There is Porter, the famous poet of the Lit., frolicking down the walk, trundling a hoop before him with the apparent satisfaction of a lad of seven. See! his hoop collides with that of Gammel, the great Dwight Hall orator, and there is a general mixup. But they’re not real boys. They’re only men playing that they are boys. If they had been boys that collision might have resulted in an exchange of blows, instead of an exchange of bows.
Over yonder are more seniors spinning tops or rolling hoops. And a great throng of men from other classes stand off and watch “the sport,” commenting upon it sagely.
This top-spinning and hoop-rolling serves as a vent for the pent-up steam that has been threatening an explosion. The safety-valve is open, and the rollicking seniors proceed to let ’er sizz. There are other ways of letting off steam, but surely this is far better than the sign-stealing and gate-shifting recklessness of the freshmen.
This is a part of the life of Yale, a scene peculiar to the balmy days of early spring. It is one of the memories that old grads. smile over in after years. It is peculiar and characteristic of Old Eli; to eliminate it would be to take away something that seems to aid in making Yale what it is.
By themselves the Chickering set had gathered to look on and make comment. Their observations were most edifying. These remarks tell how the gray matter in their little heads is working. It has to work hard for them to think, for they have dulled the gray matter with cigarettes and hot suppers and lack of proper exertion. Yet somehow these “men” manage to keep along in their classes, and somehow they pass examinations, and somehow they will graduate, as hundreds and thousands like them graduate from colleges all over our land.
“Look at that big elephant, Bruce Browning!” lisped Lew Veazie, in derision. “Thee him thpinning a top, fellowth! Ithn’th that a thight faw thore eyeth!”
“And that cheap fellow Hodge,” said Ollie Lord, pointing with his cane. “Just look at him, gentlemen! Isn’t it just perfectly comical to see him spinning a top! Oh, dear, dear, dear!”
“And Merriwell,” said Rupert Chickering, whose trousers looked as if they had been freshly pressed that day. “It is a sad spectacle to see a man like that lose his dignity.”
“Oh, come off!” croaked Tilton Hull, his collar holding his chin so high that he seemed to be addressing his remarks to a twittering sparrow on a limb over his head. “That’s about the only kind of sport Merriwell is suited for.”
“It’s no use,” said Gene Skelding gloomily, exhibiting deep depression, for all that he was wearing a dazzling new pink shirt; “we can say whatever we like about Merriwell, but it’s plain he’s on top of the bunch to stay.”