They adjourned to a sheltered spot back of the stump willows and chose
a bare space of soft, green turf. At their sides the brook ran
splashing over the cool stones.
"Who'll be Dink's second?" said Cheyenne Baxter, the referee.
There was an embarrassed pause.
"Go on, any of you," said Tough McCarty generously.
"I'll be," said the Coffee-colored Angel. "He licked me square."
He stepped over and held out his hand.
"I don't want you--I don't want your hand!" said Dink with a scream.
"I don't want any second; I won't have any! I hate you--I hate the
whole lot of you!"
Cheyenne Baxter consulted with Tough McCarty and came over.
"Say, Dink," he said kindly, "Tough doesn't want to fight you now; it
isn't fair. He'll give you a fight any time you want--when you're
fresh."
"I don't want to wait," cried Stover, blubbering despite himself.
"I'll fight him now. I'll show him if I'm afraid, the big bully!"
"What rounds do you want?" said Cheyenne, seeing it was wisest not to
interfere.
"I don't want any rounds," cried Dink wildly. "I want to get at him,
the great, big mucker!"
Cheyenne went over to Tough, who stood apart, looking very
uncomfortable.
"Better go on, Tough. Don't hurt the little varmint any more than you
have to."
It was a strange fight. They stood around in silence, rather
frightened at Stover's frenzy. Tough McCarty, overtopping his
antagonist by four good inches, stood on the defensive, seeking only
to ward off the storm of frantic blows that rained on him. For Dink
cared not a whit what happened to him or how he exposed himself.
Blinded by rage, crying from sheer excess of emotion, shrieking out
inarticulate denunciations, he flung himself on McCarty with the
recklessness of a mad dervish, crying:
"You thought I was a coward,--darn you! You great, fat slob! You
thought I was afraid of a licking, did you? I'll show you. Lick me now
if you can, you big brute! Lick me every day! I'm not afraid of you!"
"Confound the lunatic!" said Tough McCarty, receiving a solid thump in
the ribs. "I can't stand here, getting pummeled all day. Got to hit
him--ouch!"
Dink, in his frantic rush, throwing himself under his enemy's guard,
almost bore him to the ground by the shock of his onslaught. McCarty,
angrily brushing the blood from his already outraged nose with the
cuff of his sleeve, shook himself like an angry bear and, catching
Stover with a straight-arm blow, sent him rolling on the turf.
Back again and again came Stover, hurling himself wildly onto the
scientific fists that sent him reeling back. The green arms of the
trees, the gray faces of the onlookers, the blue of the tilting sky
rushed into the reeling earth, confounded together. He no longer saw
the being he was fighting, a white film slipped over everything and
then all went out in blank unconsciousness.
When he opened his eyes again he was on his back, looking up through
the willows at a puffy cloud that turned against the blue. At his side
the brook went softly, singing in whispers the note that stirred the
leaves.
Something wet fell on his face and trickled uncomfortably down his
neck. Some one was applying a dripping cloth.
"Coming to?" said Cheyenne Baxter.
Then Dink remembered.
"Where is he?" he cried, trying to spring up. "Fight him,--fight him
to the end!"
A strong hand pressed him down.
"There, there, you fire-eater!" said Cheyenne. "Go easy. You've had
enough blood for one afternoon. Lie back. Shut your eyes."
He heard whispering and the sound of voices going, and lost
consciousness again.
When he saw the face of the day once more he was alone with Cheyenne,
who was kneeling by his side, smiling as he watched him.
"Better now?"
"I'm all right."
"Let me carry you."
"I can stand."
Cheyenne's good right arm caught him as he tottered and held him.
"I'm all right," said Dink gruffly.
Aided by Cheyenne, he went weakly back to the Green. At the steps
Tough McCarty sprang up and advanced with outstretched hand, saying:
"Put her here, Dink; you're dead game!"
Stover put his hand behind his back.
