CHAPTER XVII
THE SOPHOMORES LOSE
There are several occasions when a young man can find no words in whichto express himself. One is when he meets a pretty girl for the firsttime, and another is when his best chum has a great sorrow. There areother occasions, but these are the chief ones. Thus it was with Tom andSid. For a few seconds after Phil's announcement they sat staring at thefloor. Their eyes took in the pattern of the faded rug, though little ofthe original figure was to be seen because of the many spots. Then Tomlooked about the apartment, viewing the photographs of the two prettygirls, the sporting implements massed in a corner, the table, with itsartistic confusion of books and papers. From these his gaze traveledback to Phil.
As for Sid, he breathed heavily. If he had been a girl I would have saidthat he sighed. Then, being a youth who did not shirk any duty, nomatter how hard, Sid asked:
"Is--is she any worse, Phil? Have you had bad news? Can't we--can't yougo down where she is?"
Phil shook his head.
"There's no specially bad news," he said, "but it's this way: She has amalady which, sooner or later, unless it is conquered, will--will takeher away from me--and sis. Dad thinks an operation is the only hope, butthey keep putting it off from time to time, on a slim chance that shemay recover without it. For the operation is a desperate expedient atbest. And that's why I'm not myself. That's why I can't go into thegames with all my might. I expect any moment to be summoned to thesidelines to get a telegram saying--saying----"
He choked up, and could not finish.
"Is it--is it as bad as that?" asked Tom huskily, and he put his armover Phil's shoulder, as his chum sat in the old easy chair.
"It's pretty bad," said Phil softly. Then, with a sudden change ofmanner, he exclaimed: "But say, I didn't mean to tell you fellows that.I don't believe in relating my troubles to every one," and he smiled,though it was not like his usual cheery face that looked at his twochums.
"Oh, come now!" cried Sid. "As if we didn't want to hear! And as if youshouldn't tell us your troubles! Why, I expect to tell you fellows mine,and I want to hear yours in return, eh, Tom."
"Of course," said the pitcher heartily.
"Well, that's mighty white of you chaps," went on Phil, swallowing alump in his throat. "But I'm not going to bother you any more, just now.Only that's the reason I'm--well, that I can't play as I want to play.But I'm going to try to forget it. I'm going into the next game, andhelp rip their line to pieces. I'm going to pilot our fellows to a bigscore or dislocate my other shoulder."
"Good!" cried Sid. "Now let's get to bed. It's almost morning."
The little talk among the three chums was productive of good. There wasa closer bond of union among them than there had ever been before. Theyfelt more like brothers, and Tom and Sid watched Phil for the next fewdays as if he was a little chap, over whom they had been given charge.
"Oh, say!" the quarter-back exclaimed at length one afternoon, when theyhad followed him to football practice, and walked home with him. "I'mnot so bad as all that, you know."
"Did you hear any news to-day?" asked Tom, ignoring the mild rebuke.
"Yes. Got a telegram from dad. Things look a little brighter, andyet----" He paused. "Well," he continued, "I don't want to think toomuch about it. We play Haddonfield to-morrow. I want to wipe up thegridiron with them."
Which Phil and his chums pretty nearly did. Haddonfield PreparatorySchool had the best eleven in years, but, even with a number of scrubplayers on Randall, the score was forty-six to nothing. There was adifferent air about the college team as the lads went singing from thefield that afternoon. There was confidence in their eyes.
It was a beautiful afternoon in October. Lectures were over and a throngof students had strolled over the campus and down to the banks of SunnyRiver. The stream flowed lazily along toward Lake Tonoka, winding inand out, as though it had all the time it desired in which to make thejourney, and meant to take the full allowance. There was nothing rapidor fussy about Sunny River. It was not one of those hurrying, bubbling,frothy streams that make a great ado about going somewhere, and neverarrive. There was something soothing in walking along the banks thatbracing, fall day. There was just enough snap in the air to prevent onefrom feeling enervated, yet there was hardly a hint of winter.
