The Adventures of a Freshman Part 10

For about forty yards Young ran as he never ran before. The only hope was that the clinging Soph.o.m.ore would get tired of sweeping Princeton pavements with his knees; a moment more and he would surely drop. "Stick to him," the other Soph.o.m.ores were shouting in the dark. Two of the pursuers were almost up to them. Lee gave a furious wrench. It was a little too furious. He tripped and fell. Young slackened up and tried to pull Lee to his feet, but Lee purposely loosed his hand and cried, "I'm a goner, run!" At that instant two Soph.o.m.ores dropped on him as they would on a rolling football and cut off his wind.

But Young did not run--he turned around to try and free his friend--a third Soph.o.m.ore running at full speed tackled him furiously, as football players tackle. They both tripped over the bodies on the ground. Lee felt two more men come tumbling down in a tangle upon those already on him.

"We got 'em both, fellows," screamed one of the Soph.o.m.ores in the darkness to the others behind.

"Are you hurt, Lee?" asked a voice near the back of his neck.

"How'd you--get--in this?" Lee panted. "Thought you were--block 'way by--this time."

Young was panting, too, so he only said, "No--still here." He had got Lee into this mess and he meant to stick by him.

The Soph.o.m.ores, keeping tight hold of Lee and tighter hold of Young, slowly arose, allowing their recaptured prisoners to stand up.

"I hope you're not hurt, Lee?" asked one of them in a somewhat sympathetic voice. He still kept tight hold of the Freshman, however.

"Nope, I reckon not," said Lee, who hadn't been playing football since the age of twelve for nothing.

They all leaned against the fence and panted for a moment

Young made out nearly a dozen Soph.o.m.ores in the half-dark.

Lee stopped panting and smiled. "Well, what are you going to do with us?" he asked, grimly.

"Shut up, Freshman, that's our business," said one of them. It was the same man that had asked Lee if he was hurt a moment before.

"So, Deacon," said Channing, "you _wouldn't_ come back when we told you to, you old hay-seed Deacon!"

Young knew what he referred to, but only looked sober and said nothing, as usual.

"Well, well," went on Channing, "so you two proc.-hunters thought you'd get away, didn't you? Too bad, too bad; teaches Freshmen a good lesson: little boys must not be out at night. It's not nice."

"Well, Channing, where shall we put these two foolish virgins?" asked a gruff voice. The dawn was coming in and Young and Lee saw that it was that big Ballard.

Now, it was customary on occasions of this sort to take all prisoners to some room, generally right there in University Hall, and lock them up for the rest of the night, and that's what the Soph.o.m.ores would have done in this case but for Channing. "Put them!" replied Channing, indignantly, "we sha'n't put them anywhere until we have dealt out due chastis.e.m.e.nt for their rash impudence in trying to escape from their lawful lords and masters. Am I not right? They should make recompense for the trouble they have given us." It was Channing's usual vein.

"Aw, see here, Chan," said one of the others, "we've got a lot of work still to do and it's getting light already. We can't stop to do any hazing. Let's lock them up in George Black's room."

But Channing was not going to let this opportunity slip by for getting square for what Young had done only a few hours previous. He did not know that there had been witnesses to the spanking--as yet. "Let the prisoners follow," he said, and he led the way back to the corner where the two parties had met.

Near by, on the ground beside the iron fence, stood a bucket of paste, a big brush, and a roll of proclamations. Young and Lee had not seen them before.

"Here are paste and proclamations," said Channing, "and here are strong hands and willing. What is to hinder the strong hands being set to work?

Arise, Freshmen, gird up your loins and paste procs, for the day soon cometh when no man can paste."

"Right," said the others, smiling. "Kill two birds with one stone."

Little Lee fairly gasped to himself: "Going to make us paste procs--procs against our own cla.s.s!"

Ballard, who had apparently just got the idea through his head, began to laugh, and said, "That's a good scheme, Chan, haw, haw, haw!"

"Don't laugh so loud," said Channing. "Come on, Freshmen, that blank wall across the street is a good place to begin."