"I don't want to shake hands," he said, flushing and gazing at Tough
McCarty until the pupils of his eyes seemed to dwindle, "with you or
any of you. I hate you all; you're a gang of muckers. I'll fight you
now: I'll fight you to-morrow. You're too big for me now; but I'll
lick you--I'll lick you next year--you, Tough McCarty--or the year
after that; you see if I don't!"
Tough McCarty stood back, rightfully offended. Cheyenne led Dink up to
his room and lectured him.
"Now, young bantam, listen to me. You've shown your colors and we
respect you for it. But you can't fight your way into being liked--put
that in your pipe and smoke it. You've got to keep a civil tongue in
your head and quit thinking this place was built for your special
benefit. Savez? You've got to win your way if you want to be one of
us. Now, when you get your head clear, go down and apologize to Tough
McCarty and the Angel, like a man."
The advice, which a day later would have been gratefully received,
came inopportunely for Dink's overwrought nerves. He gave an angry
answer--he did not want to be friends--he hated them all--he would
never apologize--never.
When Butsey White came with friendly offers he cut him short.
"Don't _you_ come rubbering around now," he said scornfully. "You went
back on me. You thought I was afraid. I'll do without your friendship
now."
When a calmer view had come to him he regretted what he had done. He
eliminated Tough McCarty--that was a feud of the instincts--but it
certainly had been white of the Coffee-colored Angel to offer to be
his second; Cheyenne was every inch a leader, and Butsey really had
been justified. Unfortunately, his repentance came too late; the
damage had been done. Only one thing could right him--an apology to
the assembled House; but as the courage to apologize is the last
virtue to be acquired--if it ever is acquired--Dink in his pride would
rather have chopped off his hand than admit his error. They had
misjudged him; they would have to come to him. The breach, once made,
widened rapidly--due, principally, to Dink's own morbid pride. Some of
the things he did were simply ridiculous and some were flagrantly
impudent.
He was one against eight--but one who had learned his strength, who
feared no longer the experiences he knew. He stood ready to back his
acts of belligerency with his fists against any one--except, of
course, Butsey White; for roommates do not fight unless they love one
another.
He had always in him the spirit of the rebel. To be forbid a thing,
with him, was to do it instantly. He refused all the service a
Freshman should do. At table he took a malignant delight in demanding
loudly second and third helps of the abhorrent prunes--long after he
had come to feel the universal antagonism. He would not wake Butsey
in the morning, fill his basin or arrange his shoes. He would run no
errands. He refused to say sir or doff his hat to his superiors in the
morning; and, being better supplied with money, he took particular
pleasure in entering the House with boxes of jiggers or tins of potted
meats and a bottle of rootbeer, with which he openly gorged himself at
night, while Butsey squirmed over the unappetizing pages of the Gallic
Wars.
Finally, the blow came. Cheyenne Baxter, as president of the House,
appeared one evening and hurled on him the ban of excommunication--from
that hour he was to be put in Coventry.
From that moment no one spoke to him or by the slightest look noticed
his existence. Dink at first attempted to laugh at this exile.
At every opportunity he joined the group on the steps. No one
addressed him. If he spoke no one answered. At table the
Coffee-colored Angel no longer asked him to pass his plate, but passed
it around the other way. He went out in the evenings and placed his
cap in line with the other boys', but the ball never went into his
hat. If he stood, hoping to be hit, no one seemed to notice that he
was standing there. For several days he sought to brazen it out with a
miserable, sinking feeling, and then he gave it up. He had thought he
cared nothing for the company of his House mates--he soon discovered
his error and recognized his offending. But apology was now out of the
question. He was a pariah, a leper, and so must continue--a thing to
be shunned.
The awful loneliness of his punishment threw him on his own resources.
At night he lay in his bed and heard Butsey steal out to a midnight
spread behind closed doors, or to join a band that, risking the sudden
creak of a treacherous step, went down the stairs and out to wend
their way with other sweltering bands across the moonlit ways, through
negro settlements, where frantic dogs bayed at the sticks they rattled
over the picket fences, to the banks of the canal for a cooling frolic
in the none too fragrant waters.
