Scott Burton, Forester

by Edward G. Cheyney

“Um-huh,” Johnson answered, unperturbed. “After the twenty-fourth you may sit up all night if you want to, but—after the twenty-fourth. You need not talk too bigity; you may not be able to sit up at all after the twenty-fourth.”

And so it went from day to day. Scott working as never before, and Johnson rigidly enforcing his rules, jollying his way through all the threatened mutinies. In one short week Scott had jumped from an unknown student to the idol of the College. He realized that if he could win that match his position among his fellow students would be established. This idea spurred him on to untiring efforts. Even the girls began to look after him when he passed, and that embarrassed him, for he had always been shy about girls.

At last the all-important day arrived. The morning classes had been dismissed for the occasion. The students assembled on the campus by the hundreds, boys and girls together, crowded around the little open space reserved for the events. For the upper classmen it was a festive celebration to be thoroughly enjoyed. For the under classmen it was a serious contest, and through the good-natured yelling and cheering there ran an undercurrent of antagonism, which broke out in petty scraps and bickerings all through the crowd. The upper classmen were kept busy exercising their police functions to confine the competition to the organized contests.

Finally the crowd settled down with the classes concentrated, each on one of the four sides of the opening. The field marshal announced the cane rush between the sophs and the freshmen as the first event, and called for the representatives of the two classes. The chosen men, forty husky fellows from each class, stepped forward and lined up on opposite sides. All were dressed in the oldest clothes they could find, and looked more like a band of strikers than students seriously inclined toward higher education. The officials brought forward the cane and placed it in the hands of five select men from each class, carefully placing the hands so that neither class had an unfair advantage. The remaining champions were then lined up carefully at equal distances on either side of the cane. When all was arranged there was an instant of intense suspense as the referee took a review of the situation before raising the whistle to his lips.

At the first shrill blast the contestants rushed tumultuously forward on the little writhing knot of men around the cane. Sophomores tugged at freshmen to tear them away from the coveted cane, and freshmen struggled desperately with tenacious sophomores. In an instant they were all merged into one seething mass of humanity. It was practically impossible for those on the outside of the crowd to reach the cane, but they fought as wildly as those in the center. The pressure in the center became so great that one man was squeezed out of the mass like a grape from its skin, and rose head and shoulders above the crowd in spite of his best efforts to stay on the ground. Men on the outskirts vaulted to the heads of the crowd with a running start to crawl over the tightly packed heads and shoulders to the center only to be caught by the feet and dragged violently back to the ground. Frequently tempers were ruffled beyond control, and the consequent slugging matches had to be stopped by the officials. Pieces of wearing apparel littered the ground. Sweater sleeves and pieces of shirts rose high above the crowd. The grim silence of the contestants contrasted strangely with the wild cheering of the spectators. It was impossible to tell where the advantage lay, but that detracted nothing from the enthusiasm. Scott watched the struggle, the first of the kind he had ever seen, with intense interest, and forgot for the time that he would so soon be the central figure of just such another spasm of excitement and frantic cheering. The contestants still fought on with dogged perseverance, but their efforts were becoming weaker, and they were glad to stop at the referee’s whistle.

The upper classmen formed a circle around the ragged crowd, and the judges began their search for the cane. Those on the outskirts were summarily pushed outside the circle till the group was reached who actually had hold of the cane. The hands on the cane were counted, thirteen for the sophomores and ten for the freshmen. The announcement was received with frantic shouting by the sophomore supporters and the heroes were welcomed back to the side lines with wild demonstrations.

But there was not much time for such celebrations. The program was a long one and the officials’ call for the lightweight wrestlers centered the interest of the crowd on a new event. One by one the events passed by and the interest began to flag—for it was a sophomore day and the freshmen seemed wholly outclassed. Decision after decision went to the sophomores, and at the call for each new event the cheers from the freshmen ranks grew weaker. They were becoming overwhelmed by the defeat.

As the freshman middleweight stepped into the ring for the second round of his drubbing, Johnson, who had been pleading with each man in turn to do something for the honor of his class, turned to Scott almost with tears in his eyes. “Now, Scotty,” he said, “you’ll be the next, and you’ve got to win. This bunch of loafers has lost everything for us, and a forester must save the honor of the class. There, that wax figure got knocked down again. That finishes him. Now come on. You’re the last hope between us and a shut out. Show ’em what a forester’s made of. You’ve simply got to win.”

The referee had called for the heavyweights, and Johnson, Scott’s faithful second, was tying on his hero’s gloves. Scott felt a little nervous, but knew that he would be all right as soon as the first blow was struck.

Johnson fussed around his roommate like a nervous mother. “Now, Scotty, everything is ready. He’s a regular moose, but remember the game. Go at him like a tornado from the very start and he can’t stand the pace.”