Capwell Chapel--it bore the pork merchant's name as an eternal memorial
to him--was as impressive inside as out. The stained-glass windows had
been made by a famous New York firm; the altar had been designed by an
even more famous sculptor. The walls, quite improperly, were adorned
with paintings of former presidents, but the largest painting of all--it
was fairly Gargantuan--was of the pork merchant, a large, ruddy
gentleman, whom the artist, a keen observer, had painted
truly--complacently porcine, benevolently smug.
The seniors and juniors sat in the nave, the sophomores on the right
side of the transept, the freshmen on the left. Hugh gazed upward in awe
at the dim recesses of the vaulted ceiling, at the ornately carved choir
where gowned students were quietly seating themselves, at the colored
light streaming through the beautiful windows, at the picture of the
pork merchant. The chapel bells ceased tolling; rich, solemn tones
swelled from the organ.
President Culver in cap and gown, his purple hood falling over his
shoulders, entered followed by his faculty, also gowned and hooded. The
students rose and remained standing until the president and faculty were
seated. The organ sounded a final chord, and then the college chaplain
rose and prayed--very badly. He implored the Lord to look kindly "on
these young men who have come from near and far to drink from this great
fount of learning, this well of wisdom."
The prayer over, the president addressed the students. He was a large,
erect man with iron-gray hair and a rugged intelligent face. Although he
was sixty years old, his body was vigorous and free from extra weight.
He spoke slowly and impressively, choosing his words with care and
enunciating them with great distinctness. His address was for the
freshmen: he welcomed them to Sanford College, to its splendid
traditions, its high ideals, its noble history. He spoke of the famous
men it numbered among its sons, of the work they had done for America
and the world, of the work he hoped future Sanford men, they, the
freshmen, would some day do for America and the world. He mentioned
briefly the boys from Sanford who had died in the World War "to make the
world safe for democracy," and he prayed that their sacrifice had not
been in vain. Finally, he spoke of the chapel service, which the
students were required to attend. He hoped that they would find
inspiration in it, knowledge and strength. He assured them that the
service would always be nonsectarian, that there would never be anything
in it to offend any one of any race, creed, or religion. With a last
exhortation to the freshmen to make the most of their great
opportunities, he ended with the announcement that they would rise and
sing the sixty-seventh hymn.
Hugh was deeply impressed by the speech but disturbed by the students.
From where he sat he got an excellent view of the juniors and seniors.
The seniors, who sat in the front of the nave, seemed to be paying
fairly good attention; but the juniors--many of them, at least--paid no
attention at all. Some of them were munching apples, some doughnuts, and
many of them were reading "The Sanford News," the college's daily paper.
Some of the juniors talked during the president's address, and once he
noticed four of them doubled up as if overcome by laughter. To him the
service was a beautiful and impressive occasion. He could not understand
the conduct of the upper-classmen. It seemed, to put it mildly,
irreverent.
Every one, however, sang the doxology with great vigor, some of the boys
lifting up a "whisky" tenor that made the chapel ring, and to which Hugh
happily added his own clear tenor. The benediction was pronounced by the
chaplain, the seniors marched out slowly in twos, while the other
students and the faculty stood in their places; then the president,
followed by the faculty, passed out of the great doors. When the back of
the last faculty gown had disappeared, the under-classmen broke for the
door, pushing each other aside, swearing when a toe was stepped on,
yelling to each other, some of them joyously chanting the doxology. Hugh
was caught in the rush and carried along with the mob, feeling ashamed
and distressed; this was no way to leave a church.
Once outside, however, he had no time to think of the chapel service; he
had five minutes in which to get to his first class, and the building
was across the campus, a good two minutes' walk. He patted his cap to be
sure that it was firmly on the back of his head, clutched his note-book,
and ran as hard as he could go, the strolling upper-classmen, whom he
passed at top speed, grinning after him in tolerant amusement.
