THE SACRED ORDER OF HULLABALOOLOO.
Picture a mild, golden afternoon in early October, the yellowing green
of Sailors' Field mellow and warm in the sunlight, the river winding its
sluggish way through the broad level marshes like a ribbon of molten
gold, and the few great fleecy bundles of white clouds sailing across
the deep blue of the sky like froth upon some placid stream. Imagine a
sound of fresh voices, mellowed by a little distance, from where, to and
fro, walking, trotting, darting, but ever moving like the particles in a
kaleidoscope, many squads of players were practicing on the football
field. Such, then, is the picture that would have rewarded your gaze had
you passed through the gate and stood near the simple granite shaft
which rises under the shade of the trees to commemorate the little
handful of names it bears.
Had you gone on across the intervening turf until the lengthened shadow
of the nearest goal post was reached you would have seen first a
squad--a veritable awkward squad--arranged in a ragged circle and
passing a football with much mishandling and many fumbles. Further along
you would have seen a long line of youths standing. Their general
expression was one of alertness bordering on alarm. The casual observer
would have thought each and every one insane, as, suddenly darting from
the line, one after another, they flung themselves upon the ground,
rolled frantically about as though in spasms, and then arose and went
back into the rank. But had you observed carefully you would have
noticed that each spasm was caused by a rolling ball, wobbling its
erratic way across the turf before them.
Around about, in and out, forms darted after descending spheroids, or
seized a ball from outstretched hands, started desperately into motion,
charged a few yards, and then, as though reconsidering, turned and
trotted back, only to repeat the performance the next moment. And
footballs banged against broad backs with hollow sounds, or rolled about
between stoutly clad feet, or ascended into the air in great arching
flights. And a babel of voices was on all sides, cries of warning, sharp
commands, scathing denouncements.
"Straighten your arm, man; that's not a baseball!" "Faster, faster! Put
some ginger into it!" "Get on your toes, Smith. Start when you see the
ball coming. This isn't a funeral!" "Don't stoop for the ball; fall on
it! The ground will catch you!" "Jones, what _are_ you doing? Wake up."
"No, _no_, NO! Great Scott, the ball won't _bite_ you!"
The period was that exasperating one known as "the first two weeks,"
when coaches are continually upon the border of insanity and players
wonder dumbly if the game is worth the candle. To-day Joel, one of a
squad of unfortunates, was relearning the art of tackling. It was Joel's
first experience with that marvelous contrivance, "the dummy." One after
another the squad was sent at a sharp spurt to grapple the inanimate
canvas-covered bag hanging inoffensively there, like a body from a
gallows, between the uprights.
There are supposed to be two ways to tackle, but the coach who was
conducting the operations to-day undoubtedly believed in the existence
of at least thrice that number; for each candidate for Varsity honors
tackled the dummy in a totally different style. The lift tackle is
performed by seizing the opponent around the legs below the hips,
bringing his knees together so that further locomotion is an
impossibility to him, and lifting him upward off the ground and
depositing him as far backward toward his own goal as circumstances and
ability will permit. The lift tackle is the easiest to make. The dive
tackle pertains to swimming and suicide. Running toward the opponent,
the tackler leaves the ground when at a distance of a length and a half
and dives at the runner, aiming to tackle a few inches below the hips. A
dive tackle well done always accomplishes a well-defined pause in the
runner's progress.
Joel was having hard work of it. Time and again he launched himself at
the swaying legs, bringing the canvas man to earth, but always picking
himself up to find the coach observing him very, very coldly, and to
hear that exasperating gentleman ask sarcastically if he (Joel) thinks
he is playing "squat tag." And then the dummy would swing back into
place, harboring no malice or resentment for the rough handling, and
Joel would take his place once more and watch the next man's attempt,
finding, I fear, some consolation in the "roast" accorded to the latter.
It was toward the latter part of the second week of college. Joel had
practiced every day except Sundays, and had just arrived at the
conclusion that football as played at Harwell was no relation, not even
a distant cousin to the game of a similar name played at Hillton. Of
course he was wrong, since intercollegiate football, whether played by
schoolboys or college students, is still intercollegiate football. The
difference lies only in the state of development. At Hillton the game,
very properly, was restricted to its more primary methods; at Harwell it
is developed to its uttermost limits. It is the difference between whist
over the library table and whist at the whist club.
But all things come to an end, and at length the coach rather
ungraciously declared he could stand no more and bade them join the rest
of the candidates for the run. That run was two miles, and Joel finally
stumbled into the gymnasium tuckered out and in no very good temper just
as the five o'clock whistle on the great printing house sounded.
After dinner in the dining hall that evening Joel confided his doubts
and vexations to Outfield as they walked back to their room. "I wouldn't
care if I thought I was making any progress," he wailed, "but each day
it gets worse. To-day I couldn't seem to do a start right, and as for
tackling that old dummy, why--"
"Well, you did as well as the other chaps, didn't you?" asked Outfield.
