THE LAST HAZING OF "THE MEEK BUTT OF ALL CLASSES"
It was all Young's fault that his little friend Lee was, like himself, in the embarrassing embrace of these Sophomores, and he knew it; and that worried him more than anything they might do to himself. This was a fine way to repay Lee for his kindness!
Channing was still sticking the lantern up close to Young's blinking eyes, and saying, mockingly, "Well, well, you poor old fool of a Deacon! you poor old pathetic fool."
If Young could only jerk himself free he thought he could snatch Lee away from the two Sophomores holding him and then in the darkness they could surely escape. There was everything to gain and nothing to lose in the attempt.
"Now," said Channing, "let's see who the other foolish Freshman is."
Then through Young's mind there darted the thought: "Now's the time! Their attention is diverted." The dazzling light had been taken off his eyes. At the same instant, and as quick as the flash of the lantern, he neatly whisked his arms out of the hands that held them, sprang backward, throwing, as he did so, the two startled Sophomores forward by the shoulders, and wheeled around toward Lee.
Now little Lee, you may be sure, was watching for a chance to make a dash for liberty. Hearing the scuffle of feet in front of him he tried a similar trick. But his captors also had heard the scuffle; instinctively they tightened their grasps. Lee shook off but one of them, whirled around, and started off; the smaller of the two Sophomores was hanging like a bull-dog to his left arm.
Young, half-blinded in the change to darkness from dazzling light, bumped into Lucky, hurriedly grabbed him by the free hand and away they dashed. It was not quite two seconds from when Young made his first jump to the time he was going down Nassau Street and making good speed considering that he was pulling Lee by the left hand, who in turn dragged unwillingly with the other hand the Sophomore whose knees were scraping the flagstones.
Of course, by this time the other Sophomores were after them—were now only a few yards behind and were gaining at every stride.
For about forty yards Young ran as he never ran before. The only hope was that the clinging Sophomore would get tired of sweeping Princeton pavements with his knees; a moment more and he would surely drop. "Stick to him," the other Sophomores were shouting in the dark. Two of the pursuers were almost up to them. Lee gave a furious wrench. It was a little too furious. He tripped and fell. Young slackened up and tried to pull Lee to his feet, but Lee purposely loosed his hand and cried, "I'm a goner, run!" At that instant two Sophomores dropped on him as they would on a rolling football and cut off his wind.
But Young did not run—he turned around to try and free his friend—a third Sophomore running at full speed tackled him furiously, as football players tackle. They both tripped over the bodies on the ground. Lee felt two more men come tumbling down in a tangle upon those already on him.
"We got 'em both, fellows," screamed one of the Sophomores in the darkness to the others behind.
"Are you hurt, Lee?" asked a voice near the back of his neck.
"How'd you—get—in this?" Lee panted. "Thought you were—block 'way by—this time."
Young was panting, too, so he only said, "No—still here." He had got Lee into this mess and he meant to stick by him.
The Sophomores, keeping tight hold of Lee and tighter hold of Young, slowly arose, allowing their recaptured prisoners to stand up.
"I hope you're not hurt, Lee?" asked one of them in a somewhat sympathetic voice. He still kept tight hold of the Freshman, however.
"Nope, I reckon not," said Lee, who hadn't been playing football since the age of twelve for nothing.
They all leaned against the fence and panted for a moment
Young made out nearly a dozen Sophomores in the half-dark.
Lee stopped panting and smiled. "Well, what are you going to do with us?" he asked, grimly.
"Shut up, Freshman, that's our business," said one of them. It was the same man that had asked Lee if he was hurt a moment before.
"So, Deacon," said Channing, "you wouldn't come back when we told you to, you old hay-seed Deacon!"
Young knew what he referred to, but only looked sober and said nothing, as usual.
"Well, well," went on Channing, "so you two proc.-hunters thought you'd get away, didn't you? Too bad, too bad; teaches Freshmen a good lesson: little boys must not be out at night. It's not nice."
"Well, Channing, where shall we put these two foolish virgins?" asked a gruff voice. The dawn was coming in and Young and Lee saw that it was that big Ballard.
Now, it was customary on occasions of this sort to take all prisoners to some room, generally right there in University Hall, and lock them up for the rest of the night, and that's what the Sophomores would have done in this case but for Channing. "Put them!" replied Channing, indignantly, "we sha'n't put them anywhere until we have dealt out due chastisement for their rash impudence in trying to escape from their lawful lords and masters. Am I not right? They should make recompense for the trouble they have given us." It was Channing's usual vein.