Hugh was the first one in the class-room and wondered in a moment of
panic if he was in the right place. He sat down dubiously and looked at
his watch. Four minutes left. He would wait two, and then if nobody came
he would--he gasped; he couldn't imagine what he would do. How could he
find the right class-room? Maybe his class didn't come at this hour at
all. Suppose he and Carl had made a mistake. If they had, his whole
schedule was probably wrong. "Oh, golly," he thought, feeling pitifully
weak, "won't that be hell? What can I do?"
At that moment a countrified-looking youth entered, looking as scared as
Hugh felt. His face was pale, and his voice trembled as he asked
timidly, "Do you know if this is Section Three of Math One?"
Hugh was immediately strengthened. "I think so," he replied. "Anyhow,
let's wait and find out."
The freshman sighed in huge relief, took out a not too clean
handkerchief, and mopped his face. "Criminy!" he exclaimed as he
wriggled down the aisle to a seat by Hugh, "I was sure worried. I
thought I was in the wrong building, though I was sure that my adviser
had told me positively that Math was in Matthew Six."
"I guess we're all right," Hugh comforted him as two other freshmen,
also looking dubious, entered. They were followed by four more, and then
by a stampeding group, all of them pop-eyed, all of them in a rush. In
the next minute five freshmen dashed in and then dashed out again,
utterly bewildered, obviously terrified, and not knowing where to go or
what to do. "Is this Math One, Section Three?" every man demanded of the
room as he entered; and every one yelled, "Yes," or, "I think so."
Just as the bell rang at ten minutes after the hour, the instructor
entered. It was Professor Kane.
"This is Mathematics One, Section Three," Kane announced in a dry voice.
"If there is any one here who does not belong here, he will please
leave." Nobody moved; so he shuffled some cards in his hand and asked
the men to answer to the roll-call.
"Adams, J.H."
"Present, sir."
Kane looked up and frowned. "Say 'here,'" he said severely. "This is not
a grammar-school."
"Yes, sir," stuttered Adams, his face first white then purple. "Here,
sir."
"'Here' will do; there is no need of the 'sir.' Allsop, K.E."
"Here"--in a very faint voice.
"Speak up!"
"Here." This time a little louder.
And so it went, hardly a man escaping without some admonishment. Hugh's
throat went dry; his tongue literally stuck to the roof of his mouth: he
was sure that he wouldn't be able to say "Here" when it came his turn,
and he could feel his heart pounding in dreadful anticipation.
"Carver, H.M."
"Here!"
There! it was out! Or had he really said it?
He looked at the professor in terror, but Kane was already calling,
"Dana, R.T." Hugh sank back in his chair; he was trembling.
Kane announced the text-book, and when Hugh caught the word
"trigonometry" he actually thrilled with joy. He had had trig in high
school. Whoops! Would he hit Math I in the eye? He'd knock it for a
goal.... Then conscience spoke. Oughtn't he to tell Kane that he had
already had trig? He guessed quite rightly that Kane had not understood
his high-school credentials, which had given him credit for "advanced
mathematics." Kane had taken it for granted that that was advanced
algebra. Hugh felt that he ought to explain the mistake, but fear of the
arid, impersonal man restrained him. Kane had told him to take Math I;
and Kane was law.
Unlike most of Hugh's instructors, Kane kept the class the full hour the
first day, seating them in alphabetical order--he had to repeat the
performance three times during the week as new men entered the
class--lecturing them on the need of doing their problems carefully and
accurately, and discoursing on the value of mathematics, trigonometry in
particular, in the study of science and engineering. Hugh was not
interested in science, engineering, or mathematics, but he listened
carefully, trying hard to follow Kane's cold discourse. At the end of
the hour he told his neighbor as they left the room that he guessed that
Professor Kane knew an awful lot, and his neighbor agreed with him.
Hugh's other instructors proved less impressive than Kane; in fact, Mr.
Alling, the instructor in Latin, was altogether disconcerting.
