“Here, we must have a cheer.”
“Give us a cheer.”
“Start her up.”
“Lead a cheer, someone.”
“Lead a cheer, Hunter.”
“Lead the cheer, Gimbel.”
“Lead the cheer, Stover.”
“Come on, Stover!”
A dozen voices took up his name. He caught the infection. Without hesitating, he stepped by Hunter, who was hesitating, and cried:
“Now, fellows, all together—the first cheer for the class! Are you ready? Let her rip!”
The cheer, gathering momentum, went crashing above the noises of the street. The college burst into a mighty shout of acclaim—another class was born!
Suddenly ahead the dancing lights of the senior torches began to undulate. Through the mass a hoarse roar went rushing, and a sudden muscular tension.
“Grab hold of me.”
“Catch my arm.”
“Grip tight.”
“Get in line.”
“Move up.”
“Get the swing.”
Stover found himself, arms locked over one another’s shoulders, between Schley, who had somehow kept persistently near him, and a powerful, smiling, blond-haired fellow who shouted to him:
“My name’s Hungerford—Joe Hungerford. Glad to know you. Down from Groton.”
It was a name known across the world for power in finance, and the arm about Stover’s shoulder was taut with the same sentimental rush of emotion.
Down the moving line suddenly came surging the chant:
“Chi Rho Omega Lambda Chi!
We meet tonight to celebrate
The Omega Lambda Chi!”
Grotesquely, lumberingly, tripping and confused, they tried to imitate the forward classes, who were surging in the billowy rhythm of the elusive serpentine dance.
“How the deuce do they do it?”
“Get a skip to it, you ice-wagons.”
“All to the left, now.”
“No, to the right.”
Gradually they found themselves; hoarse, laughing, struggling, sweeping inconsequentially on behind the singing, cheering college.
Before Dink knew it, the line had broken with a rush, and he was carried, struggling and pushing, into a vacant lot, where all at once, out of the tumult and the riot, a circle opened and spread under his eyes.
Seniors in varsity sweaters, with brief authoritative gestures, forced back the crowd, stationed the fretful lights, commanding and directing:
“First row, sit down.”
“Down in front, there.”
“Kneel behind.”
“Freshmen over here.”
“Get a move on!”
“Stop that shoving.”
“How’s the space, Cap?”
In the center, Captain Dana waited with an appraising eye.
“All right. Call out the lightweights.”
Almost immediately, from the opposite sophomores, came a unanimous shout:
“Farquahar! Dick Farquahar!”
“Come on, Dick!”
“Get in the ring!”
Out into the ring stepped an agile, nervous figure, acclaimed by all his class.
“A cheer for Farquahar, fellows!”
“One, two, three!”
“Farquahar!”
“Candidate from the freshman class!”
“Candidate!”
“Robinson!”
“Teddy Robinson!”
“Harris!”
“No, Robinson—Robinson!”
Gimbel’s voice dominated the outcry. There was a surging, and then a splitting of the crowd, and Robinson was slung into the ring.
In the midst of contending cheers, the antagonists stripped to the belt and stood forth to shake hands, their bared torsos shining in high lights against the mingled shadows of the audience.
The two, equally matched in skill, went tumbling and whirling over the matted sod, twisting and flopping, until by a sudden hold Robinson caught his adversary in a half nelson and for the brief part of a second had the two shoulders touching the ground. The second round likewise went to the freshman, who was triumphant after a struggle of twenty minutes.
“Middleweights!”
“Candidate from the sophomore class!”
“Candidate from the freshman!”
“Fisher!”
“Denny Fisher!”
The sophomore stepped forth, tall, angular, well knit. Among the freshmen a division of opinion arose:
“Say, Andover, who’ve you got?”
“Anyone from Hotchkiss?”
“What’s the matter with French?”
“He doesn’t know a thing about wrestling.”
“How about Doc White?”
“Not heavy enough.”
The seniors began to be impatient.
“Hurry up, now, freshmen, hurry up!”
“Produce something!”
Still a hopeless indecision prevailed.
“I don’t know anyone.”
“Jack’s too heavy.”
“Say, you Hill School fellows, haven’t you got someone?”
“Someone’s got to go out.”
The sophomores, seizing the advantage, began to gibe at them:
“Don’t be afraid, freshmen!”
“We won’t hurt you.”
“We’ll let you down easy.”
“Take it by default.”
“Call time on them.”
“I don’t know a thing about it,” said Stover, between his teeth, to Hungerford, his hands twitching impatiently, his glance fixed hungrily on the provokingly amused face of the sophomore champion.
“I’m too heavy or I’d go.”
“I’ve a mind to go, all the same.”
McCarthy, who knew his impulses of old, seized him by the arm.
“Don’t get excited, Dink, old boy; you don’t know anything about wrestling.”
“No, but I can scrap!”
The outcry became an uproar:
“Quitters!”
“ ’Fraid cats!”
“Poor little freshmen!”
“They’re in a funk.”
“By George, I can’t stand that,” said Stover, setting his teeth, the old love of combat sweeping over him. “I’m going to have a chance at that duck myself!”
He thrust his way forward, shaking off McCarthy’s hold, stepped over the reclining front ranks, and, springing into the ring, faced Dana.
“I’m no wrestler, sir, but if there’s no one else I’ll have a try at it.”
There was a sudden hush, and then a chorus:
“Who is it?”
“Who’s that fellow?”
“What’s his name?”
“Oh, freshmen, who’s your candidate?”
“Stover!”
“Stover, a football man!”
“Fellow from Lawrenceville!”
The seniors had him over in a corner, stripping him, talking excitedly.
“Say, Stover, what do you know about it?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then go in and attack.”
“All right.”
“Don’t wait for him.”
“No.”
“He’s a clever wrestler, but you can get his nerve.”
“His nerve?”
“Keep off the ground.”
“Off the ground, yes.”
“Go right in; right at him; tackle him hard; shake him up.”
“All right,” he said, for the tenth time. He had heard nothing that had been said. He was standing erect, looking in a dazed way at the hundreds of eyes that were dancing about him in the living, breathing pit in which he stood. He heard a jumble of roars and cheers, and one clear cry, McCarthy crying:
“Good old Dink!”
Someone was rolling up his trousers to the knee; someone was flinging a sweater over his bared back; someone was whispering in his ear:
“Get right to him. Go for him—don’t wait!”
“Already, there,” said Captain Dana’s quiet, matter-of-fact voice.
“Already, here.”
“Shake hands!”
The night air swept over him with a sudden chill as the sweaters were pulled away. He went forth while Dana ran over the rules and regulations, which he did not understand at all. He stood then about five feet ten, in perfect
