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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> <h3>A WILD NIGHT</h3> “Say, Ricky is sure putting up a great fight!” “Yes, and he’s as wiry as they make ’em!” “He’ll make ’em wish they’d let him alone—maybe.” “And maybe not,” returned Spike. He and Joe had passed these remarks after a grim silence, followed by a resumption of the crashing struggle in the hall near the front door. “There are too many of ’em for him,” went on Joe’s room-mate. “Wait until I take a peep,” proposed the young pitcher. He advanced to the door, rolling up his sleeves as he went. “Don’t!” snapped Spike. “They’ll be here soon enough as it is, without us showing ourselves. I’d just as soon they’d pass us up this trip—it’s an unpleasant mess.” “That’s right. Maybe we can stand ’em off.” “No such luck. I think they’re coming.” The noise in the hall seemed redoubled. Ricky could be heard expostulating, and from that he changed to threats. [85] “I’ll make you wish you hadn’t tried this on me!” he shouted. “I’ll punch——” “Oh, dry up!” commanded someone. “Stuff some of that paste in his mouth!” ordered another voice. “A double shampoo for being too fresh!” “No, you don’t! I won’t stand——” “Then take it lying down. Here we go, boys!” “I—Oh——” and Ricky’s voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur. “He’s getting his,” said Spike in a low tone. “And I guess here is where we get ours,” said Joe, as the rush of feet sounded along the corridor, while someone called: “Come on, fellows. More work for us down here. There are some of the Freshies in their burrows. Rout ’em out! Smash ’em up!” The tramping of feet came to a pause outside the door of our two friends. “Open up!” came the command. “Come in!” invited Joe. They had not turned the key as they did not want the lock broken. Into the room burst a nondescript horde of students. They were wild and disheveled, some with torn coats and trousers, others with neckties and collars missing, or else hanging in shreds about their necks. “Ricky put up a game fight!” murmured Joe. “He sure did,” agreed Spike. [86] “Hello, Freshmen!” greeted the leader of the Sophomores. “Ready for yours?” “Sure,” answered Spike with as cheerful a grin as he could muster. “Any time you say,” added Joe. “The beggars were expecting us!” yelled a newcomer, crowding into the room. “Going to fight?” demanded someone. “Going to try,” said Joe coolly. “Give ’em theirs!” was the yell. “What’ll it be—paste or mush?” Joe saw that several of the Sophomores carried pails, one seemingly filled with froth, and the other with a white substance. Neither would be very pleasant when rubbed into the hair. “Maybe you’d better cut ’em both out,” suggested Joe. “Not on your life! Got to take your medicine, kid!” declared a tall Sophomore. He made a grab for Joe, who stepped back. Someone swung at our hero, who, nothing daunted, dashed a fist into his antagonist’s face, and the youth went down with a crash, taking a chair with him. “Oh, ho! Fighters!” cried a new voice. “Slug ’em, Sophs.!” Joe swung around, and could not restrain a gasp of astonishment, for, confronting him was Ford Weston, the ’varsity pitcher. On his part Weston seemed taken aback. [87] “Jove!” he cried. “It’s the little country rooster I saw pitch ball. So you came to Yale after all?” “I did,” answered Joe calmly. It was the first he had met his rival face to face since that time on the campus when Weston had not known him. “Well, we’re going to make you sorry right now,” sneered Weston. “Up boys, and at ’em!” “Let me get another whack at him!” snarled the lad Joe had knocked down. There was a rush. Joe, blindly striking out, felt himself pulled, hauled and mauled. Once he went down under the weight of numbers, but he fought himself to a kneeling position and hit out with all his force. He was hit in turn. He had a glimpse of Spike hurling a tall Sophomore half way across the room, upon the sofa with a crash. Then with a howl the second-year men closed in on the two Freshmen again. Joe saw Weston coming for him, aiming a vicious blow at his head. Instinctively Joe ducked, and with an uppercut that was more forceful than he intended he caught the pitcher on the jaw. Weston went backward, and only for the fact that he collided with one of his mates would have fallen. He clapped his hand to his jaw, and as he glared at Joe he cried: “I’ll settle with you for this!” “Any time,” gasped Joe, and then his voice[88] was stopped as someone’s elbow caught him in the jaw. “Say, what’s the matter with you fellows?” demanded a voice in the doorway. “Can’t you do up two Freshmen? Come on, give ’em what’s coming and let’s get out of this. There’s been too much of a row, and we’ve got lots to do yet to-night. Eat ’em up!” Thus urged by someone who seemed to be a leader, the Sophomores went at the attack with such fury that there was no withstanding them. The odds were too much for Joe and Spike, and they were borne down by the weight of numbers. Then, while some of their enemies