you said this
afternoon. Now watch me be your kind of a sport.”