In the morning he could not join the group that congregated to listen
to Beekstein--Secretary of Education--straighten out the involved
syntax or track an elusive x to its secret lair. In the afternoon he
could not practice on the diamond with them, learning the trick of
holding elusive flies or teaching himself to face thunderous outshoots
at the plate.
This enforced seclusion had one good result: left to his own devices
his recitations improved tremendously, though this was scant
consolation.
He kept his own company proudly, reading long hours into the land of
Dumas and Victor Hugo; straying up to the 'Varsity diamond, where he
cast himself forlornly on the grass, apart from the groups, to watch
Charlie DeSoto dash around the bases, and wonderful Jo Brown on third
base scrape up the grounders and shoot them to first.
He was too proud to seek other friends, for that meant confession.
Besides, his own classmates were all busy on their own diamonds,
working for the success of their own House nines.
Only when there was a 'Varsity game and he was swallowed up in the
indiscriminate mass that whooped and cheered back of first, thrilling
at a sudden crisis, did he forget himself a little and feel a part of
the great system. Once when, in a game with the Princeton Freshmen, Jo
Brown cleared the bases with a sizzling three-bagger, a fourth-former
he didn't know thumped him ecstatically on the back and he thrilled
with gratitude.
But the rest was loneliness, ever recurrent loneliness, day in and day
out. His only friends were Charlie DeSoto and Butcher Stevens at
first, whom he could watch and understand--feeling, also, the fierce
spirit of battle cooped up and forbidden within him.
One night in the second week of June, when Butsey White had gone to a
festal spread in Cheyenne Baxter's rooms, Dink sat cheerlessly over
the Latin page, seeing neither gerund nor gerundive.
The windows were open to the multiplied chorus of distant frogs and
the drone of near-by insects. The lamp was hot, his clothes steamed on
his back. He thought of the rootbeer and sarsaparilla being consumed
down the hall and, going to the closet, consulted his own store of
comforting things.
But to feast alone was no longer a feast at all. He went to the window
and sniffed the warm air, trying to penetrate the outer darkness.
Then, balancing carefully, he let himself out and, dropping on the
yielding earth, went hungrily up to the campus.
He had never been on the Circle before at night, with all the lights
about him. It gave him a strange, breathless feeling. He sat down,
hugging his knees, in the center of the Circle, where he could command
the blazing windows of the Houses and the long, lighted ranks of the
Upper, where the fourth-formers were singing on the Esplanade. The
chapel at his back was only a shadow; Memorial Hall, a cloud hung
lower than the rest.
From his position of vantage he could hear scraps of conversation
through the open windows, and see dark figures flitting before the
mellow lamps. The fellowship in the Houses, the good times, the
feeling of home that hung about each room came to him with acute
poignancy as he sat there, vastly alone. In the whole school he had
made not a friend. He had done nothing; no one knew him. No one cared.
He had blundered from the first. He saw his errors now--only too
plainly--but they were beyond retrieving.
There was only a week more and then it would be over. He would never
come back. What was the use? And yet, as he sat there outside the life
and lights of it all, he regretted, bitterly regretted, that it must
be so. He felt the tug at his heartstrings. It was something to win a
place in such a school, to have the others look up to you, to have the
youngsters turn and follow you as you passed, as they did with Charlie
DeSoto or Flash Condit or Turkey Reiter or a dozen of others. Instead,
he would drop out of the ranks, and who would notice it? A few who
would make a good story out of that miserable game of baseball. A few
who would speak of him as the freshest of the fresh, the fellow who
had to be put in Coventry--if, indeed, any one would remember Dink
Stover, the fellow who hadn't made good.
The bell clanged out the summons to bed for the Houses. One by one
the windows dropped back into the night; only the Upper remained
ablaze.
At this moment he heard somewhere in the dark near him the sound of
scampering feet. The next moment a small body tripped over his legs
and went sprawling.
"What in the name of Willie Keeler!" said a shrill voice. "Is that a
master or a human being?"
"Hello!" said Stover gruffly, to put down the lump that had risen in
his throat. "Who are you."