"Aw, see here, Chan," said one of the others, "we've got a lot of work still to do and it's getting light already. We can't stop to do any hazing. Let's lock them up in George Black's room."
But Channing was not going to let this opportunity slip by for getting square for what Young had done only a few hours previous. He did not know that there had been witnesses to the spanking—as yet. "Let the prisoners follow," he said, and he led the way back to the corner where the two parties had met.
Near by, on the ground beside the iron fence, stood a bucket of paste, a big brush, and a roll of proclamations. Young and Lee had not seen them before.
"Here are paste and proclamations," said Channing, "and here are strong hands and willing. What is to hinder the strong hands being set to work? Arise, Freshmen, gird up your loins and paste procs, for the day soon cometh when no man can paste."
"Right," said the others, smiling. "Kill two birds with one stone."
Little Lee fairly gasped to himself: "Going to make us paste procs—procs against our own class!"
Ballard, who had apparently just got the idea through his head, began to laugh, and said, "That's a good scheme, Chan, haw, haw, haw!"
"Don't laugh so loud," said Channing. "Come on, Freshmen, that blank wall across the street is a good place to begin."
They were led across the street to the corner grocery store. A tight hold was kept on Young and Lee this time.
"Now, this is the way it is done." Channing quickly and rather daintily pasted up a proclamation.
By this time it was light enough for the letters to show green, and the Freshmen read the thing.
Up near the top Lee, the class secretary, was called "a puppy drum major" and "Mamma's blue-eyed baby boy, the little toy secretary." In the portion in finer type, beneath the slurs on the baseball team and the arrogant prohibitions against the wearing of the college colors and silk-hats and the smoking of pipes and carrying of canes, Young spied his own name.
"Next in the line of freaks," it said, "will amble that poor, meek butt of all classes, Deacon Young, the overgrown baby of Squeedunk, who always does everything you tell him to, and says 'Thank you, marm!'"
"That means me," thought Young, scowling, as he remembered how important he had always been considered by everyone out at home. "What would they think of me now, I wonder?"
Channing had finished his work.
"Now then," he said, and unfolded another proc and advanced toward the Freshmen. "Don't all speak at once, children; will Little Willie Young show us how they handle the brush when they whitewash the fences on the farm?"
"Naw, let the class secretary do it first," interrupted Ballard, in his rough voice.
Though the crowd had often hazed Lee they had always found him such a bright, good-natured little chap that Ballard was never allowed to humble him as much as since the rush he had always wanted to. Here was a fine chance. Young could wait; it was not much fun to haze Young, anyway, he was so meek.
"Get to work there now, Secretary," Ballard shouted in his loud voice. He did not have brains enough, Young thought, to be sarcastic, but he had plenty of lungs. "Close in around them, fellows."
Of course the Freshmen required the use of their hands if they were to paste procs, so the two were shoved in toward the wall and the dozen Sophomores with locked arms formed a semi-circle about them. It would be out of the question for the two to try and escape now.
Young and Lee were standing by the paste-bucket with their backs to the Sophomores, who were about twelve feet away from them.
"Come, get to work there, little boys," said Channing. "You and Young have nearly fifty more to paste before breakfast."
"Hurry up there," Ballard echoed, shouting in a tone to wake the neighborhood.
Just then a lazy voice was heard. "Heads out! Sophomores are making Freshmen paste procs! heads out—, everybody look!" It was a Senior leaning from an upstairs window of University Hall. He was in his pajamas.
Meantime, Ballard, who loved to show his power, had stepped arrogantly into the ring saying, "Do you hear what I say, you little fool! Pick up that brush and get to work."
"Heads out, everybody, heads out! Lots of fun," cried the sleepy-looking Senior.
Windows began to open and frowsy heads and yawning faces to stick out from all over the University Place side of the big building.
Lee thought, with true loyal horror, of how, if he should do as Ballard said, the Sophomores would taunt him forever afterward. He fancied how his own classmates would feel about it when they heard that their secretary had aided in posting those scurrilous proclamations. But what was there to do? He had only one classmate with him and there were a dozen Sophomores about him—no, eleven, for the twelfth was now standing close beside him, shaking a big fist in his face and saying, "See here, you little fool, are you going to do what I tell you or not?"
Little Lee calmly looked up into Ballard's face and said, "No, and you can't make me."
