A GLIMPSE OF PRINCETON
The days that followed were not pleasant ones for Tommy, and more
than once he went to bed with sore heart, after a particularly
trying day. It was not that he was persecuted or interfered with, or
that anything was done to him that would call for the head-master’s
interference; none of the boys descended to that, though he might
have even welcomed a little persecution, for it was the other
extreme that irked him. He was left to himself. He was taboo. At
table, the talk excluded him. On the campus, no one saw him. In the
class-room, no one seemed interested in whether he recited well or
badly, or whether he recited at all. No one dropped in to chat with
him in the evening, nor was he invited to any of the little
gatherings the fellows were always having. Often, as he bent over
his books in the evening, he would catch the tinkle of a banjo or a
strain of college song, and his eyes blurred so with tears sometimes
that he could not see the page before him. But it was only in the
solitude of his room he permitted himself this weakness. To the
world he showed a defiant face, and no one suspected how deeply he
was hurt. After all, they were only boys, and it is not to be
wondered at that, for the moment, victory on the football field
appeared to them of more consequence than proficiency in class.
Two things comforted him somewhat. One was that he no longer went to
his classes unprepared. Indeed, he worked at his books so savagely
that he was soon in the first group of the class, and more than once
the tutors went out of their way to commend him—though it was not
for their commendation his heart was aching, but for that of his
classmates. His other comfort was in a letter he had received from
Mr. Bayliss in reply to the one he had written him telling of his
quitting his football practice. The letter ran:
I need hardly tell you how I have rejoiced in your
strength in making this decision and in sticking to it.
Nothing would compensate for failure in your classes—not
even the applause of the football field. But I can
readily understand how much the decision must have cost
you, and I think I can foresee how it will affect the
bearing of your classmates toward you, for school-boys
sometimes have a very exaggerated and false notion of
school honor. Concerning this last, let me give you a
word of advice. Next to success in study, there is no
more precious thing in college life than class
friendship. One can well afford to sacrifice much to
gain it. So I would not have you antagonize your
classmates unnecessarily. Be prepared to make some
sacrifice for them—sacrifice of pride and convenience
and time. Perhaps later in the year you may be so well
up in your studies that you can afford again to take an
active part in the school athletics. Do not hesitate to
do so when you can.
[Illustration: “OFTEN, AS HE BENT OVER HIS BOOKS, HE WOULD CATCH THE
TINKLE OF A BANJO OR A STRAIN OF COLLEGE SONG.”]
Tommy read this letter over and over again, and drew much
consolation from it. Gradually, too, some of the fellows began to
unbend a little. Little Reeves, who had tackled him so gamely at
that first day’s practice, was the first to show his friendship. It
was one evening, while Tommy was wandering disconsolately about the
campus, that he first became aware of Reeves’s feeling toward him.
“I say, Remington,” somebody called after him.
Tommy started at the unaccustomed sound of his name.
“Hullo, Reeves,” he said, as he turned and recognized him.
“How are you, old man?” and Reeves held out his hand and gave
Tommy’s a hearty clasp that brought his heart into his throat. “Come
up to my room awhile, can’t you, and let’s have a talk.”
“Of course I can,” said Tommy, and in a moment was stumbling after
Reeves up the stairs of Hamill House with a queer mist before his
eyes.
“This is my sanctum,” Reeves remarked, turning up the light. “Sit
down here”; and he threw himself on the window-seat opposite. “Now
tell me about it, old fellow. I’ve heard the fellows jawing, of
course, but I want to know the straight of it.”
And Tommy opened the flood-gates of his heart and poured the story
forth. Reeves listened to the end without interrupting by word or
sign.
“But how does it come,” he asked at last, “that you can’t keep up
and play football too? The other fellows do, and they don’t drive us
so hard here. Hasn’t your prep been good?”
“Good?” echoed Tommy. “Why, man, three years ago I couldn’t read nor
write.”