"Me? Shall we tell our real names?" said the voice approaching and at
once bursting out into an elfish chant:
_Wow, wow! Wow, wow, wow!
Oh, me father's name was Finnegan,
Me mother's name was Kate,
Me ninety-nine relations
To you I'll now relate._
"Oh, you're Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan, are you?" said Dink,
laughing as he dashed his cuff across his eyes. "The kid that wrote
the baseball story."
"Sir, you do me honor," said Finnegan. "Who are you?"
"I'm Stover."
"The Dink?"
"Yes, the Dink."
"The cuss that translates at sight?"
"You've heard of it?"
"Cracky, yes! They say The Roman was knocked clean off his pins, first
time in his life. I say----"
"What?"
"Then you're the fellow down in the Green, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Dink, thinking only of the ban of excommunication.
"Why, you're a regular cross-sawed, triple-hammered, mule-kick,
beef-fed, rarin'-tearin' John L. Sullivan, ain't you?" said the
exponent of the double adjective in rapid admiration.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, you're the cuss that smeared the Angel, swallowed the Canary,
and bumped Tough McCarty, all at once."
"Oh, yes."
"My dear boy, permit me--you're it, you're the real thing."
Dink, with a feeling of wonder, shook hands, saying:
"Well, they don't think so much of it at the Green."
"Anything wrong?"
"Nothing much."
Finnegan, perceiving the ground was shaky, switched.
"I say, you want to get into the Kennedy next year; we've got the A
No. 1 crowd there. I'm there, the Tennessee Shad, the Gutter Pup--he's
the president of the Sporting Club, you know; prize-fights and all
that sort of thing--and King Lentz and the Waladoo Bird, the finest
guards Lawrenceville ever had. And say, you'n I and the Tennessee Shad
could strike up a combine and get out a rip-snorting, muzzle-off,
all-the-news, sporting-expert, battle-cry-of-freedom newspaper that
would put the _Lawrence_ out of biz. I say, you must get in the
Kennedy."
"I'm not coming back."
"What!"
"I guess my par-ticular style of talent isn't suited around here."
"What's wrong?"
"Well, everything."
"I say, Dink, confide in me!"
Stover, at that moment, in his loneliness, would have confided in any
one, especially the first human being who had given him a thrill of
conscious pride.
"It's just this, youngster," he said, wondering how to begin: "they
don't like me."
"You like the school, don't you?" said Finnegan in alarm.
Dink had never had the question put to him before. He was silent and
his look went swiftly over to the coveted House of Lords. He drew a
long breath.
"You bet I do. I love it!"
"What then?"
"I started wrong; didn't understand the game, I guess. They've put me
in Coventry."
"You must have been pretty fresh."
"What!"
"Oh, don't mind me," said Dennis cheerfully. "I'm fresher than you
ever thought of being. I was the freshest bit of verdure, as the poet
says, that ever greened the place. I'm the freshest still. But I'm
different. I'm under six inches--that's the cinch of it."
"Yes, I was fresh," said Dink, intensely relieved.
"You're always fresh if you're any good, the first term," said
Finnegan. "Don't mind that. Next year you'll be an old boy, and then
they'll follow you around for sugar."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Dink slowly.
"Keep a-thinking. I'm off now. Ta-ta! Got to slink in Fatty Harris'
room before The Roman makes his rounds. Proud to have met you. Au
revoir!"
Dink sat a long while thinking, and a lighter mood was on him. After
all, he was not a blank. Some one had recognized him; some one had
taken his hand in admiration. He rose and slowly made his way toward
the singers on the Esplanade, and by the edge of the road camped under
the shadows of an apple tree and leaned his back against the trunk.
The groups of the Esplanade stood out in cut outlines against the warm
windows of the Reading-room. Above, the open windows were tenanted by
boys who pillowed their heads on one another and sent their treble or
bass notes down to swell the volume below.
Led by a tenor voice that soared clear and true above the rest came
the melody to Stover huddled under the apple tree:
_At evening, when twilight is falling
And the birds to their nests are all gone,
We'll gather around in the gloaming,
And mingle our voices in song.
