While they were preparing for bed that night John took David into his
confidence, in a measure, and asked his advice. He made no mention of
the letter. David’s views were not encouraging.
“What you want to do,” he said, “is to retire into the extreme
distance and rest upon your haunches. Every fellow has the inalienable
right to get rid of his money as he bloody well pleases, and even a
foster-mother has no business dictating, Johnnie. If I were Phil and
you tried it with me I’d punch your old head for you.”
“But Phil hasn’t the right to spend money he hasn’t got,” answered
John. “And that’s what it amounts to. Of course, it’s mostly his
family’s fault. They’ve no business letting him think that there’s
plenty of money when there isn’t――――”
“Different from most fellows’ families,” growled David.
“Well, it’s my duty to interfere.”
“It’s your duty to mind your own affairs. Look here, has Phil owned up
to you that he’s been losing his tin?”
“Not exactly. He acknowledges that he’s broke, but he hasn’t mentioned
cards.”
“Then how are you going to speak to him about it? If you go to him and
say ‘Look here, some one――I can’t tell you who――tells me that you’ve
lost more money than is good for you at cards,’ he’ll simply get
mightily insulted and won’t speak to you again until you apologize.”
“Yes, I think he would,” mused John.
“Well, there you are!”
“And so I shan’t say a word to him about it. You see, I hadn’t intended
to,” said John sweetly.
“Then what’s all this jabbering for?”
“It’s always a pleasure, an intellectual treat, to hear your opinions,
Davy. Good-night.”
What John did the next morning was entirely characteristic of him. He
went to Guy Bassett’s room, introduced himself, and told his mission
in less than two dozen words. If Guy experienced either surprise or
amusement he was too courteous to show it. Instead, he expressed much
pleasure at meeting John, listened politely to what he had to say and
then proffered his cigarette case.
“We did play rather high one night,” he said, “and Ryerson lost about
sixty dollars, I believe. Since then we have confined ourselves to
ten-cent limit and I’m certain he hasn’t dropped more than a two-dollar
bill. Of course, if I’d known what I do now I wouldn’t have played with
him. I supposed he had plenty of money, and the charming promptitude
with which he paid his debts confirmed the supposition. I like Phil;
he’s refreshingly simple and human; and he’s plucky, too; and so I’ll
see that he doesn’t lose any more of his money here, North. For that
matter, though, I guess he’s learned his lesson. I’m awfully much
obliged to you for coming and telling me about it; and very glad to
have had the pleasure of meeting you. Good-morning.”
In the afternoon John went to the Union and, establishing himself at
a corner desk in the writing-room, picked holes in the nice clean
crimson blotter for fully twenty minutes before he set pen to paper.
When he did he wrote steadily for three pages. Then he read what he had
written, smiled as though well pleased with it, chewed the end of his
penholder for awhile, and then slowly and regretfully tore his letter
into minute fragments. In its stead he filled a page with his small,
heavy writing and subscribed himself, “Faithfully, John North.” He
addressed the envelope to “Miss Ryerson, Elaine, Melville Court House,
Virginia,” and dropped it into the box in the hall with elaborate
carelessness lest Phillip should be looking on and should in some
wonderful manner guess its destination. Then, whistling contentedly, he
thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and strode off to the field
and practice.
The date of the Yale game was but some two weeks distant and confidence
in a victory for the Crimson was steadily increasing throughout the
college. The prophets were working overtime and, as is their wont,
were writing more and saying less each day. It was nearing the time to
send in applications for tickets, a fact of which Phil was reminded
that evening. Everett Kingsford walked down the avenue with him after
dinner and guided him into Leavitt’s for a game of billiards, a game
for which Phillip had the highest admiration and at which he invariably
lost. A counter was littered with blank applications and the two helped
themselves.
“You’re an H. A. A. ticket-holder, aren’t you?” Kingsford asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, look here, then. I’ve got to take some of my folks to the game.
There’ll be the mater and my sister and a friend; that means four
seats, counting my own. I can only apply for two, of course. Are you
going to take any one?”
“No, I reckon not. I hadn’t thought of it.”
“Well, will you put in your application with mine? I’ve got another
fellow who is going to. That will give us six seats together, you see.
Of course I’ll pay you for the second ticket. If you don’t want to be
bothered talking to women folks you can have the end seat, but I want
you to meet the mater. I think you’d like her.”