“Whew!” whistled Reeves, and sat up and looked at him. “Say, tell me
about that. I should like to hear about that.”
So Tommy, who felt as though he were lifting a great load from his
heart, told him the story, beginning, just as this story began, at
the moment he entered the little Wentworth school-house with the
circus poster in his hand. How far away it seemed to him now! He
could scarcely believe that it had happened so recently. Some parts
of the story he did not tell in detail; he did not dwell upon the
grime and misery of the mines, nor upon the hard conditions of life
in New River valley. Somehow they seemed strangely out of place in
this airy, pleasant room, with this boy, who had been reared in
luxury, for listener. So he hurried on to the time when he first
looked into “Lorna Doone,” and then to the patient work of the two
who had taught him and fitted him for Lawrenceville. Let us do him
the justice to say that he paid them full tribute.
“Don’t you see,” he concluded, “I can’t disappoint those two people.
I’ve just got to succeed. Besides, I can’t go back to the mines now.
I’ve seen something of the world outside. It’d kill me to go back.”
Reeves came over and gave him his hand again.
“Right,” he said heartily. “You’re dead right. Say,” he added
awkwardly, “let me help you, won’t you? I’d like to. Come up here in
the evenings and we’ll tackle the books together. I don’t know very
much, but maybe I can help a little. The master will consent, I
know.”
“Will you?” cried Tommy. “Oh, will you? That’s just what I want;
that’s just what I need! But maybe you’ve other things to do—I don’t
want to spoil your evenings.”
“Nonsense!” growled Reeves. “I need the study as bad as you
do—worse, I suspect. I’ve been loafing too much anyway, and going
over the rudiments again will help me. It’s as much for my own sake
as for yours.”
So it was settled, the master _did_ consent, and every night found
the two together. How great a help Reeves was to him need hardly be
said. Yet I think the other profited as much—perhaps more. He
profited in self-denial and in earnestness, and, in his eagerness to
help Tommy on, himself devoted much more thought to the work than he
would otherwise have done. Word got about that Reeves had taken
Tommy’s side of the controversy, and for a time the others wondered.
Some of them dropped in of an evening to see for themselves this
remarkable sight of Reeves coaching Remington in the first-form
work. The example proved a good one, and as time passed some of the
other boys forgot their anger toward him, and admitted him again
into their friendship. But it was to Reeves he clung closest of all.
“Say, Remington,” said the latter, one Saturday, “I’m going to walk
over to Princeton to-morrow after morning service. I’ve got a big
brother there in the sophomore class, and maybe he’ll show us around
if he’s feeling good. How’d you like to go along?”
“I’d like it,” said Tommy, with conviction, for he had never yet had
a glimpse of the great college whose achievements were being
constantly dinned into his ears. “But can I get leave?”
“I’ll fix it for you,” answered Reeves, and he did.
It was a pleasant three-mile walk, that cool October morning, along
the level road, shaded on either side by stately elms. The old
post-road it used to be, a century and a half before, running from
New York to Philadelphia, a gay place echoing to the coachman’s
horn, and later, during the Revolution, to the tramp of armies. Only
the memory of its former glory now remains, but its beauty is
unchanged. They passed a row of old colonial residences, well back
from the road, half hidden amid groves of trees and rows of formal
hedge. Then into Nassau Street they turned, and so to the college
campus.
“That’s Nassau Hall—‘Old North,’ they call it here,” said Reeves,
pointing to a long three-storied gray stone building, half covered
with ivy, stretching across the front campus. “It is so old that it
was the largest building in America when it was built. During the
Revolution, after Washington won the battle of Princeton, just below
here, some of the British took refuge in the building; but
Washington’s cannon soon brought them out. There was a picture of
George III. inside in the big hall, and they say that Washington’s
first cannon-ball went through the picture and cut off the head.
They put a picture of Washington in the frame afterward.”