Yes, in song.
The bright stars are shining above us,
Keeping their watch and ward.
We'll sing the old songs that we love, boys.
Out on the Esplanade._
Stover listened, pressing his knuckles to his lips, raised out of
himself by the accord of voices and the lingering note of melancholy
that was in the hour, the note of the dividing of the ways.
Again in deeper accents a song arose:
_We sing the campus, green and fair.
We sing the 'leven and nine
Who battle for the old school there
And guard the base and line.
No cause for fear when they appear
And the school flag floats above our head.
When the game begins 'tis Lawrence wins,
While we cheer the Black and Red.
When the game begins 'tis Lawrence wins,
While we cheer the Black and Red._
The song ended in lingering accents. Dink shut his eyes, clenching his
fists, seeing wonderful days when the school should gather to cheer
him, too, and lay its trust in him.
Suddenly near him in the road came the crunching sound of footsteps,
and a voice said:
"Is that you, Bill?"
"Yes."
"Bill, I wanted to say a word to you."
"Well?"
"We've only got a few days more in the old place. I don't want to go
out with any hard feelings for anybody, do you?"
"No."
"Let's call it off! Shake hands."
Stover listened breathless, hearing little more, understanding only
that a feud had ceased, that two enemies on the verge of the long
parting had held each other's hands, slapped each other's backs with
crude, embarrassed emotion, for the sake of the memories that lived in
the shadow of a name. And something like a lump rose again in Dink's
throat. He no longer thought of his loneliness. He felt in him the
longing to live as they had lived through the glorious years, to know
the touch of a friend's arm about his shoulders, and to leave a name
to stand with the names that were going out.
He raised his fists grotesquely, unconsciously, and swore an oath:
"No, I won't give up; I'll never give up. I'll come back. I'll fight
it out!" he said almost aloud. "I'll make 'em like me. I'll make 'em
proud of me."
X
_My father sent me here to Lawrenceville,
And resolved that for college I'd prepare;
And so I settled down
In this ancient little town,
About five miles away from anywhere._
_Five miles away from anywhere, my boys,
Where old Lawrenceville evermore shall stand.
For has she not stood since the time of the flood.
About five miles away from anywhere?_
The school was returning after the long summer vacation, rollicking
back over the dusty, Trenton highway, cheering and singing as they
came.
Jimmy, on the stage, was swallowed up in the mass of exultant boyhood
that clustered on the top like bees on a comb of honey, and clung to
step and strap. Inside, those who had failed of place stuck long legs
out of the windows, and from either side beat the time of the
choruses.
"Next verse!" shouted Doc Macnooder as leader of the orchestra.
_The First Form then I gayly entered,
And did so well, I do declare,
When they looked my record o'er
All the masters cried "Encore!"
About five miles away from anywhere._
"Chorus!" cried Macnooder. "Here, you legs, keep together! You're
spoiling the effect."
Dink Stover sat quietly on the second seat, joining in the singing,
but without the rollicking abandon of the others. He had shot up
amazingly during the vacation and taken on some weight, but the change
was most marked in his face. The roundness was gone and with it the
cherubic smile. The oval had lengthened, the mouth was straighter,
more determined, and in the quiet set of eyes was something of the
mental suffering of the last months. He had returned, wondering a
little what would be his greeting. The first person he had met was the
Coffee-colored Angel, who shook hands with him, pounded him on the
back and called him "Good old Dink." He understood--the ban was
lifted. But the lesson had been a rude one; he did not intend to
presume. So he sat, an observer rather than a participant, not yet
free of that timidity which, once imposed, is so difficult to shake
off.
The stage, which was necessarily making slow progress, halted at the
first hill, with a sudden rebellion on the part of the long suffering
horses.
"All out!" shouted Macnooder.
In a jiffy every boy was on the ground.
"All push!"
The stage, propelled by dozens of vigorous hands, went up the hill on
a run.
"Same places!"