"You'll see whether I can make you or not," returned Ballard, and with that he grabbed the little fellow by the coat-collar and shaking him back and forth roared, "Now, you little fool, you paste that proc or I'll paste you on the jaw with this fist." Possibly he really meant to do it, but, at any rate, he did not, for just then Young cried: "No, you won't, Ballard! No, you won't! Don't you shake him that way; don't you lay hands on him; don't you touch him." The voice was very high and earnest.
"Yea-a. Good enough for you, big Freshman." The upper-classmen were becoming interested. By this time in the windows across the street were about twenty lookers-on. Ballard knew that, and he was a Sophomore. Young was a Freshman. He laughed scornfully. "What have you got to do with it, you big, overgrown baby?"
"I'll show you what I've got to do with, you big bully." Young's voice trembled. "Let go that boy," and much to everyone's astonishment the Freshman took hold of the Sophomore very much as Ballard had hold of Lee.
At this, Ballard, in sheer astonishment that any Freshman should have the audacity to touch him, Ballard, the centre rush of the Sophomore team, dropped Lee, wrenched away from Young and whirled around toward him with fist drawn up in fighting position, dancing up and down, and saying, "You impudent pup of a Freshman, you impudent pup!"
["Yea-a! big scrap!" shouted those upstairs—"Aw! Freshman's afraid.">[
Now, Young considered himself the better man, but all he wanted was to make Ballard let go of Lee, and he had succeeded.
["Aw! Freshman's bluffed out—too bad!">[
Ballard had turned once more toward Lee. "Get to work," he bawled.
Lee stood still.
Ballard drew back as if to demolish the little fellow. "Now," he began—but just then in ran Young. His unclenched hands were stuck out awkwardly in front of him; it made the upper-classmen in the windows shout with laughter; some of the Sophomores in the ring giggled excitedly. Young did not hear it. He guarded off one blow, was struck on the chest by the second, dodged the third—and as he ducked, he plunged in and grappled.
They clinched and began to wrench and twist and scuffle about the ring; the rest of the Sophomores falling back to keep out of the way whenever the two big fellows came over too near the edge.
Now, Young was no boxer, but he had, like many another country boy, wrestled ever since he first put on trousers, and he had not forgotten all his tricks. He made a feint as if to try a hip throw, then slipped his arms down on Ballard, twisted his feet around, threw his chin and his weight forward, and down they both came, Young on top, while the voices up in University Hall yelled approvingly: "The Freshman is doing him! the Freshman is doing him!" This made Ballard beside himself with rage.
But Young having proved himself the better man, released Ballard quickly, jumped up, stepped across to Lee, and in a sober manner was saying, "Now, Lee, I think——" when a staggering blow from Ballard's fist on the half-turned face nearly upset Young, who was entirely unprepared for this unexpected attack; he might have fallen but for Lee.
Up to this point Young, though very much in earnest, had been quite cool and deliberate. But now, with the cowardly blow stinging on his face, he became infuriated. He turned and charged at Ballard like one of the bulls on his father's farm, with his head down and regardless of consequences. His eyes were wide open and teeth set. His fury gave him double strength.
Paying no more attention to Ballard's blows than to so many raindrops, he dived down and grasped him around the middle, lifted him up, got him on the right hip, and whirled him over and down upon the ground between the sidewalk and the curbstone, a full, clean throw.
The men up in the windows were now really excited, "Good enough, Freshman! good enough! Served him right! Do it again!"
That was just what Young, with teeth set and nostrils distended, was proceeding to do, though not because they told him to, for he was now oblivious to everything but showing Ballard that there was a limit to hazing and to Freshman meekness!
Up went Ballard's legs in the air once more with the enraged Freshman's long, strong arms locked tightly about him. And again he came down hard upon the ground. And he had barely got to his feet when in rushed the Freshman again with his head down, and for the third time Ballard was thrown flat and fair. This time it was in the gutter, and it was lucky for Ballard that it was full of leaves, for Young fell heavily on top of him.
Up to this point Ballard's classmates had been busy keeping out of the way of his whirling heels. Now they began to realize that they were becoming disgraced; something must be done. Channing was calling, excitedly, "Get in there, somebody; don't let a Freshman do that, fellows," while he himself kept well out of the way.
