The next three weeks were full of pleasure for Scott Burton, for they
brought him hours of his favorite exercise. Ormand, who had considerable
influence with the student powers at the University, had made it his
business the morning after the campfire celebration to arrange for Scott
to represent the freshman class in the heavyweight class in the boxing
match held each year to settle the supremacy between the under classes.
It was an honor which the foresters had long coveted, and was granted to
them only after Ormand had exhausted all his persuasive powers in his
effort to show them how totally inadequate all the other candidates
were, and how sure his candidate was to win. In his own mind he was not
at all certain of the outcome, for the sophomores had a young giant who
had won the event without an effort the year before, and held the
supremacy in the whole University ever since.
Scott trained like a prizefighter, leaving no stone unturned to put
himself in the pink of condition. He changed his recreation hour from
the hour after supper to the hour before, and that hour was invariably
spent in the boxing room of the gymnasium. Every day he boxed fast and
furious bouts with Morgan, Manning, Edwards, Ormand and any of the other
big fellows who cared to try it. He could wear them all out one after
the other, and he worked incessantly to increase his endurance, for all
agreed that it was his best chance to push the fight at a furious pace
from bell to bell. For there were other men who were as good boxers as
he, but none of them, they figured, with half his endurance or his
ability to stand punishment. He was fast on his feet, could close in on
any of them at will, and once at close range none of them could compare
with him for a moment.
Johnson fussed over him like a mother. He was at the boxing room as
regularly as Scott himself, and never left till he could give his charge
a good rubdown, and escort him to supper, where he watched his diet with
an eagle eye, and ordered away every dessert that Scott really cared
for. He domineered to such an extent that Scott more than once
threatened to thrash him instead of the sophomore, but Johnson always
had his way and tightened up his orders after every encounter.
“Johnson,” he said one day, as he watched a luscious piece of pumpkin
pie going back to the kitchen by Johnson’s orders, “when that scrap is
over I am going to eat your dessert and mine, too, for a month.”
“You may have my dessert for all the rest of the winter if you win,”
Johnson responded earnestly.
“There it goes again,” Scott complained. “What difference does that
make? I may put up the very best fight I ever made in my life and get
everlastingly licked. Then you would want to do me out of my right to
eat your pie simply because the other fellow was too much for me. But if
he happens to be a poor scrapper and I win easily you would cheerfully
let me eat your desserts for six months. That’s queer logic.”
“Some more of your Eastern sporting views,” Johnson jeered.
“Well you ought to give a fellow credit for what he does, oughtn’t you?
If he puts up a perfectly good scrap, give him credit for that. If the
other fellow puts up a better one give him credit for _that_. I am going
to eat your dessert anyway, so there is no use in arguing about it.”
They went to their rooms and straight to work. Johnson had wanted Scott
to stop his studies for a while, but on that one point Scott balked and
insisted on keeping up all his work, for he felt that his ability to
handle it at all depended on his keeping it up-to-date. He was working
hard on a problem when Johnson announced that it was ten o’clock and
time for all prizefighters to be in bed. He emphasized his orders by
blowing out the student’s lamp. Scott fired a book at him, which Johnson
dodged cheerfully and proceeded to go to bed.
“That’s something else I am going to do,” Scott cried with some spirit.
“After the twenty-fourth of October I am going to sit up as late as I
blame please.”
“Um-huh,” Johnson answered, unperturbed. “_After_ the twenty-fourth you
may sit up all night if you want to, but—_after_ the twenty-fourth. You
need not talk too bigity; you may not be able to sit up at all after the
twenty-fourth.”
And so it went from day to day. Scott working as never before, and
Johnson rigidly enforcing his rules, jollying his way through all the
threatened mutinies. In one short week Scott had jumped from an unknown
student to the idol of the College. He realized that if he could win
that match his position among his fellow students would be established.
This idea spurred him on to untiring efforts. Even the girls began to
look after him when he passed, and that embarrassed him, for he had
always been shy about girls.
At last the all-important day arrived. The morning classes had been
dismissed for the occasion. The students assembled on the campus by the
hundreds, boys and girls together, crowded around the little open space
reserved for the events. For the upper classmen it was a festive
celebration to be thoroughly enjoyed. For the under classmen it was a
serious contest, and through the good-natured yelling and cheering there
ran an undercurrent of antagonism, which broke out in petty scraps and
bickerings all through the crowd. The upper classmen were kept busy
exercising their police functions to confine the competition to the
organized contests.
