The football season lasted from the first of October to the latter part
of November, and during those weeks little was talked about, or even
thought about, on the campus but football. There were undergraduates who
knew the personnel of virtually every football team in the country, the
teams that had played against each other, their relative merits, the
various scores, the outstanding players of each position. Half the
students at Sanford regularly made out "All American" teams, and each
man was more than willing to debate the quality of his team against that
of any other. Night after night the students gathered in groups in
dormitory rooms and fraternity houses, discussing football, football,
football; even religion and sex, the favorite topics for "bull
sessions," could not compete with football, especially when some one
mentioned Raleigh College. Raleigh was Sanford's ancient rival; to
defeat her was of cosmic importance.
There was a game every Saturday. About half the time the team played at
home; the other games were played on the rivals' fields. No matter how
far away the team traveled, the college traveled with it. The men who
had the necessary money went by train; a few owned automobiles: but most
of the undergraduates had neither an automobile nor money for train
fare. They "bummed" their way. Some of them emulated professional
tramps, and "rode the beams," but most of them started out walking,
trusting that kind-hearted motorists would pick them up and carry them
at least part way to their destination. Although the distances were
sometimes great, and although many motorists are not kind, there is no
record of any man who ever started for a game not arriving in time for
the referee's first whistle. Somehow, by hook or by crook--and it was
often by crook--the boys got there, and, what is more astonishing, they
got back. On Monday morning at 8:45 they were in chapel, usually worn
and tired, it is true, ready to bluff their way through the day's
assignments, and damning any instructor who was heartless enough to give
them a quiz. Some of them were worn out from really harsh traveling
experiences; some of them had more exciting adventures to relate behind
closed doors to selected groups of confidants.
Football! Nothing else mattered. And as the weeks passed, the excitement
grew, especially as the day drew near for the Raleigh game, which this
year was to be played on the Sanford field. What were Sanford's chances?
Would Harry Slade, Sanford's great half-back, make All American? "Damn
it to hell, he ought to. It'll be a stinkin' shame if he don't." Would
Raleigh's line be able to stop Slade's end runs? Slade! Slade! He was
the team, the hope and adoration of the whole college.
Three days before the "big game" the alumni began to pour into town,
most of them fairly recent graduates, but many of them gray-haired men
who boasted that they hadn't missed a Sanford-Raleigh game in thirty
years. Hundreds of alumni arrived, filling the two hotels to capacity
and overrunning the fraternity houses, the students doubling up or
seeking hospitality from a friend in a dormitory.
In the little room in the rear of the Sanford Pool and Billiard Parlors
there was almost continual excitement. Jim McCarty, the proprietor, a
big, jovial, red-faced man whom all the students called Mac, was the
official stake-holder for the college. Bets for any amount could be
placed with him. Money from Raleigh flowed into his pudgy hands, and he
placed it at the odds offered with eager Sanford takers. By the day of
the game his safe held thousands of dollars, most of it wagered at five
to three, Raleigh offering odds. There was hardly an alumnus who did not
prove his loyalty to Sanford by visiting Mac's back room and putting
down a few greenbacks, at least. Some were more loyal than others; the
most loyal placed a thousand dollars--at five to two.
There was rain for two days before the game, but on Friday night the
clouds broke. A full moon seemed to shine them away, and the whole
campus rejoiced with great enthusiasm. Most of the alumni got drunk to
show their deep appreciation to the moon, and many of the undergraduates
followed the example set by their elders.
All Friday afternoon girls had been arriving, dozens of them, to attend
the fraternity dances. One dormitory had been set aside for them, the
normal residents seeking shelter in other dormitories. No man ever
objected to resigning his room to a girl. He never could tell what he
would find when he returned to it Monday morning. Some of the girls left
strange mementos....
No one except a few notorious grinds studied that night. Some of the
students were, of course, at the fraternity dances; some of them sat in
dormitory rooms and discussed the coming game from every possible angle;
and groups of them wandered around the campus, peering into the
fraternity houses, commenting on the girls, wandering on humming a song
that an orchestra had been playing, occasionally pausing to give a
"regular cheer" for the moon.
