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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> <h3>ON THE CAMPUS</h3> Joe Matson gazed about him curiously as the train drew into the New Haven station. He wondered what his first taste of Yale life was going to be like, and he could not repress a feeling of nervousness. He had ridden in the end car, and he was not prepared for what happened as the train drew to a slow stop. For from the other coaches there poured a crowd of students—many Freshmen like himself but others evidently Sophomores, and a sprinkling of Juniors and the more lordly Seniors. Instantly the place resounded to a din, as friends met friends, and as old acquaintances were renewed. “Hello, Slab!” “Where have you been keeping yourself, Pork Chops!” “By jinks! There’s old Ham Fat!” “Come on, now! Get in line!” This from one tall lad to others, evidently from[49] the same preparatory school. “Show ’em what we can do!” “Hi there, Freshies! Off with those hats!” This from a crowd of Sophomores who saw the newly-arrived first-year lads. “Don’t you do it! Keep your lids on!” “Oh, you will!” and there was a scrimmage in which the offending headgear of many was sent spinning. Joe began to breathe deeply and fast. If this was a taste of Yale life he liked it. Somewhat Excelsior Hall it was, but bigger—broader. Gripping his valise, he climbed down the steps, stumbling in his eagerness. On all sides men crowded around him and the others who were alighting. “Keb! Carriage! Hack! Take your baggage!” Seeing others doing the same, Joe surrendered his valise to an insistent man. As he moved out of the press, wondering how he was to get to the house where he had secured a room, he heard someone behind him fairly yell in his ear: “Oh ho! Fresh.! Off with that hat!” He turned to see two tall, well-dressed lads, in somewhat “swagger” clothes, arms linked, walking close behind him. Remembering the fate of the others, Joe doffed his new derby, and smiled. [50] “That’s right,” complimented the taller of the two Sophomores. “Glad you think so,” answered Joe. “Well?” snapped the other Sophomore sharply. “Glad you think so,” repeated our hero. “Well?” rasped out the first. Joe looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. He knew there was some catch, and that he had not answered categorically, but for the moment he forgot. “Put the handle on,” he was reminded, and then it came to him. “Sir,” he added with a smile. “Right, Freshie. Don’t forget your manners next time,” and the two went swinging along, rolling out the chorus of some class song. The confusion increased. More students poured from the train, overwhelming the expressmen with their demands and commands. The hacks and carriages were being rapidly filled. Orders were being shouted back and forth. Exuberance was on every side. “Oh ho! This way, Merton!” yelled someone, evidently a signal for the lads from that school to assemble. “Over here, Lisle!” “There’s Perk!” “Yes, and who’s he got with him?” [51] “Oh, some Fresh. Come on, you goat. I’m hungry!” Joe felt himself exulting, after all, that he was to be a part of this throbbing, pulsating life—part of the great college. He hung back, friendless and alone, and it was borne on him with a rush just how friendless and alone he was when he saw so many others greeted by friends and mates. With all his heart Joe wished he had come up from some preparatory school, where he would have had classmates with him. But it was too late now. He made up his mind that he would walk to his rooming house, not because he wanted to save the carriage hire, but he would have to get in a hack all alone, and he was afraid of the gibes and taunts that might be hurled at the lone Freshman. He had engaged the room in advance, and knew it would be in readiness. Later he intended to join one of the many eating clubs for his meals, but for the present he expected to patronize a restaurant, for the rooming house did not provide commons. “I’ll walk,” decided Joe, and, inquiring the way from a friendly hackman, he started off. As he did so he was aware of a tall lad standing near him, and, at the mention of the street Joe designated, this lad started, and seemed about to speak. For a moment Joe, noticing that he, too, was[52] alone, was tempted to address him. And then, being naturally diffident, and in this case particularly so, he held back. “He may be some stand-offish chap,” reasoned Joe, “and won’t like it. I’ll go a bit slow.” He swung away from the station, glad to be out of the turmoil, but for a time it followed him, the streets being filled with students afoot and in vehicles. The calling back and forth went on, until, following the directions he had received, Joe turned down a quieter thoroughfare. “That must be the college over there,” he said after he had swung across the city common, and saw looming up in the half mist of the early September night, the piles of brick and stone. “Yale College—and I’m going there!” He paused for a moment to contemplate the structures, and a wave of sentimental feeling surged up into his heart. He saw the outlines of the elms—the great elms of Yale. Joe passed on, and, as he walked, wondering what lay before him, he could not help but think of the chances—the very small chances he had—in all that throng of young men—to make the ’varsity nine. “There are thousands of fellows here,” mused Joe, “and all of them may be as good as I. Of course not all of them want to get on the nine—and[53] fewer want to pitch. But—Oh, I wonder if I can make it? I wonder——” It was getting late. He realized that he had better go to his room, and see about supper. Then in the morning would come reporting at college and arranging about his lectures—and the hundred and one things that would follow. “I guess I’ve got time enough to go over and take a look at the place,” he mused. “I can hike it a little faster to my shack after I take a peep,” he reasoned. “I just want to see what I’m going to stack up against.” He turned and started toward the stately buildings in the midst of the protecting elms. Other students passed him, talking and laughing, gibing one another. All of them in groups—not one alone as was Joe. Occasionally they called to him as they passed: “Off with that hat, Fresh.!” He obeyed without speaking, and all the while the loneliness in his heart was growing, until it seemed to rise up like some hard lump and choke him. “But I won’t! I won’t!” he told himself desperately. “I won’t give in. I’ll make friends soon! Oh, if only Tom were here!” He found himself on the college campus. Pausing for a moment to look about him, his heart welling, he heard someone coming from the rear. Instinctively[54] he turned, and in the growing dusk he thought he saw a familiar figure. “Off with that hat, Fresh.!” came the sharp command. Joe was getting a little tired of it, but he realized that the only thing to do was to obey. “All right,” he said, listlessly. “All right, what?” was snapped back at him. For a moment Joe did not answer. “Come on, Fresh.!” cried the other, taking a step toward him. “Quick—all right—what?” “Sir!” ripped out Joe, as he turned away. A moment later from a distant window there shone a single gleam of light that fell on the face of the other lad. Joe started as he beheld the countenance of Ford Weston—the youth who had laughed at his pitching. “That’s right,” came in more mollified tones from the Sophomore. “Don’t forget your manners at Yale, Fresh.! Or you may be taught ’em in a way you won’t like,” and with an easy air of assurance, and an insulting, domineering swagger, Weston took himself off across the campus. <hr class="chap" />[55] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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