Finally the crowd settled down with the classes concentrated, each on
one of the four sides of the opening. The field marshal announced the
cane rush between the sophs and the freshmen as the first event, and
called for the representatives of the two classes. The chosen men, forty
husky fellows from each class, stepped forward and lined up on opposite
sides. All were dressed in the oldest clothes they could find, and
looked more like a band of strikers than students seriously inclined
toward higher education. The officials brought forward the cane and
placed it in the hands of five select men from each class, carefully
placing the hands so that neither class had an unfair advantage. The
remaining champions were then lined up carefully at equal distances on
either side of the cane. When all was arranged there was an instant of
intense suspense as the referee took a review of the situation before
raising the whistle to his lips.
At the first shrill blast the contestants rushed tumultuously forward on
the little writhing knot of men around the cane. Sophomores tugged at
freshmen to tear them away from the coveted cane, and freshmen struggled
desperately with tenacious sophomores. In an instant they were all
merged into one seething mass of humanity. It was practically impossible
for those on the outside of the crowd to reach the cane, but they fought
as wildly as those in the center. The pressure in the center became so
great that one man was squeezed out of the mass like a grape from its
skin, and rose head and shoulders above the crowd in spite of his best
efforts to stay on the ground. Men on the outskirts vaulted to the heads
of the crowd with a running start to crawl over the tightly packed heads
and shoulders to the center only to be caught by the feet and dragged
violently back to the ground. Frequently tempers were ruffled beyond
control, and the consequent slugging matches had to be stopped by the
officials. Pieces of wearing apparel littered the ground. Sweater
sleeves and pieces of shirts rose high above the crowd. The grim silence
of the contestants contrasted strangely with the wild cheering of the
spectators. It was impossible to tell where the advantage lay, but that
detracted nothing from the enthusiasm. Scott watched the struggle, the
first of the kind he had ever seen, with intense interest, and forgot
for the time that he would so soon be the central figure of just such
another spasm of excitement and frantic cheering. The contestants still
fought on with dogged perseverance, but their efforts were becoming
weaker, and they were glad to stop at the referee’s whistle.
The upper classmen formed a circle around the ragged crowd, and the
judges began their search for the cane. Those on the outskirts were
summarily pushed outside the circle till the group was reached who
actually had hold of the cane. The hands on the cane were counted,
thirteen for the sophomores and ten for the freshmen. The announcement
was received with frantic shouting by the sophomore supporters and the
heroes were welcomed back to the side lines with wild demonstrations.
But there was not much time for such celebrations. The program was a
long one and the officials’ call for the lightweight wrestlers centered
the interest of the crowd on a new event. One by one the events passed
by and the interest began to flag—for it was a sophomore day and the
freshmen seemed wholly outclassed. Decision after decision went to the
sophomores, and at the call for each new event the cheers from the
freshmen ranks grew weaker. They were becoming overwhelmed by the
defeat.
As the freshman middleweight stepped into the ring for the second round
of his drubbing, Johnson, who had been pleading with each man in turn to
do something for the honor of his class, turned to Scott almost with
tears in his eyes. “Now, Scotty,” he said, “you’ll be the next, and
you’ve got to win. This bunch of loafers has lost everything for us, and
a forester must save the honor of the class. There, that wax figure got
knocked down again. That finishes him. Now come on. You’re the last hope
between us and a shut out. Show ’em what a forester’s made of. You’ve
simply got to win.”
The referee had called for the heavyweights, and Johnson, Scott’s
faithful second, was tying on his hero’s gloves. Scott felt a little
nervous, but knew that he would be all right as soon as the first blow
was struck.
Johnson fussed around his roommate like a nervous mother. “Now, Scotty,
everything is ready. He’s a regular moose, but remember the game. Go at
him like a tornado from the very start and he can’t stand the pace.”
With these final instructions Scott walked out to meet his opponent. The
man opposed to him was indeed a giant; he had never boxed with such a
big man, and he saw the last gleam of hope dying in the freshman ranks.
That would have taken the courage out of many men, but it only made
Scott the more determined to save his class’s honor, and bring
everlasting fame to the foresters.
The big fellow shook hands condescendingly with a rather patronizing
air, which maddened Scott. In stepping back from the handshake the big
fellow took a leisurely and rather contemptuous slap at his opponent’s
head, but that was the last chance he had to show his superiority. Scott
dodged like a flash and landed a straight punch in the big fellow’s
stomach. The ease with which he had lorded it over the whole University
for a year had made him careless, but he was a good boxer and he knew
that he could not afford to play with this new man. Scott left him no
time to think it out. He pushed the attack with a fury that brought the
spectators to their feet, and wrung from the freshmen the first real
cheer they had had the heart to give since the cane rush was decided.