They were led across the street to the corner grocery store. A tight hold was kept on Young and Lee this time.

"Now, this is the way it is done." Channing quickly and rather daintily pasted up a proclamation.

By this time it was light enough for the letters to show green, and the Freshmen read the thing.

Up near the top Lee, the cla.s.s secretary, was called "a puppy drum major" and "Mamma's blue-eyed baby boy, the little toy secretary." In the portion in finer type, beneath the slurs on the baseball team and the arrogant prohibitions against the wearing of the college colors and silk-hats and the smoking of pipes and carrying of canes, Young spied his own name.

"Next in the line of freaks," it said, "will amble that poor, meek b.u.t.t of all cla.s.ses, Deacon Young, the overgrown baby of Squeedunk, who always does everything you tell him to, and says 'Thank you, marm!'"

"That means me," thought Young, scowling, as he remembered how important he had always been considered by everyone out at home. "What would they think of me now, I wonder?"

Channing had finished his work.

"Now then," he said, and unfolded another proc and advanced toward the Freshmen. "Don't all speak at once, children; will Little Willie Young show us how they handle the brush when they whitewash the fences on the farm?"

"Naw, let the cla.s.s secretary do it first," interrupted Ballard, in his rough voice.

Though the crowd had often hazed Lee they had always found him such a bright, good-natured little chap that Ballard was never allowed to humble him as much as since the rush he had always wanted to. Here was a fine chance. Young could wait; it was not much fun to haze Young, anyway, he was so meek.

"Get to work there now, Secretary," Ballard shouted in his loud voice.

He did not have brains enough, Young thought, to be sarcastic, but he had plenty of lungs. "Close in around them, fellows."

Of course the Freshmen required the use of their hands if they were to paste procs, so the two were shoved in toward the wall and the dozen Soph.o.m.ores with locked arms formed a semi-circle about them. It would be out of the question for the two to try and escape now.

Young and Lee were standing by the paste-bucket with their backs to the Soph.o.m.ores, who were about twelve feet away from them.

"Come, get to work there, little boys," said Channing. "You and Young have nearly fifty more to paste before breakfast."

"Hurry up there," Ballard echoed, shouting in a tone to wake the neighborhood.

Just then a lazy voice was heard. "Heads out! Soph.o.m.ores are making Freshmen paste procs! heads out--, everybody look!" It was a Senior leaning from an upstairs window of University Hall. He was in his pajamas.

Meantime, Ballard, who loved to show his power, had stepped arrogantly into the ring saying, "Do you hear what I say, you little fool! Pick up that brush and get to work."

"Heads out, everybody, heads out! Lots of fun," cried the sleepy-looking Senior.

Windows began to open and frowsy heads and yawning faces to stick out from all over the University Place side of the big building.

Lee thought, with true loyal horror, of how, if he should do as Ballard said, the Soph.o.m.ores would taunt him forever afterward. He fancied how his own cla.s.smates would feel about it when they heard that their secretary had aided in posting those scurrilous proclamations. But what was there to do? He had only one cla.s.smate with him and there were a dozen Soph.o.m.ores about him--no, eleven, for the twelfth was now standing close beside him, shaking a big fist in his face and saying, "See here, you little fool, are you going to do what I tell you or not?"

Little Lee calmly looked up into Ballard's face and said, "No, and you can't make me."

"You'll see whether I can make you or not," returned Ballard, and with that he grabbed the little fellow by the coat-collar and shaking him back and forth roared, "Now, you little fool, you paste that proc or I'll paste you on the jaw with this fist." Possibly he really meant to do it, but, at any rate, he did not, for just then Young cried: "No, you won't, Ballard! No, you won't! Don't you shake him that way; don't you lay hands on him; don't you touch him." The voice was very high and earnest.

"Yea-a. Good enough for you, big Freshman." The upper-cla.s.smen were becoming interested. By this time in the windows across the street were about twenty lookers-on. Ballard knew that, and he was a Soph.o.m.ore.