Baseball Joe at Yale Part 8

"Oh ho! This way, Merton!" yelled someone, evidently a signal for the lads from that school to a.s.semble.

"Over here, Lisle!"

"There's Perk!"

"Yes, and who's he got with him?"

"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 cla.s.smates 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 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 pa.s.sed 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 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed:

"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 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 Soph.o.m.ore. "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 a.s.surance, and an insulting, domineering swagger, Weston took himself off across the campus.

CHAPTER VII

A NEW CHUM

For a moment Joe stood there, his heart pounding away under his ribs, uncertain what to do--wondering if the Soph.o.m.ore had recognized him.

Then, as the other gave no sign, but continued on his way, whistling gaily, Joe breathed easier.

"The cad!" he whispered. "I'd like to--to----" He paused. He remembered that he was at Yale--that he was a Freshman and that he was supposed to take the insults of those above him--of the youth who had a year's advantage over him in point of time.

"Yes, I'm a Freshman," mused Joe, half bitterly. "I'm supposed to take it all--to grin and bear it--for the good of my soul and conscience, and so that I won't get a swelled head. Well," he concluded with a whimsical smile, "I guess there's no danger."

He looked after the retreating figure of the Soph.o.m.ore, now almost lost in the dusk that enshrouded the campus, and then he laughed softly.

"After all!" he exclaimed, "it's no more than I've done to the lads at Excelsior Hall. I thought it was right and proper then, and I suppose these fellows do here. Only, somehow, it hurts. I--I guess I'm getting older. I can't appreciate these things as I used to. After all, what is there to it? There's too much cla.s.s feeling and exaggerated notion about one's importance. It isn't a man's game--though it may lead to it. I'd rather be out--standing on my own feet.

"Yes, out playing the game with men--the real game--I want to get more action than this," and he looked across at the college buildings, now almost deserted save for a professor or two, or small groups of students who were wandering about almost as disconsolately as was Joe himself.

"Oh, well!" he concluded. "I'm here, and I've got to stay at least for mother's sake, and I'll do the best I can. I'll grin and bear it. It won't be long until Spring, and then I'll see if I can't make good. I'm glad Weston didn't recognize me. It might have made it worse. But he's bound to know, sooner or later, that I'm the fellow he saw pitch that day, and, if he's like the rest of 'em I suppose he'll have the story all over college. Well, I can't help it." And with this philosophical reflection Joe turned and made his way toward his rooming house.

It was a little farther than he had thought, and he was a bit sorry he had not selected one nearer the college. There were too many students to permit all of them to dwell in the dormitories proper, and many sought residences in boarding places and in rooming houses, and dined at students' clubs.

"I suppose I'll have to hunt up some sort of an eating joint," mused Joe, as he plodded along. "I'd be glad to get in with some freshmen who like the baseball game. It'll be more sociable. I'll have to be on the lookout."

As he rang the bell of the house corresponding in number to the one he had selected as his rooming place, the door was cautiously opened a trifle, the rattling of a chain showing that it was secure against further swinging. A rather husky voice asked:

"Well?"