Perhaps they did not admire Ballard for what he had done, but he was their classmate. One of the bigger fellows dashed in and got Young by the legs and began to pull. Quick as a flash little Lee ran in and immediately tripped him up. No one had been watching Lee. Another Soph. slipped in and pulled Lee off. A couple of them held him. Then the others began grabbing Young's arms and legs. He held on like a bull-dog. One man was sitting on his head. Two were on his body. Ballard was wriggling and swearing. He got one arm over Young's neck.
"Here, here, give the Freshman a show; give him fair play!" cried some authoritative voices. It was some Juniors and Seniors hurrying out from University Hall—some half-dressed and some not dressed at all.
They ran across the street and brushed Sophomores right and left, saying, "Get off there—get off there, I tell you!"
Some Sophomores jumped up; others were pulled off.
"Ballard has hurt his ankle! Ballard has hurt his ankle—let him up." It was Channing's shrill voice.
"Well, if he's hurt let him up," said the Juniors. The Freshman was still on top.
"Get off, Freshman, you did him; Ballard has hurt his ankle."
Young jumped up quickly. "Is he hurt?" he asked, panting, and looking around; he was amazed to see so many people about him. He had an ugly bruise under his left eye, where Ballard had hit him; he didn't feel it now.
Ballard had hastily jumped up. He did not look at Young; he did not say a word. He was panting hard; he leaned on Channing's arm and limped quickly and quietly away. The other Sophomores followed behind; none of them looked back. There was a dramatic silence.
"He's not much hurt," said a Junior who knew Ballard of old, and he was right, for before the Sophomores quite reached the corner Ballard had stopped limping and was walking as well as anybody. "Say, Channing," another upper-classman called after them, "how about that spanking?" and before the small Sophomore was out of earshot he had the pleasure of hearing the upper-classman begin a narration which was received with squeals and shouts of laughter.
MEEK BUTT OF ALL CLASSES!
Before curfew rang in Old North at the close of that day the whole college was talking about it.
Meanwhile Young, in the centre of another ring, was sitting on the curbstone panting like a good fellow. Lee was bending over him mopping his face with his own handkerchief and patting him on the back and laughing excitedly.
"Are you hurt, old man?" asked one of the Juniors.
Young shook his head.
"What's his name?" asked one of the others.
"Young's his name," answered little Lee, proudly, like the exhibitor of something rare.
"Well, he's a good one," said one of the new arrivals. Others were hurrying down the steps of University Hall and across the street every moment; they all asked questions. Several of the first arrivals were telling the new arrivals all about it, with gestures.
"Tried to make the big fellow paste procs," one man was saying, while another was crying: "But you ought to have seen that beautiful spanking last night! Oh, dear! I'll never forget Channing's look when...."
The big roll of proclamations, by the way, which had been lying on the ground, had disappeared. Some of the new arrivals were Freshmen, and Lee, who had hidden it under his coat, gave it to them to carry away. First they tore down all the procs that were in sight. A Junior picking up a piece was reading aloud, "the meek butt of all classes."
"This is 'the meek butt of all classes,'" said Lee, laughing.
Young got up from the curbstone.
"Come on, Lucky," he said, "we'll have to hurry to meet those other fellows on the way from Trenton."
Lee tried to help him up; Young would not allow it. But as they started off Lee insisted on putting his arm about him.
"What! that big, awkward-looking chap?" Young heard a new arrival ask one of the others. Then just as they reached the corner Lee and Young suddenly heard:
"Ray, ray, ray! Tiger, siss, boom, ah! 'Meek butt of all classes!'" It was the Juniors giving a cheer for him in the early dawn.
Lee turned around and waved his hand at them. Young blushed, but did not turn his head. Lee reached up and lifted Young's hat to them, which made the others laugh. It made Young laugh a little, too. Then they turned the corner and were out of the crowd.
Before curfew rang in Old North at the close of that day the whole college was talking about it: "Big green Freshman ... thought he didn't dare say his soul was his own.... That irrepressible little Channing, first ... worm turned ... yes, on the third floor of University—Bob Ellis saw the whole thing himself ... caught big Freshman this morning with Lee—yes, that nice little fellow.... Sophs undertook to make him paste procs—no, Lee first.... Little one was game.... Big Bally—yes, went at Lee.... Big Freshman turned on Bally—Bally punched him—um, right up here, under eye, a nasty one—then big, meek Freshman.... Oh, my! lovely!——"
Only in the telling it became twenty or thirty Sophomores, and it was over a fence that Ballard was thrown.