"Plautus," he told the class, "wrote comedies, farces--not exercises in
translation. He was also, my innocents, occasionally naughty--oh, really
naughty. What's worse, he used slang, common every-day slang--the kind
of stuff that you and I talk. Now, I have an excellent vocabulary of
slang, obscenity, and profanity; and you are going to hear most of it.
Think of the opportunity. Don't think that I mean just 'damn' and
'hell.' They are good for a laugh in a theater any day, but Plautus was
not restrained by our modern conventions. _You_ will confine yourselves,
please, to English undefiled, but I shall speak the modern equivalent to
a Roman gutter-pup's language whenever necessary. You will find this
course very illuminating--in some ways. And, who knows? you may learn
something not only about Latin but about Rome."
Hugh thought Mr. Alling was rather flippant and lacking in dignity.
Professor Kane was more like a college teacher. Before the term was out
he hated Kane with an intensity that astonished him, and he looked
forward to his Latin classes with an eagerness of which he was almost
ashamed. Plautus in the Alling free and colloquial translations was
enormously funny.
Professor Hartley, who gave the history lectures, talked in a bass
monotone and never seemed to pause for breath. His words came in a slow
steady stream that never rose nor fell nor paused--until the bell rang.
The men in the back of the room slept. Hugh was seated near the front;
so he drew pictures in his note-book. The English instructor talked
about punctuation as if it were very unpleasant but almost religiously
important; and what the various lecturers in general science talked
about--ten men gave the course--Hugh never knew. In after years all that
he could remember about the course was that one man spoke broken English
and that a professor of physics had made huge bulbs glow with marvelous
colors.
Hugh had one terrifying experience before he finally got settled to his
work. It occurred the second day of classes. He was comfortably seated
in what he thought was his English class--he had come in just as the
bell rang--when the instructor announced that it was a class in French.
What was he to do? What would the instructor do if he got up and left
the room? What would happen if he didn't report at his English class?
What would happen to him for coming into his English class late? These
questions staggered his mind. He was afraid to stay in the French class.
Cautiously he got up and began to tiptoe to the door.
"Wrong room?" the instructor asked pleasantly.
Hugh flushed. "Yes, sir." He stopped dead still, not knowing what to do
next.
He was a typical rattled freshman, and the class, which was composed of
sophomores, laughed. Hugh, angry and humiliated, started for the door,
but the instructor held up a hand that silenced the class; then he
motioned for Hugh to come to his desk.
"What class are you looking for?"
"English One, sir, Section Seven." He held out his schedule card,
reassured by the instructor's kindly manner.
The instructor looked at the card and then consulted a printed schedule.
"Oh," he said, "your adviser made a mistake. He got you into the wrong
group list. You belong in Sanders Six."
"Thank you, sir." Hugh spoke so softly that the waiting class did not
hear him, but the instructor smiled at the intensity of his thanks. As
he left the room, he knew that every one was looking at him; his legs
felt as if they were made of wood. It wasn't until he had closed the
door that his knee-joints worked naturally. But the worst was still
ahead of him. He had to go to his English class in Sanders 6. He ran
across the campus, his heart beating wildly, his hands desperately
clenched. When he reached Sanders 6, he found three other freshmen
grouped before the door.
"Is this English One, Section Seven?" one asked tremulously.
"I think so," whispered the second. "Do you know?" he asked, turning to
Hugh.
"Yes; I am almost sure."
They stood there looking at each other, no one quite daring to enter
Sanders 6, no one quite daring to leave. Suddenly the front door of the
building slammed. A bareheaded youth rushed up the stairs. He was a
repeater; that is, a man who had failed the course the preceding year
and was taking it over again. He brushed by the scared freshmen, opened
the door, and strode into Sanders 6, closing the door behind him.
The freshmen looked at each other, and then the one nearest the door
opened it. The four of them filed in silently.
The class looked up. "Sit in the back of the room," said the instructor.
And that was all there was to that. In his senior year Hugh remembered
the incident and wondered at his terror. He tried to remember why he had
been so badly frightened. He couldn't; there didn't seem to be any
reason at all.