“I’d like to,” answered Phillip, “and the friend, too.”
“Oh, the friend!” laughed Kingsford. “Well, I can’t allow that, Phil.
I’ll let you sit between Betty and the mater, but the friend’s barred.”
“Who’s Betty? Your sister?”
“She has that honour.”
“Is she――is she intellectual?”
“Terribly; a regular blue-stocking. But I’ll tell her to be easy
on you. Besides, the mater’ll see fair play. You make out your
application to-morrow and we’ll get them in. Your shot.”
Phillip, after long and careful aim, missed a simple carrom, and
Kingsford, lounging negligently about the table, made a run of
fourteen, while his adversary looked on enviously from the seat.
One chill and cloudy afternoon Phillip and Chester marched in a
procession composed of some six hundred patriotic and enthusiastic
fellows from the Union out to Soldiers’ Field, taking in the Yard
en route and gathering recruits from halls and dormitories. At the
head strode a band. Then came a diligent junior with a big crimson
megaphone, and behind him the classes marshaled according to seniority,
and each preceded by a flapping banner bearing the class numerals.
Phillip and his friends were at the tag end, but it was all very
inspiriting and impressive, and he was glad he belonged. And it was
rather good fun, too, for it was the proper thing to walk on the heels
of the fellows in front whenever possible and apologize profusely when
they showed displeasure. The cheering and singing were incessant, and
they crossed the square, where the sidewalks were lined with town folk
and shopkeepers, the feminine element largely predominating, chanting
the jovial strains of “Up the Street” with might and main:
“Look where the Crimson banners fly!
Hark to the sound of tramping feet!
There is a host approaching nigh――
Harvard is marching up the street!
Onward to victory again!
Marching with drum-beat and with song――
Hear the refrain!
As it thunders along――as it thunders along!
Behold! they come in view!
Who wear the Crimson hue――
Whose arms are strong, whose hearts are true!
Ever to Harvard! ever to Harvard!”
From the band far up at the head of the line came the shrilling of the
piccolos for a little space and with it the steady tramp, tramp of many
feet. And then the drums crashed again and the voices took up the song
once more, grandly, confidently:
“And Harvard’s glory shall be our aim,
And through the ages the sound shall roll,
When all together we cheer her name――
When we cheer her with heart and soul!”
Out Boylston Street they went, cheering by classes, across the little
drawbridge which creaked complainingly beneath them, into the field by
the big gate and past the monument. Outside the gridiron they came to
a halt. The entrances were draped with canvas and secret practice was
not yet over. So the indefatigable junior with the megaphone mounted
a pile of lumber and called for more cheers; cheers for the players
separately and collectively, for the coaches one by one and for the
trainer, and finally for the college. And overhead the workmen leaned
down from the big, many-trussed stand they were erecting and grinned
sympathy and approval.
At last the canvas was drawn aside and the band and the followers
marched into the amphitheatre. On the gridiron players and coaches
paused for a moment to watch as the procession passed them and made
its way around the field to the farther stand, and it is scarcely
conceivable, despite the disinterested expression of their faces,
that they were unmoved by the hearty cheers that arose to the bleak,
wind-swept sky.
On the south stand the audience gathered itself into a group that
looked very small against the long expanse of empty seats, and the
players were lined up for an open practice game. But the audience paid
for what was shown it. The songs that were to be sung at the big game
were gone over with again and again, and the cheering was practised
until throats grew dry and voices hoarse. During the five minutes’
intermission John North and several other coaches got together and
joined their voices to the mighty chorus that swept across the field:
“Hard luck for poor old Eli!
Tough on the blue!
Now, all together,
Smash them and break through!
’Gainst the line of Crimson
They can’t prevail.
Three cheers for Harvard!
And down with Yale!”
“If we could only win the game by cheering,” said the head coach, “I
think I’d be quite satisfied with things.”
“We can come pretty near doing it that way,” answered John. “That sort
of thing is worth at least two scores.”
Later the procession formed again and marched back the way it had come,
still singing, still cheering, the fellows dancing arm in arm from side
to side across the dusty road. But the freshman contingent, or the
greater part of it, didn’t return to the square then, but veered off,
swaying, snakelike, across the turf to where their eleven was battling
with the second squad. There they practically surrounded the players,
so that from a little distance it looked as though an impromptu
prizefight were going on, and cheered them incessantly and got in
their way every moment and arose to wonderful heights of enthusiasm.