"I suppose so. He gave it to us all impartially."
"Well, there you are. He can't tell you you're the finest young tacklers
that ever happened, because you'd all get swelled craniums and not do
another lick of work. I know the sort of fellow he is. He'll never tell
you that you are doing well; only when he's satisfied with you he'll
pass you on. You see. And don't you care what he says. Just go on and do
the best you know how. Blair told me to-day that if you tried you could
make the Varsity before the season is over. What do you think of that?
He says the coaches are puzzling their brains to find a man that's fit
to take the place of Dangfield, who was left-half last year."
"I dare say," answered Joel despondently, "but Durston will never let me
stop tackling that dummy arrangement. I'll be taking falls out of it all
by myself when the Yates game is going on. Who invented that
thing, anyhow?"
But, nevertheless, Joel's spirits were very much better when the two
lads reached the room and West had turned on the soft light of the
argand. And taking their books in hand, and settling comfortably back in
the two great cozy armchairs, they were soon busily reading.
Hazing has "gone out" at Harwell, and so, when at about nine the two
boys beard many footfalls outside their door, and when in response to
West's loud "Come" five mysterious and muffled figures in black masks
entered they were somewhat puzzled what to think.
"March?" asked a deep voice.
"Yes," answered Joel with a wondering frown.
"West?"
"Yep. What in thunder do you want? And who in thunder are you?"
"Freshies, aren't you?" continued the inexorable voice. The maskers had
closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid
inquisitorial postures between it and the table.
"None of your business," answered West crossly. "Get out, will you?"
"Not until our duties are done," answered the mask. "You are freshies,
nice, new, tender little freshies. We are here to initiate you into the
mysteries of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. Stand up!" Neither
moved; they were already standing, West puzzled and angry, Joel
wondering and amused.
"Well, sit down, then," commanded the voice. Joel looked meaningly at
Outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the
Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. But the latter were prepared. Over went
the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of
books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the
two roommates. The battle was short but decisive, and when it was done,
Joel lay gasping on the floor and Outfield sprawled breathless on
the couch.
"Will you give up?" asked the first mask.
"Yes," growled West, and Joel echoed him.
"Then you may get up," responded the mask. "But, mind you, no tricks!"
Joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the
masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire. "Freshman March will
favor us with a song," announced the mask.
"I can't sing a word," answered Joel.
"You must. Hullabalooloo decrees it."
"Then Hullabalooloo can come and make me," retorted Joel stubbornly.
"What," asked the mask in a deep, grewsome voice, "what is the penalty
for disobedience?"
"Tossed in the blanket," answered the other four in unison.
"You hear, Freshman March?" asked the mask. "Choose."
"I'll sing, I guess," answered Joel, with a grin. But West jumped up.
"Don't you do it, Joel! They can't make you sing! And they can't make me
sing; and the first one that comes in reach will get knocked down!"
"Oh, well, I don't mind singing," answered Joel. "That is, I don't mind
trying. If they can stand it, I can. What shall I sing?"
"What do you know?"
"I only know one song. I'll sing that, but on one condition."
"Name it?" answered the mask.
"That you'll join in and sing the chorus."
There was a moment of hesitation; then the masks nodded, and Joel
mounted to a chair and with a comical grimace of despair at West, who
sat scowling on the couch, he began:
"There is a flag of crimson hue,
The fairest flag that flieth,
Whose folds wave over hearts full true,
As nobody denieth.
Here's to the School, the School so dear;
Here's to the soil it's built on!
Here's to the heart, or far or near,
That loves the Flag of Hillton.'"
Joel was not much of a singer, but his voice was good and he sang as
though he meant it. Outfield sat unresponsive until the verse was nearly
done; then he moved restlessly and waited for the chorus, and when it
came joined in with the rest; and the strains of Hilltonians rang
triumphantly through the building.
"Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
Hilltonians, Hilltonians, our loyalty we'll prove
Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, the bonny flag we love!"
The Knights of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo signified their
approval and demanded the next verse. And Joel sang it. And when the
chorus came the maskers lost much of their dignity and waved their arms
about and shouted the refrain so loud that doors up and down the hall
opened and wondering voices shouted "Shut up!" or "More! M-o-r-e!" for
two minutes after. As the last word was reached Joel leaned quickly
forward toward an unsuspicious singer, and, snatching the mask from his
face, revealed the countenance of Louis Whipple.
And then, amid much laughter, the other masks were slipped off, and the
remaining members of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo stood revealed as
Blair, Cartwright, Somers, and Cooke.
And Outfield, joining in the laugh at his own expense, was seized by
Cooke and waltzed madly around the table, while the rest once more
raised the strains of Hilltonians:
"Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
Hilltonians, Hilltonians, we stand to do or die,
Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!"