Later Ready and Bingham had disappeared, and their friends knew they were going through the “fiery ordeal.”
What a wild night it was! Those who have passed through it know something about the events of that night. To-day the initiations are far milder than before the tragedy of Wilkins Rustin in ’92. Rustin was a fine, athletic fellow. During his initiation he was blindfolded and told to run at best speed along an unfrequented street. Being a swift runner, he drew away from the two men in whose charge he was. They shouted a cry of warning to him, but this he misunderstood, and, swerving from a direct course, he ran into the sharp pole of a wagon. They picked him up, bleeding and unconscious, and he died from his injuries.
A storm of indignation arose all over the country, and the faculty came near deciding to wipe out the societies altogether. It was fortunate for Yale life that this radical step was not taken. The men in charge of Rustin were overcome with grief, and their sorrow led to their acquittal of anything but a charge of grave folly.
This night of which I write nothing of the kind took place; but the old members of the society and the newly elected ones had a jolly time of it. They made a night of it.
Along toward morning, as it was growing light, the members of the societies engaged in a wild and weird game of baseball on the campus. That is, many of the members of the societies engaged in the game; but there were many others who curled up in the shelter of some near-by sheds and serenely fell asleep.
Ready was not one of the sleepers. Bingham would have slept, but Jack mauled the big fellow till he got him out behind the bat, with a bird-cage over his head for a mask. Jack himself was pitching.
“Look out for my curves,” he advised. “Talk about Frank Merriwell’s double shoot! Why, I’ve got the corkscrew ball.”
“I’ve discovered to-night that you have the corkscrew habit,” rumbled Bingham, trying to make his queer cage balance on his shoulders.
“Put ’em over,” called the batter. “If you hit me, I’ll bring suit against you for breach of promise.”
It was rather dark, and Ready actually threw a curve. Fortunately, the ball was about as hard as a ripe cucumber, for it grazed Bingham’s fingers and struck the bird-cage a glancing blow, setting it to spinning about on his shoulders. The batter swiped at it furiously, and threw himself off his feet onto his back.