FRANK ARMSTRONG AT COLLEGE

By MATTHEW M. COLTON

Author of

"Frank Armstrong's Vacation," "Frank Armstrong at Queens," "Frank Armstrong's Second Term," "Frank Armstrong, Captain of the Nine," "Frank Armstrong, Drop Kicker."

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Printed in U. S. A.

[Pg 2]

Copyright, 1914, BY HURST & COMPANY

MADE IN U. S. A.

[Pg 3]

CHAPTER I. THE FRESHMAN RUSH.

It was the evening of a day in late September and a noticeable chill in the air hinted at the near approach of fall. Through the whole of that day and for several days previous to the opening of our story, incoming trains had deposited their burden of enthusiastic young humanity in the old town of New Haven.

From mountain, shore, city, town and country came the throng of students like an army of youth, to take up the work of the college year at Yale, which opened her doors to them on the morrow. Men from all classes were in that motley throng which surged and billowed around the corner of College and Chapel streets, for this night was the night of "the rush," which tradition says shall be the first event of the college year. There were Seniors, in their new-found[Pg 6] dignity of seniority; Juniors, nearer by a year to the coveted goal of a degree; Sophomores, who by the passage of time coupled with an adequate stand escaped from the ignominious position of the youngest class, and last, but not least, the Freshmen who, to-night, began their existence as a class. But the Freshmen kept themselves aloof from the upper class-men, perhaps for reasons of offense and defense for they were to be tried out later on, and did not want to be found lacking.

Bronzed giants whose bulk proclaimed them to be at least "football material" shouldered their way through the crowd and the air was filled with the chatter and hum of many voices. Greetings between men who had been separated for the summer were heard on every side.

"Hello, Dick. Mighty glad to see you!"

"Glad to see you again. It's great to be back, eh?" and the speakers, with a hearty hand-grip would pass on and repeat the formulæ with little variation, to other friends.

Suddenly the blare of a brass band cut through the chatter. Marshals sprang to the work of getting the parade in order, for a parade always precedes and has come to be part of "the rush." These men, conspicuous by their long-handled[Pg 7] kerosene torches and the 'Varsity Y emblazoned on sweaters (for only men who have won the coveted letter are eligible for the position of marshals,) began to separate the groups.

"Seniors, this way!" was the shout.

"Juniors, this way!"

"Sophomores, this way!" And, quickly following the command, the various groups, in the order named, dropped into line and, led by the marshals with torches swinging, went dancing down Chapel street to the compelling melody of a popular college marching song.

"Freshmen, this way!" And to the shout, which was caught up and echoed up and down the line, the new-comers to the halls of Yale dropped in behind the Sophomores, feeling themselves, for the first time, a class instead of merely a huddled group without a bond of any kind. Dancing as merrily as their predecessors to the strains of the band, the Freshmen went swinging down the street imitating to the best of their ability the zigzag sweep of their elders. Hands of strangers touched for the first time and arms were thrown over strange shoulders and the feeling was good.

In the middle of that swaying mass of Freshmen[Pg 8] it does not take long to discover our three friends, Frank Armstrong, Jimmy Turner and last but not least the irrepressible Codfish, clad immaculately as usual. To-night he wore a delicate gray Norfolk suit with a vivid blue tie and socks to match, a tribute to the colors of the college he had adopted.

"You are a brave one to appear in that Paris model," laughed Frank, who had arrayed himself in the oldest clothes he could find in anticipation of rough times before the evening was over.

"Merely trying to uphold the reputation of the class and inject a little beauty into the occasion," returned the Codfish. "Look at our friend James. He has the ear-marks of a hobo!"

Jimmy was far from being a beauty, it is true.

"Safe and sane, sonny. Safe because the attentive Sophomores won't take a second look at me and sane because I need my good ones when I go calling," retorted Jimmy.

"I think this Sophomore scare is pure bunkum," the Codfish suggested. "A fellow told me to-night that hazing at Yale has been given up.[Pg 9] Someone was hurt a while ago in the merry pranks and the Faculty stopped it, eh?"

He wasn't quite certain about it, and wanted verification.

"You're safe," said Jimmy, "they never trouble the lady members of a class. Hello, what's the matter?" he went on as the parade came to a sudden halt at the corner of Church and Chapel streets.

"Scrap, I guess," said Frank. "Bunch of town fellows trying to muss up the leaders. Always do that, they say. There they go across the street, and here we go!" as the band, which had stopped for a moment while a gang of young rowdies tried to cut the line of parade and were worsted in the attempt, began again and the merry zigzag went on.