"Doesn't it make you feel as if you could stretch out on your back andlook up into the sky?" asked Phil of Tom as the three chums walkedalong. Tom and the quarter-back had been to football practice, and stillhad their togs on.
"Now hold on!" exclaimed Sid, before Tom could answer. "Is this going tolead anywhere?"
"What do you mean?" asked Phil.
"I mean that poetical start on a talk-fest. Are you going to ring inbeautiful scenery, calm, peaceful atmosphere, a sense of loneliness, andthen switch off on to girls? Is that what you're driving at? Because ifit is I want to know, and I'm going back and read some psychology."
"You're up the wrong tree," declared Tom. "I don't know what Phil means,but my answer to his question would be that to stretch out on the groundfor any length of time at this season would mean stiff muscles, not tomention rheumatism."
"You fellows have no poetry in your nature," complained Phil. "Just lookthere, where the river curves, how the trees lean over to be kissed bythe limpid water. Can't you fancy some one floating, floating down it ina boat, with heart attuned----"
"It's too late for boating!" exclaimed a voice behind the trio. "Myuncle says----"
Phil turned quickly and tried to grab Ford Fenton. The youth with theuncle jumped back.
"Why--what--what's the matter?" stammered Fenton.
"Matter!" cried Phil. "Why, you little shrimp, I've a good notion tochuck you into the river!"
"Yes, the river--the beautiful, meandering, poetical river," addedTom. "Quit it, Phil; you're getting on my nerves. I'm glad Fentoninterrupted you with a recollection of his uncle. What were you goingto say about your respected relative?" he asked.
But Fenton was going to take no chances with Phil, and, turning about,he retraced his steps.
"What were you saying, Phil?" inquired Sid politely, if sarcastically.
"None of your business," replied the quarter-back a little stiffly. "I'mgoing to write a poem about it," he added more genially.
"And send it to some girl, I suppose," went on Sid. "Oh, you make mesick!"
What further ramification the conversation might have taken isproblematical, but it was interrupted just then by the arrival of EdKerr, who seemed in much of a hurry.
"I've been looking all over for you fellows," he panted.
"Why hastenest thou thus so hastily?" asked Tom. "Is the college onfire? Has Pitchfork been taken with a fit, or has Moses sent to say weneed study no more?"
"Quit your gassin'!" ordered Ed. "Say, we're going to have the walk rushto-night. The freshies have just had a meeting and decided on it. Triedto pull it off quietly, but Snail Looper heard, and kindly tipped usoff. Dutch Housenlager is getting the soph crowd together. You fellowswant to be in it, don't you?"
"Of course," answered Tom. "We have not forgotten that we were oncefreshmen, and that we had many clashes with the second-years. Now wewill play the latter role. Lead on, Macduff, and he be hanged who firstcries: 'Hold! Enough!' We'll make the freshies wish they had never seenRandall College."
"Maybe--maybe not," spoke Phil. "They're a husky lot--the first-yearlads. But we can never let them have the privilege of the walk without afight."
The "walk rush," as it was termed, was one of those matters about whichcollege tradition had centered. It was a contest between the freshmanand sophomore classes, that took place every fall, usually early inOctober. It got its name from the walk which circled Booker MemorialChapel. This chapel was the gift of a mother whose son had died whileattending Randall, and the beautiful stained glass windows in it werewell worth looking at--in fact, many an artist came to Randall expresslyfor that purpose.
Around the chapel was a broad walk, shaded wi
th stately oaks, and thepath was the frequenting place of the college lads. From time immemorialthe walk had been barred to freshmen unless, in the annual rush, theysucceeded in defeating the sophomores, and, as this seldom occurred, fewfreshmen used the walk, save on Sundays, when all hostilities weresuspended, in honor of the day. The rush always took place on a smallknoll, or hill, back of the gymnasium, and it was the object of thefreshmen to take possession of this point of vantage, and maintain itfor half an hour against the rush of the sophomores. If they succeededthey were entitled to use the chapel walk. If they did not, they werereviled, and any freshman caught on the forbidden ground was liable tosummary punishment.