Hugh was too much excited to stay in a room; so with several other
freshmen he traveled the campus. He passionately envied the dancers in
the fraternity houses but consoled himself with the thought, "Maybe
I'll be dancing at the Nu Delt house next year." Then he had a spasm of
fright. Perhaps the Nu Delts--perhaps no fraternity would bid him. The
moon lost its brilliance; for a moment even the Sanford-Raleigh game was
forgotten.
The boys were standing before a fraternity house, and as the music
ceased, Jack Collings suggested: "Let's serenade them. You lead, Hugh."
Hugh had a sweet, light tenor voice. It was not at all remarkable, just
clear and true; but he had easily made the Glee Club and had an
excellent chance to be chosen freshman song-leader.
Collings had brought a guitar with him. He handed it to Hugh, who, like
most musical undergraduates, could play both a guitar and a banjo. "Sing
that 'I arise from dreams of thee' thing that you were singing the other
night. We'll hum."
Hugh slipped the cord around his neck, tuned the guitar, and then
thrummed a few opening chords. His heart was beating at double time; he
was very happy: he was serenading girls at a fraternity dance. Couples
were strolling out upon the veranda, the girls throwing warm wraps over
their shoulders, the men lighting cigarettes and tossing the burnt
matches on the lawn. Their white shirt-fronts gleamed eerily in the pale
light cast by the Japanese lanterns with which the veranda was hung.
Hugh began to sing Shelley's passionate lyric, set so well to music by
Tod B. Galloway. His mother had taught him the song, and he loved it.
"I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me--who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, Sweet!"
Two of the boys, who had heard Hugh sing the song before, hummed a soft
accompaniment. When he began the second verse several more began to hum;
they had caught the melody. The couples on the veranda moved quietly to
the porch railing, their chatter silent, their attention focused on a
group of dim figures standing in the shadow of an elm. Hugh was singing
well, better than he ever had before. Neither he nor his audience knew
that the lyric was immortal, but its tender, passionate beauty caught
and held them.
"The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream--
The champak odors fail
Like sweet-thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine
O beloved as thou art!
"Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my cheeks and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;
Oh! press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last."
There was silence for a moment after Hugh finished. The shadows, the
moonlight, the boy's soft young voice had moved them all. Suddenly a
girl on the veranda cried, "Bring him up!" Instantly half a dozen others
turned to their escorts, insisting shrilly: "Bring him up. We want to
see him."
Hugh jerked the guitar cord from around his neck, banded the instrument
to Collings, and tried to run. A burst of laughter went up from the
freshmen. They caught him and held him fast until the Tuxedo-clad
upper-classmen rushed down from the veranda and had him by the arms.
They pulled him, protesting and struggling, upon the veranda and into
the living-room.
The girls gathered around him, praising, demanding more. He flushed
scarlet when one enthusiastic maiden forced her way through the ring,
looked hard at him, and then announced positively, "I think he's sweet."
He was intensely embarrassed, in an agony of confusion--but very happy.
The girls liked his clean blondness, his blushes, his startled smile.
How long they would have held him there in the center of the ring while
they admired and teased him, there is no telling; but suddenly the
orchestra brought relief by striking up a fox-trot.
"He's mine!" cried a pretty black-eyed girl with a cloud of bobbed hair
and flaming cheeks. Her slender shoulders were bare; her round white
arms waved in excited, graceful gestures; her corn-colored frock was a
gauzy mist. She clutched Hugh's arm. "He's mine," she repeated shrilly.
"He's going to dance with me."
Hugh's cheeks burned a deeper scarlet. "My clothes," he muttered,
hesitating.
"Your clothes! My dear, you look sweet. Take off your cap and dance with
me."
Hugh snatched off his cap, his mind reeling with shame, but he had no
time to think. The girl pulled him through the crowd to a clear floor.
Almost mechanically, Hugh put his arm around her and began to dance. He
_could_ dance, and the girl had sense enough not to talk. She floated in
his arm, her slender body close to his. When the music ceased, she
clapped her little hands excitedly and told Hugh that he danced
"won-der-ful-ly." After the third encore she led him to a dark corner in
the hall.
"You're sweet, honey," she said softly. She turned her small, glowing
face up to his. "Kiss me," she commanded.