Phillip and Chester pushed their way to near where Guy Bassett was
playing right end on the second team and applauded his every act
wildly. Nothing was too trivial to win their plaudits. If he rubbed his
hands together they cheered madly; if he shoved his opponent they cried
“Played, Bassett! Played, sir!” and if he ran their enthusiasm simply
overpowered them and they waved their caps frantically and leaped into
the air and hugged each other ecstatically. Their friends rallied to
them in such numbers that when, presently, Guy got the ball on a double
pass and promptly fumbled and lost it, the “three long Harvards and
three times three for Bassett” which thundered forth might have been
heard half a mile away. Guy bore it splendidly for awhile and they got
little satisfaction, but the applause called forth by his fumble was
the last straw; and, goaded to madness, he turned and charged the group
of his too ardent admirers and scattered them. The crowd cheered, and
when Phillip and Chester found each other again they deemed discretion
the better part of valour and marched back across the river in single
file, Chester imitating a bass drum and a cornet alternately and
Phillip singing “Hard Luck” and cheering for everything he could think
of.
“Anyhow,” said Chester, when they had reached Phillip’s room and had
subsided, weary and panting, onto the couch and had been duly licked by
Maid, “that evens up things with Guy. I move that we forgive him for
introducing us to the Christian Association chap.”
“Seconded,” cried Phillip.
“Moved and carried,” cried Chester. “He is forgave!”
Then came one dismal and dripping morning when Phillip cut two
recitations to stand in line in the little stuffy post-office and
await his turn to receive Yale game tickets, which were distributed
by registered mail. Kingsford had promised to come at half past ten
and relieve him, but he evidently thought better of it, for that hour
passed without his appearance. The line began at the last window and
then wound and rewound about the room, flanked on either side by pools
of water from wet umbrellas. The crowd, which was good-naturedly
impatient, broke into cheers on the slightest provocation――such as the
advent of some fellow of prominence in college or the advance of the
line after a long delay occasioned by the temporary disappearance of
some one’s envelope.
Whenever an envelope revealed the obnoxious green tickets of the west
stand groans of sympathy nerved the recipient to a show of fortitude.
All sorts of awful tales illustrating the depravity of the committee
in charge of the distribution were told, while a small junior with a
head for figures proved conclusively that the 34,000 seats would be
gone long before the season ticket holders were reached. He did this
by covering a ground-glass window with numerals and breaking the point
of his fountain pen. Phillip had digested a wealth of information
regarding the pernicious habits of the gypsy moth and the methods
of extermination, and was two-thirds of the way down the list of
advertised letters when Guy Bassett appeared.
“I’ll match you to see whether I take your place and get your tickets
or whether you keep your place and get mine,” he said.
They matched and Phillip won. Guy took his place with a sigh.
“If I don’t show up by to-morrow night,” he said, “write to my folks
and tell them I perished nobly in performance of my duty. How long
have you been circulating around this picturesque and well-ventilated
salon?”
“About an hour and a quarter,” answered Phillip. “Seems to me it’s a
mighty poor arrangement. Why can’t they give out the tickets at the
Union or somewhere? I’ve heard lots of fellows kicking about it.”
“Really?” asked Guy. “And――speak lower!――did you by any possibility
overhear any one suggest writing to the _Crimson_ about it? Don’t be
afraid to answer; I’m discretion itself.”
“Why, yes, I heard several. Why?”
“Thank Heaven!” said Guy fervently. “The old spirit that refuses to
endure unjust oppression is still with us. Just so long as we have
the courage to write to the _Crimson_ protesting against the ‘present
unsatisfactory method of distributing the Yale game tickets’ the cause
of liberty is not lost! Varian――he’s an editor or an office boy or
a printer’s devil or something on the _Crimson_――told me yesterday
that they’re going to issue a special sixteen-page paper this year to
accommodate the letters from indignant subscribers. I’m going to write
myself; I promised him I would. And you ought to, too. It’s your
duty. Think it over. And, by the way, if you care about getting these
tickets, you’d better call at my room this afternoon about four. So
long.”