Around the central Green or square of the city tramped the jolly hundreds, occasionally giving voice to the chorus of a song the band was playing or a cheer in which the Freshmen joined as well as they were able, but in spite of their desire to be real Yale men, stumbling badly on the nine "Yales" at the end.

Up Elm street, lined with hundreds of townsfolk glad to see the college once again in full[Pg 10] swing, their faces lit up by the red fire and Roman candles in the hands of the marchers, swung the leaders. At High street the procession turned and entered the Campus. The gang of town boys and young men which had trailed the procession tried to force themselves into line, but were summarily thrown out, and without further molestation the marchers circled the Campus or college yard, and, opposite the Library, finally halted at a spot of green sward previously selected for the wrestling.

The instant the leaders stopped there was a grand rush of the hundreds behind to gain a vantage point, and in a second the little circle the leaders had formed was squeezed together like paper.

"Get back, get back," yelled the torch bearers, and emphasized their commands by pushing the lighted torches under the noses of those composing the living wall. Of course, there was only one thing to do and that was to go back with all haste. Pushing the ever-widening circle of spectators back with threatening fury, the marshals made a circle of sufficient capacity to carry on the wrestling bouts, which were the climax of "the rush."

[Pg 11]

"Down!" howled the chief marshal, at which the front rank of that squeezed and straining wall squatted on the ground, but so great was the pressure of the hundreds behind that a score of the second row were shot clear over the heads of the first row and into the ring.

"Out with the intruders," yelled a marshal, and the unfortunates were seized and thrown bodily into outer darkness over the heads of the first rows and were lost to view in the ruck.

"Now I know why it is a good thing to put on your old duds," Frank gasped to Turner as they bored their way toward the center of activity. Our three friends had left the ranks of their class with many others when the head of the parade reached the Campus, and dashed over to a point where they were told the wrestling usually took place, on a chance that it would be in that spot this time.

Their guess was right and for a moment they were actually within the coveted circle, but when the marshals made their onslaught on the crowd in order to expand the ring they were whirled into outer ranks and had only, after a desperate effort and "under a pressure of a hundred pounds to the square inch" as Turner expressed[Pg 12] it, succeeded in digging their way back to the third or fourth tier in that circle of human faces. They were more fortunate than the hundreds who prowled around outside without a chance of a glimpse at the wrestling.

"We've lost the Codfish," exclaimed Frank. "Oh, Gleason," he called, but there was no answering voice.

"Lost in the shuffle," said Turner. "He was with us a minute ago but he'll turn up. He won't miss any tricks, don't you forget it."

"He isn't much for this kind of a scramble game," returned Frank. "I thought he was holding back a bit when we struck in this last time, but——"

"Sophomores, bring out your candidates," roared a big man who wore the football Y on his blue sweater.

"Who is that whale of a man?" asked Frank.

"That's Howard, the football captain," volunteered a boy just in front of them, who had overheard the question. The speaker held a notebook in his hand and they afterward learned he was a news-heeler getting a story for the News, the official college paper.

[Pg 13]

"Freshmen?" inquired the heeler, looking our friends over.

Frank nodded.

"That fellow, yelling for a Freshman lightweight candidate, is the crew captain," went on the heeler; "and over there to his left is Dunnelly, the chap who kicked the goal against Princeton last year and saved us the game." The heeler pointed out the celebrities as they prowled around the ring, calling loudly for wrestling champions.

"You see," explained the heeler, "there are wrestling bouts in the three weights,—light, middle and heavy, between the Sophomore and Freshmen for the class championship. Three bouts in each event."

"O, you Freshmen, show your sand, trot out a candidate!" bawled one of the men within the ring. The crowd outside clamored for candidates from the Freshmen.

"We want a Sophomore lightweight!" roared another, and the crowd took up the cry and repeated it. "Sophomore lightweight, Freshman lightweight, don't be quitters, come across with the champions!"

[Pg 14]

"Sophomore lightweight, Sophomore lightweight!"

"Freshman lightweight!"

"Don't be quitters!"

"Show your sand, Freshmen!"

Suddenly there was a commotion on one side of the ring, and amid yells and the shaking of torches, the living wall opened and a slender, blond-haired youth stepped into the ring.

"Who is he?"

"What's his name?"

"Sophomore or Freshman?"

"Sophomore," said the boy.

"Your name," demanded a marshal.

"Ballard."

"Your weight?"

"One twenty-nine, stripped."

"You'll do."

Immediately two Juniors volunteered to second him, and fell to work stripping him to the waist, the traditional custom for the friendly combat.

Meanwhile the calling for a Freshman lightweight went on without success, and the crowd was throwing red-hot taunts at the youngest class for shirking their duty. The Freshmen had[Pg 15] pushed one of their number into the ring, but he proved to be over the required weight and was cast out without ceremony.