Dazed, Hugh gathered her into his arms and kissed her little red mouth.
She clung to him for a minute and then pushed him gently away.
"Good night, honey," she whispered.
"Good night." Hugh's voice broke huskily. He turned and walked rapidly
down the hall, upon the veranda, and down the steps. His classmates were
waiting for him. They rushed up to him, demanding that he tell them what
had happened.
He told them most of it, especially about the dance; but he neglected to
mention the kiss. Shyness overcame any desire that he had to strut.
Besides, there was something about that kiss that made it impossible for
him to tell any one, even Carl. When he went to bed that night, he did
not think once about the coming football game. Before his eyes floated
the girl in the corn-colored frock. He wished he knew her name....
Closer and closer she came to him. He could feel her cool arms around
his neck. "What a wonderful, wonderful girl! Sweeter than Helen--lots
sweeter.... She's like the night--and moonlight.... Like moonlight
and--" The music of the "Indian Serenade" began to thrill through his
mind:
"I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night....
Oh, she's sweet, sweet--like music and moonlight...." He fell asleep,
repeating "music and moonlight" over and over again--"music and
moonlight...."
* * * * *
The morning of the "big game" proved ideal, crisp and cold, crystal
clear. Indian summer was near its close, but there was still something
of its dreamy wonder in the air, and the hills still flamed with
glorious autumn foliage. The purples, the mauves, the scarlets, the
burnt oranges were a little dimmed, a little less brilliant--the leaves
were rustling dryly now--but there was beauty in dying autumn, its
splendor slowly fading, as there was in its first startling burst of
color.
Classes that Saturday morning were a farce, but they were held; the
administration, which the boys damned heartily, insisted upon it. Some
of the instructors merely took the roll and dismissed their classes,
feeling that honor had been satisfied; but others held their classes
through the hour, lecturing the disgusted students on their lack of
interest, warning them that examinations weren't as far off as the
millennium.
Hugh felt that he was lucky; he had only one class--it was with Alling
in Latin--and it had been promptly dismissed. "When the day comes," said
Alling, "that Latin can compete with football, I'll--well, I'll probably
get a living wage. You had better go before I get to talking about a
living wage. It is one of my favorite topics." He waved his hand toward
the door; the boys roared with delight and rushed out of the room,
shoving each other and laughing. They ran out of the building; all of
them were too excited to walk.
By half-past one the stands were filled. Most of the girls wore fur
coats, as did many of the alumni, but the students sported no such
luxuries; nine tenths of them wore "baa-baa coats," gray jackets lined
with sheep's wool. Except for an occasional banner, usually carried by a
girl, and the bright hats of the women, there was little color to the
scene. The air was sharp, and the spectators huddled down into their
warm coats.
The rival cheering sections, seated on opposite sides of the field,
alternated in cheering and singing, each applauding the other's efforts.
The cheering wasn't very good, and the singing was worse; but there was
a great deal of noise, and that was about all that mattered to either
side.
A few minutes before two, the Raleigh team ran upon the field. The
Raleigh cheering section promptly went mad. When the Sanford team
appeared a minute later, the Sanford cheering section tried its best to
go madder, the boys whistling and yelling like possessed demons. Wayne
Gifford brought them to attention by holding his hands above his head.
He called for the usual regular cheer for the team and then for a short
cheer for each member of it, starting with the captain, Sherman
Walford, and ending with the great half-back, Harry Slade.
Suddenly there was silence. The toss-up had been completed; the teams
were in position on the field. Slade had finished building a slender
pyramid of mud, on which he had balanced the ball. The referee held up
his hand. "Are you ready, Sanford?" Walford signaled his readiness. "Are
you ready, Raleigh?"
The shrill blast of the referee's whistle--and the game was on. The
first half was a see-saw up and down the field. Near the end of the half
Raleigh was within twenty yards of the Sanford line. Shouts of "Score!
Score! Score!" went up from the Raleigh rooters, rhythmic, insistent.
"Hold 'em! Hold 'em! Fight! Fight! Fight!" the Sanford cheering section
pleaded, almost sobbing the words. A forward pass skilfully completed
netted Raleigh sixteen yards. "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The timekeeper tooted his little horn; the half was over. For a moment
the Sanford boys leaned back exhausted; then they leaped to their feet
and yelled madly, while the Raleigh boys leaned back or against each
other and swore fervently. Within two minutes the tension had departed.