Tommy looked with respect at the old building, as solid and
substantial now as it was the day it was erected. Back of it he
caught a glimpse of many other buildings, but Reeves turned in at
the first one.
“These are all dormitories,” he said. “This is Reunion Hall. Ralph’s
room is up there on the second floor.”
They stumbled up the stairs, which were very dark, and presently
Reeves knocked at a door. There was no response, and he tried the
knob. The door opened.
“Come on,” said Reeves. “It’s not locked. Come in and have a look at
his den.”
And for the first time Tommy caught a glimpse of a college room.
Orange and black, the college colors, were everywhere. The walls
were covered by signs, secured in divers places, and by means that
would not bear too close scrutiny—all sorts of signs: “For Rent,”
“Keep Off the Grass,” “Danger,” “Beware the Dog,” “This Way to the
Menagerie,” “Monkey House,” and so on. A banjo and guitar stood in
one corner. Above the fireplace were two crossed lacrosse-sticks, a
set of boxing-gloves, and a pair of foils with masks. Everywhere
there were embroidered sofa-cushions—the work of devoted and
ill-rewarded feminine fingers—and photographs and books and a great
miscellany of trash such as only a college boy knows how to gather
together.
“Well, he’s not here,” said Reeves, after a glance around. “It’s no
use to wait for him. Maybe we’ll meet him out on the campus. We’ll
take a walk around, anyway.”
And take a walk around they did—past beautiful, many-arched
Alexander Hall, where the commencement exercises are held; past the
old gymnasium, with its bronze gladiator before it; past the
observatory, with its great movable dome; past Blair Hall, with its
lofty towers frowning down upon the little railway station; past
Witherspoon Hall, the most luxurious of all the dormitories; past
the two white marble buildings of the literary societies, Whig and
Clio, with their high, many-columned, classic porticos. Reeves
showed Tommy the cannon captured from the British, and planted,
muzzle downward, in the center of the quadrangle, forming the hub
about which the whole college world revolved, and where the
class-day exercises were held at commencement. Then on they went to
McCosh Walk, with its rows of stately elms; to Prospect, where the
president lives; and back again past Marquand Chapel and the new
library to the front campus, where they sat down under the elms in
front of Old North to rest.
“It’s a great old building, isn’t it?” said Reeves. “See how covered
with ivy it is. Every graduating class plants a piece at
commencement; it’s one of the big exercises, with an oration and all
that. The fellows here have great times, I tell you. We must come
over some evening next spring and hear the senior singing; the whole
class sits on the steps there, and sometimes the banjo and mandolin
clubs come out too. Can you sing?”
“No,” said Tommy, “I can’t sing.”
“It’s a great thing to get on the glee club. But no matter; you’re
certain to make the football team, and that’s better yet. Nothing’s
too good for you if you’re on the team. Wait till you see the Yale
game!”
Tommy drew a deep breath of joy and longing. Would it ever come
true? Was it not all a dream, that would presently fade and vanish?
He looked about again at the great buildings, the long, winding
walks, the level, close-clipped campus.
The extent and complexity of the college world dazzled him. He began
to understand what a great college really is, and his heart leaped
to a faster measure at the thought that he would one day be a part
of it. He watched the students sauntering along the walks, smoking
and chatting, and wondered if any of them had come from such a place
as New River valley. He was quite sure that none had—he did not know
that these boys were gathered together from every quarter of the
world, and that some of them had worked their way up from even lower
depths than the coal-mines.
“Let’s have another try at locating Ralph,” said Reeves, after a
time, and they again clambered up to his room in Reunion. They found
a boy lolling lazily on the window-seat, gazing out across the
campus. He looked around as they entered.
“Isn’t this Ralph Reeves’s room?” asked Reeves, hesitating on the
threshold.
“Yep,” said the stranger. “At least, part of it is. The other part’s
mine. I’m his room-mate. What do you want with him?”
“I want to see him. He’s my brother.”
