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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h3>AMBITIONS</h3> “Shake hands!” exclaimed Joe, as he stepped over to the bed, on which the other raised himself, the clothes draping around him. Then Joe saw how well built his new room-mate was—the muscles of his arms and shoulders standing out, as his pajamas tightened across his chest. “Glad to know you,” greeted Poole. “You are sure you don’t mind my butting in?” “Not at all. Glad of your company. I hate to be alone. I wish you’d come in a bit earlier, and you could have gone down to Glory’s with us.” “Wish I had. I’ve heard of the place, but as a general rule I like a quieter shack to eat.” “Same here,” confessed Joe. “We’re talking of starting a feeding joint of our own—the Freshmen here—or of joining one. Are you with us?” “Sure thing. Do you know any of the fellows here?” “Three—in our shack. I just met them to-night. They seem all to the good.” [67] “Glad to hear it. I’ll fill in anywhere I can.” “Well, I’m going to fill in bed—right now!” asserted Joe with a yawn. “I’m dead tired. It’s quite a trip from my place, and we’ve got to go to chapel in the morning.” “That’s so. Are you a sound sleeper?” “Not so very. Why?” “I am, and I forgot to bring an alarm clock. I always need one to get me up.” “I can fix you,” replied Joe. “I’ve got one that would do in place of a gong in a fire-house. I’ll set it going.” And from his trunk, after rummaging about a bit, he pulled a large-sized clock, noiseless as to ticking, but with a resonant bell that created such a clamor, when Joe set it to tinkling, that Ricky Hanover came bursting in. “What’s the joke?” he demanded, half undressed. “Let me in on it.” “The alarm clock,” explained Joe. “My new chum was afraid he’d be late to chapel. Ricky, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Poole.” “Glad to know you,” spoke Ricky. “Got a handle?” “A what?” “Nickname. I always think it’s easier to get acquainted with a fellow if he’s got one. It isn’t so stiff.” “Maybe you’re right. Well, the fellows back home used to call me ‘Spike’.” [68] “What for?” demanded Joe. “Because my father was in the hardware business.” “I see!” laughed Ricky. “Good enough. Spike suits me. I say, you’ve got a pretty fair joint here,” he went on admiringly. “And some stuff, believe me!” There was envy in his tones as he looked around the room, and noted the various articles Joe was digging out of his trunk—some fencing foils, boxing gloves, a baseball bat and mask, and a number of foreign weapons which Joe had begun to collect in one of his periodical fits and then had given up. “They’ll look swell stuck around the walls,” went on Ricky. “Yes, it sort of tones up the place, I guess,” admitted Joe. “I’ve got a lot of flags,” spoke Spike. “My trunk didn’t come, though. Hope it’ll be here to-morrow.” “Then you will have a den!” declared Ricky. “Got any photos?” “Photos?” queried Joe wonderingly. “Yes—girls? You ought to see my collection! Some class, believe me; and more than half were free-will offerings,” and Ricky drew himself up proudly in his role of a lady-killer. “Where’d you get the others?” asked Spike. “Swiped ’em—some I took from my sister. They’ll look swell when I get ’em up. Well, I’m[69] getting chilly!” he added, and it was no wonder, for his legs were partly bare. “See you later!” and he slid out of the door. “Nice chap,” commented Joe. “Rather original,” agreed Spike Poole. “I guess he’s in the habit of doing things. But say, I’m keeping you up with my talk, I’m afraid.” “I guess it’s the other way around,” remarked Joe, with a smile. “No, go ahead, and stick up all the trophies you like. I’ll help out to-morrow.” “Oh, well, I guess this’ll do for a while,” said Joe a little later, when he had partly emptied his trunk. “I think I’ll turn in. I don’t know how I’ll sleep—that Welsh rabbit was a bit more than I’m used to. So if I see my grandmother in the night——” “I’ll wake you up before the dear old lady gets a chance to box your ears,” promised his room-mate with a laugh. And then our hero crawled into bed to spend his first night as a real Yale student. Joe thought he had never seen so perfect a day as the one to which the alarm clock awakened him some hours later. It was clear and crisp, and on the way to chapel with the others of the Red Shack, he breathed deep of the invigorating air. The exercises were no novelty to him, but it was very different from those at Excelsior Hall, and[70] later the campus seemed to be fairly alive with the students. But Joe no longer felt alone. He had a chum—several of them, in fact, for the acquaintances of the night before seemed even closer in the morning. The duties of the day were soon over, lectures not yet being under way. Joe got his name down, learned when he was expected to report, the hours of recitation, and other details. His new chums did the same. “And now let’s see about that eating club,” proposed Ricky Hanover, when they were free for the rest of the day. “It’s all right to go to Glory’s once in a while—especially at night when the jolly crowd is there, and a restaurant isn’t bad for a change—but we’re not here for a week or a month, and we want some place that’s a bit like home.” The others agreed with him, and a little investigation disclosed an eating resort run by a Junior who was working his way through Yale. It was a quiet sort of a place, on a quiet street, not so far away from the Red Shack as to make it inconvenient to go around for breakfast. The patrons of it, besides Joe and his new friends, were mostly Freshmen, though a few Juniors, acquaintances of Roslyn Joyce, who was trying to pay his way to an education by means of it, ate there, as[71] did a couple of very studious Seniors, who did not go in for the society or sporting life. “This’ll be just the thing for us,” declared Joe; and the others agreed with him. There was some talk of football in the air. All about them students were discussing the chances of the eleven, especially in the big games with Harvard and Princeton, and all agreed that, with the new material available, Yale was a sure winner. “What are you going in for?” asked Joe of Ricky, as the five of them—Joe, Ricky, Spike, Slim Jones and Hank Heller strolled across the campus. “The eleven for mine—if I can make it!” declared Ricky. “What’s yours, Joe?” “Baseball. But it’s a long while off.” “That’s right—the gridiron has the call just now. Jove, how I want to play!” and Ricky danced about in the excess of his good spirits. “What are you going in for?” asked Joe of Hank Heller. “I’d like to make the crew, but I don’t suppose I have much chance. I’ll have to wait, as you will.” “If I can get on the glee club, I’m satisfied,” remarked Slim Jones. “That’s about all I’m fit for,” he added, with a whimsical smile. “How about you, Spike? Can you play anything?” [72] “The Jewsharp and mouthorgan. Have they any such clubs here?” “No!” exclaimed Ricky. “But what’s the matter with you trying for the eleven? You’ve got the build.” “It isn’t in my line. I’m like Joe here. I like the diamond best.” “Do you?” cried our hero, delighted to find that his room-mate had the same ambition as himself. “Where do you play?” “Well, I have been catching for some time.” “Then you and Joe ought to hit it off!” exclaimed Ricky. “Joe’s crazy to pitch, and you two can make up a private battery, and use the room for a cage.” <hr class="chap" />[73] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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