When Phillip got the tickets he was inclined to follow Guy’s advice
and “register a kick.” There were six of them, two of his own, two
for Kingsford and two for a fellow named Muir, and they were half-way
up the South Stand and just back of the ten-yard line. But Kingsford
said it didn’t matter; that he wasn’t going to watch a lot of sluggers
wrestle about in the mud; that he had other things to do during the
game.
“Oh!” said Phillip. “Well, that’s well enough for you; you’ve got your
friend. But how about me?”
“Why, you ingrate! Haven’t I agreed to put you between the mater and
my sister? The mater will tell you all about the strange ailments that
visited me when I was a babe in arms, and how from the very earliest
moment I gave indications of the intellect that is now making me
famous. And Betty will recite Thoreau or Emerson to you dreamily, and
ask you whether you think you’re what you could have been had you been
other than what you are――or words to that effect.”
Phillip looked frightened.
“I reckon you’d better let me have that end seat,” he said dejectedly.
“I don’t know how to talk about Emerson or Thoreau. I didn’t even know
he pronounced his name that way――Thoreau, I mean. They’ll think I’m an
awful fool, won’t they?”
“Cheer up!” laughed Kingsford. “Maybe they won’t guess it. Anyhow, I
promise not to tell.”
On the Tuesday evening preceding the game Phillip went with Chester and
Guy to the Union and fought his way with them to seats in the rear of
the Common Room, denuded of its rugs and tables and easy-chairs for the
occasion. The room was crowded to suffocation long before the meeting
was to begin, and the air was blue with tobacco smoke that wreathed and
eddied fantastically about the big chandelier of spreading antlers.
The enthusiasm was already bubbling, and the fellows were whistling
softly and talking and rustling the slips on which were printed the
words of the songs they were to practise. A platform had been erected
at one end of the room, in front of the big fireplace and under the
bust of John Harvard, and onto it there presently filed the speakers
and an assortment of coaches. The Senior Class President, as master of
ceremonies, led the cheering that thundered up against the paneled
walls and ceiling: first for the President of the University; then for
a well-loved and kindly faced man whose generosity had made possible
the building of the Union; then for another who had given liberally;
and then for the coaches, one after another, and the team, and, lastly,
for “Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!”
The speakers spoke, the band played, and 1,400 men cheered joyously.
Phillip looked about him at the earnest faces bent forward in close
attention to the speakers or thrown slightly back to give vent to
the deep-voiced cheers and felt an odd, unaccustomed warming at the
heart and a sort of tingling in his veins. There was an atmosphere of
comradeship there that was good to feel. He wondered if the others were
experiencing the same glow of good-fellowship and patriotism that he
was. He was certain Chester was. As to Guy he could not be so sure.
He was leaning back with half-closed eyes, puffing hard on a little
blackened briar pipe. For awhile Phillip forgot the speaker and his
eyes ranged about the room, seeking out the panels which, here and
there, were carved with the names of men whom their alma mater was
proud to so honour. Perhaps, he dreamed, some day his own name would
stand out from one of the oaken panels. He picked one out, modestly
choosing one far up in a corner, and tried to picture the words
“Phillip Scott Ryerson” thereon, and wondered whether the decorations
would be of oak leaves or laurel or what.
His musings were suddenly interrupted by a burst of long-drawn
“A-a-ays,” that soft, exhaled applause peculiar to college men. Then
the cheers burst forth again, and the fellow on his left, a fellow whom
he had never seen before, brought his hand down with a resounding smack
on Phillip’s knee; and then, instead of apologizing, only smiled and
nodded; and Phillip smiled back as though it was quite the most natural
thing in the world. After the speeches were finished the band had its
innings, and the junior who had borne the crimson megaphone in the
march to the field climbed onto the platform and told them earnestly
that the singing had got to be improved and that they would start off
with “Glory for the Crimson,” and please wouldn’t every fellow learn
all the songs by heart? And every fellow declared loudly that he would;
and the band struck up, the leader waved his hands and the assembly
broke forth into:
“Raise the Crimson ensign to the place it held of yore!
In the loyal spirit that shall live forevermore!
The sun will set in Crimson as the sun has set before!
For this is Harvard’s day!”
After it was all over, after they had stood and sung “Fair Harvard”
through――most of them repeating the words of the first verse over and
over, for the reason that it is a matter of precedent never to know
anything but the first verse――after he had dropped Guy in the square,
Phillip went home and, seizing pen and paper impatiently, told “Dear
little Mamma and Margey” all about it.