Scott rushed his opponent again and again, each time breaking away with
a vicious hook to the short ribs that worked havoc with the big fellow’s
wind—none too good at the first. It was not, however, a one-sided fight
by any means. The sophomore’s superior reach and weight gave him a great
advantage, especially in the out-fighting, and he was not slow in
grasping the opportunities. Scott’s rushing tactics forced him to make
some good openings and it was only his ability to stand punishment that
saved him several times.
During the first round he was rushing in on his opponent when he
received a straight punch in the right eye that landed him flat on his
back. The hopes of the freshman class fell with him, but Scott was up
again like a rubber ball amidst a perfect tempest of cheers, was inside
the big sophomore’s guard almost before that gentleman realized what had
happened, beat a veritable tattoo on his short ribs and was away clear
without being touched. He was fighting as strongly and furiously as
ever, while his opponent was laboring heavily.
But Scott still had to be very careful to avoid those vicious swings.
Twice he received blows on the chin which sent his head back with a
snap, and which would have knocked out a less hardened man. He saw that
his man was weakening and gave him no peace. He had rushed him to the
ropes and was fighting at close range in the hope of getting a chance at
his jaw when the whistle ended the first round.
Johnson received him with open arms, and wrapped the bathrobe carefully
about him. “You’ve got him going, Scotty, if you can keep up another
round like that you’ll get him easy. Can you do it?”
“Yes,” Scott answered, “ten of ’em, if he doesn’t knock my head off in
the meantime. He certainly landed some dandy blows on me.”
“Why don’t you play for his jaw more? You’re just hammering away at his
ribs all the time; you can’t hurt him there,” Johnson remonstrated.
Scott laughed, “You don’t realize how tall he is. I can’t reach his face
unless I’m in close and then I am afraid to reach up so high; it would
give him too big an opening. Those rib blows count in the long run, but
I do not believe myself that they will be any good in a two-round fight.
I’ll have to risk it this time, I guess.”
Johnson was delighted to see that his hero was not winded in the least,
and he watched the heavings of the bathrobe opposite with huge
satisfaction. The freshmen were hopeful once more, and answered the
taunts of the sophomores with some spirit.
At the sound of the whistle Scott shot to his feet like a
jack-in-the-box and met his opponent three-fourths of the way across the
ring. He tried some sparring at long range, but found that he was still
outclassed, even though the sophomore was plainly showing his fatigue.
Several stiff blows about the face showed him that it was not yet safe.
Once more he ducked, charged, and pounded the big fellow’s wind. He
received a blow on the jaw when he thought he was clear out of reach,
but he realized that the old vim was no longer back of it.
Scott decided that the time had come to take the one chance he had of a
clean decision. He rushed his man furiously, and tried for an opening to
the face, but was driven out again without getting it. He noticed that
the sophomore’s breath was coming in labored gasps and rushed him again.
With a terrific hook to the stomach he lowered the big fellow’s head and
landed heavily on his jaw, but the man was indeed a very moose and
withstood the blow though it dazed him a little. Relying on this Scott
took his chance. He offered a beautiful opening which his opponent took
eagerly, throwing all his waning strength into one mighty full-arm swing
for Scott’s unprotected chin.
Few in the audience realized what a risk Scott had really taken in
trying to side-step a man like that, but he himself realized it to the
full and planned it with the greatest care. He side-stepped with the
agility of a cat, felt the glove just brush his cheek, and threw all the
weight of his splendid shoulders into a hook to the jaw. The blow went
true, and the big man wilted in his tracks. Scott caught him in his arms
and was letting him gently to the ground, when he wriggled loose,
staggered to his feet and struck at Scott blindly but savagely. Before
he could fully recover, however, the whistle blew.
Scott stood patiently in the ring waiting for the decision, but not so
the crowd. Yelling wildly the freshmen descended with a rush on the one
champion the day had brought forth for them, heaved him on their
shoulders, half clothed as he was, and swept across the campus through
the crowd of spectators. He remonstrated and fought as hard as he had in
the ring, but to no purpose. They carried him clear across the campus
and out into the street. Scott would have given anything for even his
undershirt. He had objected to stripping to the waist even there in the
ring, but now that the match was over to be exhibited in this way to all
those girls was intolerable. At last it ended. A hundred and eighty-five
pounds is not a light weight to carry even if it is a hero and Scott
managed at last to fight his way to the ground. He was wondering how he
would ever get back to his clothes, even if they had not been carried
off by the crowd, when the faithful Johnson pushed his way forward with
them.
“Now get out of the way,” Johnson commanded the throng of admirers, “and
let me take him home for a little rest.”
“Scott,” he continued as he hustled him to the car, “now you can go home
and sit up all night for the rest of the winter. Yes, and hanged if you
can’t eat my desserts for the next six years.”
“Humph,” Scott grunted good-naturedly, “and all just because I won.”