The rival cheering sections alternated in singing songs, applauded each
other vigorously, whistled at a frightened dog that tried to cross the
field and nearly lost its mind entirely when called by a thousand
masters, waited breathlessly when the cheer-leaders announced the
results from other football games that had been telegraphed to the
field, applauded if Harvard was losing, groaned if it wasn't, sang some
more, relaxed and felt consummately happy.
Sanford immediately took the offensive in the second half. Slade was
consistently carrying the ball. Twice he brought it within Raleigh's
twenty-five-yard line. The first time Raleigh held firm, but the second
time Slade stepped back for a drop-kick. The spectators sat silent,
breathless. The angle was difficult. Could he make it? Would the line
hold?
Quite calmly Slade waited. The center passed the ball neatly. Slade
turned it in his hands, paid not the slightest attention to the mad
struggle going on a few feet in front of him, dropped the ball--and
kicked. The ball rose in a graceful arc and passed safely between the
goal-posts.
Every one, men and women alike, the Raleigh adherents excepted, promptly
turned into extraordinarily active lunatics. The women waved their
banners and shrieked, or if they had no banners, they waved their arms
and shrieked; the men danced up and down, yelled, pounded each other on
the back, sometimes wildly embraced--many a woman was kissed by a man
she had never seen before and never would again, nor did she
object--Wayne Gifford was turning handsprings, and many of the students
were feebly fluttering their hands, voiceless, spent with cheering, weak
from excitement.
Early in the fourth quarter, however, Raleigh got its revenge, carrying
the ball to a touch-down after a series of line rushes. Sanford tried
desperately to score again, but its best efforts were useless against
the Raleigh defense.
The final whistle blew; and Sanford had lost. Cheering wildly, tossing
their hats into the air, the Raleigh students piled down from the grand
stand upon the field. With the cheer-leaders at the head, waving their
megaphones, the boys rapidly formed into a long line in uneven groups,
holding arms, dancing, shouting, winding in and out around the field,
between the goal-posts, tossing their hats over the bars, waving their
hands at the Sanford men standing despondently in their places--in and
out, in and out, in the triumphant serpentine. Finally they paused, took
off their hats, cheered first their own team, then the Sanford team, and
then sang their hymn while the Sanford men respectfully uncovered,
silent and despairing.
When the hymn was over, the Sanford men quietly left the grand stand,
quietly formed into a long line in groups of fours, quietly marched to
the college flagpole in the center of the campus. A Sanford banner was
flying from the pole, a blue banner with an orange S. Wayne Gifford
loosened the ropes. Down fluttered the banner, and the boys reverently
took off their hats. Gifford caught the banner before it touched the
ground and gathered it into his arms. The song-leader stepped beside
him. He lifted his hand, sang a note, and then the boys sang with him,
huskily, sadly, some of them with tears streaming down their cheeks:
"Sanford, Sanford, mother of men,
Love us, guard us, hold us true.
Let thy arms enfold us;
Let thy truth uphold us.
Queen of colleges, mother of men--
Alma mater, Sanford--hail!
Alma mater--Hail!--Hail!"
Slowly the circle broke into small groups that straggled wearily across
the campus. Hugh, with two or three others, was walking behind two young
professors--one of them, Alling, the other, Jones of the economics
department. Hugh was almost literally broken-hearted; the defeat lay on
him like an awful sorrow that never could be lifted. Every inch of him
ached, but his despair was greater than his physical pain. The sharp,
clear voice of Jones broke into his half-deadened consciousness.
"I can't understand all this emotional excitement," said Jones crisply.
"A football game is a football game, not a national calamity. I enjoy
the game myself, but why weep over it? I don't think I ever saw anything
more absurd than those boys singing with tears running into their
mouths."
Shocked, the boys looked at each other. They started to make angry
remarks but paused as Alling spoke.
"Of course, what you say, Jones, is quite right," he remarked calmly,
"quite right. But, do you know, I pity you."
"Alling's a good guy," Hugh told Carl later; "he's human."