"All ready?"
"Let her go!"
Mamie Reilly, being discovered on the roof and selfishly claimed
below, was thrust kicking and wriggling over the side and into the
ready hands at the window.
"All ready, orchestra?" said Macnooder.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"All legs in the air!"
"Aye, me Lord!"
"One, two, three!"
_And then the Second Form received me,
Where I displayed such genius rare,
That they begged me to refrain,
It was going to my brain.
About five miles away from anywhere!_
Meanwhile, at the approach of the astounding coach, which looked like
a drunken centipede, the farmers stopped their plows or came to the
thresholds, shading their eyes; while the cattle in the fields put up
their tails and bolted, flinging out their heels, amid triumphant
cheers from the students.
All the while, the bulk of the school in two seaters, and three
seaters, the Fifth Formers, the new Lords of Creation, in buggies
specially retained, went swirling by exchanging joyful greetings.
"Oh you, Doc Macnooder!"
"Why, Gutter Pup! You old son-of-a-gun!"
"Look at the Coffee-Colored Angel!"
"Where's Lovely Mead?"
"Coming behind."
"Hello, Skinny."
"Why, you Fat Boy!"
"See you later."
"Meet me at the Jigger Shop."
"There's Stuffy!"
"Hello, Stuffy! Look this way!"
"Look at the Davis House bunch!"
"Whose legs are those?"
_Hallegenoo, nack, nack!
Hallegenoo, nack, nack!
Hooray! Hooray!
Lawrenceville!_
"Next verse," shouted Doc Macnooder. "Legs at attention. More action
there! La-da-da-dee! One, two, three!"
_In course of time, I reached the Third Form,
But was caught in examination's snare.
Reassignment played its part,
And it almost broke my heart,
About five miles away from anywhere._
"What house are you in?" said the Coffee-Colored Angel to Stover,
between breaths.
"Kennedy."
"The Roman, eh?"
"Yes, he reached out and nabbed me," said Stover, who was persuaded
that his new assignment was a special mark of malignant interest.
"Who are you rooming with?"
"The Tennessee Shad."
"Well, you'll be a warm bunch!"
A shout burst out from the back of the coach.
"A race, a race!"
"Here come the Tennessee Shad and Brian de Boru."
"Turn out, Jimmy!"
"Give 'em room!"
"Go it, Dennis!"
"Go it, Shad!"
Two runabouts came up at a gallop, neck and neck, four boys in each,
the Tennessee Shad standing at the reins in one, Dennis de Brian de
Boru Finnegan in the other, each firmly clutched about the waist by
the boy on whose knees he jolted and jostled.
"Push on the reins!"
"Home run, Dennis!"
"Swim out, you Shad!"
"Pass him, Dennis! Pass him!"
"Shad wins!"
"Look at his form, will you!"
"Oh, you jockey!"
"Shad wins!"
"Hurrah!"
"Hurray!"
"Hurroo!"
But at this moment, when it seemed as though the race was to go to the
Tennessee Shad's nag, which had that superiority which one sacrificial
horse in a Spanish bullfight ring has over another, Dennis de Brian de
Boru suddenly produced the remnants of a bag of cream puffs and, by
means of three well-directed, squashing shots on the rear quarters of
his coal-black steed, plunged ahead and won the road, amid terrific
cheering.
"Dennis forever!"
"Oh, you, Brian de Boru!"
"Get an eclair, Shad!"
"Get an omelet!"
"Get a tomato!"
"Get out and push!"
The racers disappeared in mingled clouds of dust.
Macnooder, whirling around like a dervish on the stage top, conducted
the next verse. Suddenly another shout went up.
"Here comes Charlie DeSoto and Flash Condit."
"Three cheers for the football team!"
"How are you, Charlie?"
"Flash, old boy!"
"What do you weigh?"
"Pretty fit?"
"Too bad you can't run, Flash!"
"What'll we do to Andover?"
DeSoto and Condit passed, acknowledging the salutations with joyful
yelps.