“Oh, is he?” And the owner of the room looked at them with
considerably more interest. “Well, I’m afraid you won’t see him. He
went up to New York last night to see Mansfield. He can’t get back
till this evening, and I don’t much expect him before to-morrow
morning.”
Reeves concealed as well as he could the disappointment which this
announcement caused him.
“Oh, all right,” he said carelessly. “Come on, Remington; we’d
better start back to Lawrenceville.”
“Here, wait a minute,” called the other, as they turned away. “You
kids can’t walk ’way back to Lawrenceville without something to eat.
I was just thinking about going to lunch. Come along with me. I’m
Holland, ’02,” he added, by way of introduction.
Perhaps at another time Reeves might have resented being called a
“kid,” but just now his stomach was clamoring for refreshment and
was not to be denied.
“All right; thank you, Mr. Holland,” said Reeves. “This is
Remington,” he added, pulling Tommy forward. “He’s my chum down at
Lawrenceville.”
Tommy turned scarlet with pleasure at this open avowal of
friendship. Holland nodded to him, threw on a cap that was lying on
the floor, and led the way down the stairs, across the campus, and
to a boarding-house on University Place. Half a dozen other fellows
were sitting about the table eating and talking, and Holland gave
the two boys a general introduction. Tommy listened to the talk as
he ate, but there was little of it he could understand, for such
strange words as “poller,” “grind,” “trig,” “math,” “cuts,” and
dozens of others equally incomprehensible, were constantly
recurring. The meal over, they bade their host good-by, and started
back to Lawrenceville, which they reached in time for supper.
The routine of the place went on day after day without incident;
only more than once Tommy found himself fighting the same battle
over again. Reeves scrupulously refrained from talking football to
him, but he knew, nevertheless, that Sexton’s prophecy had been
fulfilled, and that Banker was making a poor showing for left guard.
That position was by far the weakest on the team, and more than
once, as the season progressed, the opposing team made gains through
it which defeated Lawrenceville. It seemed more and more certain, as
the days went by, that they could not hope to win the great game of
the season, that with the Princeton freshmen. Blake labored savagely
with his men, but they seemed to have lost spirit. A deep gloom
settled over the place, and the ill feeling against Tommy, which had
bid fair to be forgotten, sprang into life again.
The crisis came one afternoon about a week before the day of the
game. Tommy was plugging away at his books, as usual, when he heard
the door open, and looking around, saw Reeves and Sexton enter. One
glance at their faces told him that something more than usually
serious had happened.
“What is it?” he asked quickly.
“It’s mighty hard luck, that’s what it is,” said Sexton, sitting
down despondently. “Banker sprained a tendon in his ankle at
practice this afternoon, and won’t be able to play any more this
season. He wasn’t such a great player, but he was the best left
guard we had, and there’s nobody to take his place.”
Tommy sat for a moment, silent, looking from one to the other. The
last sentences of Mr. Bayliss’s letter were ringing in his ears.
“Is practice over yet?” he asked.
“No,” said Reeves. “It had just begun when Banker was hurt. Blake is
hunting around for somebody to take his place.”
Tommy closed his book with a slam, pushed back his chair, and from
one corner of the room pulled out his old football suit.
“What are you going to do?” cried Reeves, a great light in his eyes.
“I’m going to play left guard,” said Tommy, as calmly as he could,
and trying to steady his hands, which were trembling strangely.
“Wait till I get these togs on, will you?”
But Reeves and Sexton had him by the hands and were shaking them
wildly.
“I knew it!” cried Reeves. “I knew it! I knew he wouldn’t fail us! I
knew the stuff he was made of! We’ll beat those freshmen yet.”
“Beat them!” echoed Sexton, dancing wildly around Tommy; “we’ll beat
the life out of them! Hurry up, Remington. Let go his hand, can’t
you, Reeves, so he can get into his togs. Let the other fellows get
a look at him! It’ll do them good!”