HARVARD STORIES.
JACK RATTLETON GOES TO SPRINGFIELD AND BACK.
The shadow of Massachusetts had reached across the Yard almost to University Hall, which fact, ye who are ignorant of Harvard topography, means that it was late in the afternoon. Hollis Holworthy was stretched in his window seat with a book, of which, however, he was not reading much, as his room was just then in use as a temporary club. It was the month of November, but Holworthy kept the window open to let out the volume of pipe smoke kindled by his gregarious friends. He and his chum Rivers had an attractive room on the Yard, up only one flight of stairs, and these little gatherings were apt to come upon them frequently. The eleven was going to Springfield next day, so the foot-ball practice on that afternoon had been short, and several of Holworthy's "gang" who had been watching it had dropped into the room on their way back from Jarvis Field. They were a typical set of Harvard men, hailing from various and distant parts of the nation, and of various characters; yet all very much alike in certain respects, after three years together around that Yard. Rivers, part owner of the room, who had been playing foot-ball, came in after the rest and announced joyfully that he had been definitely assigned to the position of guard on the team.
"Sorry to hear it," growled Billy Bender, who was captain of the University crew. "You are sure to get a bad knee or something, and be spoiled for the boat. I lost two good men by foot-ball last year. If I had my way I wouldn't let any of the rowing men play the confounded game."
"If you had your way, you old crank," said Holworthy, "you'd strap every man in college fast to an oar. Then you would stand over them and crack a whip and have a bully time. You would have made a first-rate galley master."
"I am tired to death of talking and hearing nothing but the game," declared Hudson. "I move to lay it on the table. There is nothing new to guess about it. I don't see how we can lose, and you don't see how we can lose, and no one sees how we can lose."
"That is apt to be the case at just this time," remarked Holworthy. "Two days from now our vision may be woefully cleared up."
"Shut up, you old croaker," cried Burleigh, throwing a sofa cushion at his host. The cushion knocked the book from Holworthy's hand and out of the window.