held them, others smeared the paste over their heads, rubbing it well in. It was useless to struggle, and all the two Freshmen could do was to protect their eyes. “That’s enough,” came the command. “No, it isn’t!” yelled a voice Joe recognized as that of Weston. “Where’s that mush?” “No! No!” expostulated several. “They’ve had enough—the paste was enough.” “I say no!” fairly screamed Weston. “Hand it here!” He snatched something from one of his mates, and the next instant Joe felt a stream of liquid mush drenching him. It ran into his eyes, smarting them grievously, and half blinding him. With[89] a mad struggle he tore himself loose and struck out, but his fists only cleaved the empty air. “Come on!” was the order. There was a rush of feet, and presently the room cleared. “Next time don’t be so—fresh!” came tauntingly from Weston, as he followed his mates. “Water—water!” begged Joe, for his eyes seemed on fire. “Hold on, old man—steady,” came from Spike. “What is it?” “Something in my eyes. I can’t see!” “The paste and mush I expect. Rotten trick. Wait a minute and I’ll sponge you off. Oh, but we’re sights!” Presently Joe felt the cooling liquid, and the pain went from him. He could open his eyes and look about. Their room was in disorder, but, considering the fierceness of the scrimmage, little damage had been done. But the lads themselves, when they glanced at each other, could not repress woeful expressions, followed by laughs of dismay, for truly they were in a direful plight. Smeared with paste that made their hair stand up like the quills of a fretful porcupine, their shirts streaked with it, they were indeed weird looking objects. Paste was on their faces, half covering their noses. It stuffed up[90] their ears and their eyes stared out from a mask of it like burned holes in a blanket. “Oh, but you are a sight!” exclaimed Spike. “The same to you and more of it,” retorted Joe. “Let’s get this off.” “Sure, before it hardens, or we’ll never get it off,” agreed Spike. Fortunately there was plenty of water in their room, and, stripping to their waists they scrubbed to such good advantage that they were soon presentable. The removal of their coats and vests had saved those garments. “They went for you fierce,” commented Spike. “Who was that fellow who came in last?” “Weston—’varsity pitcher.” “He had it in for you.” “Seemed so, but I don’t know why,” and Joe related the little scene the day of the Silver Star-Resolute game. “Oh, well, don’t mind him. I say, let’s go out.” “What for?” “It’s going to be a wild night from the way it’s begun. Let’s see some of the fun. No use trying to study, I’m too excited.” “I’m excited too. But if we go out they may pitch onto us again.” “No, we can claim immunity. I want to see some of the other fellows get theirs. We’ll get Ricky and the other bunch and have some fun.” [91] “All right; I’m with you.” They dressed, and, having made their room somewhat presentable, they called for Ricky. He was busy trying to get rid of his shampoo, which had been unusually severe. He readily fell in with the notion of going out, and with Hank Heller and Slim Jones in the party the five set out. They swung out into Wall street, up College, and cut over Elm street to the New Haven Green, where they knew all sorts of tricks would be going on. For the Sophomores had started their hazing in earnest. It was indeed a wild night. The streets about the college buildings were thronged with students, and yells and class-rallying cries were heard on every side. “Let’s go over to High street,” proposed Joe, and they ran up Temple, to Chapel, and thence over to High, making their way through throngs. Several times they were halted by groups of Sophomores, with commands to do some absurdity, but an assertion that they had been shampooed, with the particulars, and the evidence yet remaining in spots, was enough to cause them to be passed. High street was filled with even a greater crowd as they reached it, a party of Freshman pouring out from the college campus endeavoring to escape from pursuing enemies. [92] Through Library street to York they went, with shouts, yells and noises of rattles and other sound-producing instruments. “Let’s follow and see what happens,” proposed Ricky. “I want to see some other fellow get his as long as I had mine.” Just then Joe saw several figures come quietly out from behind a building and start up York street, in an opposite direction from that taken by the throng. Under the glare of an electric light he recognized Weston and some of the crowd who had shampooed them. Some sudden whim caused Joe to say: “There’s the fellows who shampooed us. Let’s follow and maybe we can get back at ’em. There are only five—that’s one apiece.” “Right you are!” sang out Ricky. “I want to punch someone.” “Come on then,” signalled Spike. “I’m out for the night. It’s going to be a wild one all right.” And truly it seemed so. <hr class="chap" />[93] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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