"Give 'em the Fifty-six to Nothing, boys," shouted Macnooder. "All you
tenor legs get into this. Oom-pah! Oom-pah! Oom-pah! One, two, three!"
_There is a game called football,
And that's the game for me.
And Lawrenceville can play it,
As you will shortly see.
She goes to all the schools about,
And with them wipes the ground.
For it's fifty-six to nothing, boys,
When Lawrenceville's around._
_She has a gallant rush-line
That wears the Red and Black.
Each man can carry the ball through
With six men on his back.
They carry it through the middle
And then they touch it down.
For it's fifty-six to nothing, boys,
When Lawrenceville's around._
Little by little Stover was drawn into the spirit of the song. He
forgot his aloofness, he felt one of them, thrilling with the spirit
of the coming football season.
"Gee, it's great to be back," he found himself saying to Butcher
Stevens next to him.
"You bet it is!"
"Charlie DeSoto looks fit, doesn't he?"
"He's eight pounds heavier, Doc tells me."
"By George, that's fine!"
They stopped to sing the third verse.
"It won't be any fifty-six to nothing when Andover comes around," said
Butcher gruffly.
"We've got to hustle?" asked Stover respectfully of the 'Varsity left
tackle.
"We certainly have!"
"What's the prospects?"
"Behind the line, corking. It's the line's the trouble--no weight."
"There may be some new material."
"That's so." Stevens looked him over with an appraising eye. "Played
the game?"
"No, but I'm going to."
"What do you strip at?"
"Why, about 140--138."
"Light."
"I thought I might try for the second eleven."
"Perhaps. Better learn the game, though, with your House team."
Hearing them talk football the crowd eagerly began to ask questions.
"Who's out for center?"
"Will they move Tough McCarty out to end?"
"Naw, he's too heavy."
"I'd play him at center, and stick the Waladoo Bird in at tackle."
"You would, would you? Shows what you know about it."
"Butcher, you'll be in at tackle, won't you?"
"Hope so," said Stevens laconically.
Stover, who had entered the observant stage of his development, noted
the laconic, quiet answer and stored it away for classification and
meditation among the many other details that his new attitude of
watchful analysis was heaping up.
"There's the water tower! I see the water tower!" cried a voice.
"I see the Cleve!"
"All up!"
"Long cheer for the school!"
"All together!"
"Rip her out!"
They gave a cheer and then two more.
"Now, fellows," said Doc Macnooder shrilly, as master of ceremonies,
"we want to pull this off in fine shape. We're going to drive around
the Circle. And I want this orchestra to keep together. Whose legs are
those with the cannon-cracker socks?"
"Beekstein's," cried several voices from inside.
"Well, he's rotten. He gums the whole show. Now, get together,
fellows, will you?"
"We will!"
As they turned to enter the campus the voice of the master spoke,
clanging its inexorable note from the old Gym. Instantly a shout broke
out:
"Hang the old thing!"
"Drown it!"
"Down with the Gym bell!"
"Murder!"
"Oh, Melancholy!"
"Silence!" cried the bandmaster. "Give 'em The Gym Bell--all ready
below! La-da-da-dee!"
"Too high!"
"La-da-da-_dum_. Slow and melancholy. One, two, three!"
_When the shades of night are falling
Round our campus, green and fair,
All the drowsy sons of Lawrence
To their couches then repair.
Soon the slumber god has bound them
With his spell of magic power,
And he holds them thus enchanted
Till the early morning hour._
"Up legs and at 'em now, Rip her out--chorus!"
_Till awakened
By the clanging
And the banging
And the whanging
From the cupola o'erhanging,
Of that ancient Gym bell!_
Cheered by the new fifth-formers, who came laughing to the windows to
hail them, the stage went gloriously around the Circle and came to a
stop.
"Here we are back at the same old grind," said Butcher Stevens.
"Frightful, isn't it?" said Stover; and the rest made answer:
"Back at the grindstone!"
"Hard luck!"
"We're all slaves!"
"Nothing to eat!"
"Nothing to do!"
"Stuck in a mudhole!"