“Cheer like everything, Weatherby!” he whispered.
Then a six-foot sophomore, leading a flying wedge consisting of a handful of his classmates, bucked Jack between the shoulders and he went rushing up the aisle, tossing the crowd to either side, until he managed to avoid the men behind by slipping into a vacant seat. The big sophomore banged him on the shoulder as he charged on. “Bully interference!” he cried. Followed by his companions, he leaped over the intervening row of occupied seats and subsided in a heap among a little throng of delighted friends. “Down here!” he yelled. Some one imitated a referee’s whistle and a falsetto voice called: “Third down and a yard to gain!”
Jack found himself seated next to a group of second-nine men. The little freshman Clover was his immediate neighbor, and beyond that youth sat Showell, the fellow whom Jack had fooled with his pitching on that first day of outdoor practise. They had met but seldom since then, but Showell had never missed an opportunity to annoy Jack, if possible, or, failing that, to show his dislike. His annoyances usually took the form of allusions to the incident at the river, plain enough, yet so petty that Jack never regarded them as worth noticing. Clover greeted Jack with evident pleasure. The latter returned his greeting and then nodded to the fellows farther along. Only Showell failed to respond. Turning to the man on the other side of him he asked:
“Been down to the river lately?”
“Oh, cut it out,” growled his neighbor, scowling at him.
“Cut what out?” asked Showell, pretending great bewilderment. “The river?”
“Let him alone, can’t you?” whispered the other.
“If you can’t, take your old jokes somewhere else,” advised Clover. Jack had not missed any of it, and for the first time Showell’s pleasantries aroused his anger.
“What’s the matter with you dubs?” Showell asked, grinning. “Can’t I talk about the river? All right, then, I’ll talk about the weather. Nice, dry evening, isn’t it? Any of you fellows get your feet wet?”