Dark figures stole silently here and there. Commands and instructionswere whispered hoarsely. There was an air of mystery about, for it wasthe night of the walk rush, and freshmen and sophomores were eachdetermined to win.
Garvey Gerhart, by virtue of the "boosting" which Langridge had givenhim, had secured command of the first-year forces. As soon as it wasdark he had assembled them on "gym hill," as the knoll was called. Therewas a large crowd of freshmen, almost too large, it seemed, for thesophomores were outnumbered two to one. But Tom, Sid, Phil, DutchHousenlager, Ed Kerr and others of the second-year class were strong inthe belief of their power to oust their rivals from the hilltop. Theyhad a moral force back of them--the conscious superiority of being"veterans," which counted for much.
"We're going to have our work cut out for us," commented Tom, as, withhis chums advancing slowly to the fray, he surveyed the throng offreshmen. "My, but there's a bunch of 'em! And we've got to clean everymother's son of them off the hill."
"We'll do it!" cried Phil gaily. "It will be good training for us."
"Of course!" exclaimed Dutch, as he put out his foot slyly to trip Sid.Tom saw the act, he executed a quick movement that sent Housenlagersprawling on the ground.
"That's the time you got some of your own medicine!" exclaimed Phil witha laugh, as Dutch, muttering dire vengeance, picked himself up.
The preliminaries for the rush were soon arranged, timekeepers andumpires selected, and, with the bright moon shining down on the scene,the battle began. It was wild, rough and seemingly without order, yetthere was a plan about it. The freshmen were massed together on top, andabout the center bunch were circles of their fellows who were to thrustback the rushing sophomores. Not until the last freshman had been sweptfrom the hill could the second-year youths claim victory.
"All ready!" yelled Ed Kerr, and at the freshmen went their rivals.
There was the thud of body striking body. Breaths came quick and fast.There were smothered exclamations, the sound of blows good-naturedlytaken and given. There were cries, shouts, commands, entreaties. Therewas a swaying of the mass, this way and that. A knot of lads would godown, with a struggling pile on top of them, and the conglomerationwould writhe about until it disentangled.
Tom, Phil and Sid (whose hand was now almost entirely better) tore theirway toward the center. Time and again they were hurled back, only torenew the rush.
"Clean 'em off!" was the rallying cry of the sophomores.
"Fight 'em back!" was the retort of the freshmen.
At it they went, fiercely and earnestly. The entire mass appeared to berevolving about the hill now, with the little group of freshmen on thetop as a pivot.
Gradually Tom, Phil and their particular chums worked their way upto the crest. Then they found that the freshmen had adopted strangetactics. Under the advice of Gerhart they stretched out prone, and, witharms and legs twined together, made a regular layer of bodies, coveringthe summit. It was almost impossible to separate the lads one from theother, in order to hurl them out of the way. They were literally"sticking together."
"Tear 'em apart!" pleaded Tom.
"Rip 'em up!" shouted Phil.
"Hold tight!" sung out Gerhart.
And hang tightly they did. Tom succeeded in breaking the hold of onelad, and Phil that of another. But, in turn, the two big sophomores wereborne down and overwhelmed by the weight of freshmen on their backs.
The referee blew a warning whistle. But two minutes of time were left.The sophomores redoubled their efforts, but the ruse of the freshmen wasa good one. It was like trying to tear apart a living doormat.
The sophomores could not do it. Though they labored like Trojans, it wasnot to be. Once more the whistle blew, indicating that the rush wasended.
The sophomores had lost, and for the remainder of the term the freshmencould strut proudly about the walk of Booker Memorial Chapel.
A Quarter-Back's Pluck: A Story of College Football Page 17