A commotion on the outside of the ring started anew the calls for a Freshman lightweight, and the call was unexpectedly answered by the appearance of a young man in delicate light gray clothes with blue necktie and socks to match, who was passed unceremoniously over the hands of the crowd and deposited right-side-up on the green grass of the enclosure.

Jimmy gasped. "The Codfish, or I'm a Hottentot!"

"No one else, for sure. How did they get him?" exclaimed Frank.

The Codfish was greeted by a rattling cheer, followed by much advice.

"Well done, Freshman!"

"Take off those pretty clothes!"

"He certainly is a Yale man, look at that tie!"

"Good work, Freshman, eat him up!"

The referee, the Captain of the Yale Wrestling Team, strode over to the Codfish, and looked him up and down.

"You are not a very promising specimen," he said. "Ever wrestle before?"

[Pg 16]

"Never," said Gleason. "All I know about wrestling wouldn't hurt anyone."

"What's your name and weight?"

"Gleason, and I weigh one twenty-five."

"Stripped or with those clothes on?"

"Clothes and all," said the Codfish with a grin, and his eyes wandering around the sea of faces, chanced to light on his two friends, Armstrong and Turner. He waved an airy salute to them, and began with his seconds, two Seniors, to divest himself of his coat, shirt and undershirt.

"He really means to wrestle," gasped Frank. "Can you beat it?"

"He certainly has his nerve with him," returned Jimmy.

"His middle name is nerve."

The preliminaries over, Ballard and the Codfish faced each other in the flickering light of the torches, shook hands, and at the shrill scream of the referee's whistle, rushed at each other. Neither was versed in the art of wrestling, but both were about the same size. Down they went on the ground, Gleason underneath, the Sophomore struggling to pin the shoulders of the Freshman to the ground, which meant victory.[Pg 17] But just at the moment when things looked bad for the under-dog, he slipped out of the hold, squirmed free and threw himself with all his force against the Sophomore, bearing him over sideways. The assault was so sudden that Ballard was taken unawares, and before he could gather himself, Gleason sprang on the prostrate boy and shoved his shoulder points on the grass. A resounding slap on the back by the referee testified to the success of the attack, and it was the Freshmen's turn to cheer, which they did right lustily.

[Pg 18]

CHAPTER II. A BRUSH WITH THE POLICE.

"First blood for the Freshman. Wow!!"

Both principals were now in their corners being fanned with towels and put in shape for the second bout which was to follow immediately, for there were three in each event as the Codfish learned to his sorrow. His eyes wandered again to where Frank and Turner were wedged in the crowd, almost speechless at what they saw before them.

"The Codfish of all creatures in the world to be wrestling for his class," laughed Jimmy.

"We live and learn. He may be out for football yet."

The subject under discussion just at this moment bent his head and whispered something to one of his seconds, then looked up and nodded in the direction of his friends agape on the other side of the circle. For a moment the gaze of the second rested on Armstrong and Turner. Then[Pg 19] the whistle blew and the boys sprang again to the center of the ring.

This time it was different. The Sophomore did not rush in so fearlessly. He circled round and round with arms outstretched and figure crouching. Then he sprang at the Freshman's leg and before the latter knew it he was on his back with his opponent squarely across his chest.

"Fall for the Sophomore," announced the referee, slapping the victor on the shoulder. Sophomore yells rent the air.

"A tie, a tie! Now bury the Freshman this time. Go to it."

Again the seconds ministered to their men, and after a two-minutes' rest the boys went at it, but the Codfish, who was not noted for his physical prowess, went down after a brief tussle, and the lightweight event was awarded to the Sophomores amid yells by that class which echoed back from the buildings of the quadrangle. Gleason struggled into his clothes, and ducked through the living wall as fast as he could go, while the calls for the middleweight wrestlers were being yelled by the marshals.

A husky young Sophomore quickly responded,[Pg 20] but again the Freshmen were slow with their man.

The big football captain, who had been in conference with some of his aides, walked across the ring.

"You red-head, there," pointing to Turner, "come out here and defend the honor of your class. The Freshman who just wrestled says you're a good one."

Frank and Jimmy looked at each other.

"So that's the game the Codfish put up on me," said Jimmy. "Wait till I get at him. I'll dirty his clothes worse than they are now."

"Come on, Freshman," said the Captain peremptorily.

"I can't wrestle," said Jimmy.

"Get out here and learn then. Come on," and the Captain reached a big hand over the heads of the squatters in the ring. Jimmy felt compelling hands pushing from behind, and with the eyes of everyone on him, there was nothing to do but go forward. A path was cleared for him and he stepped into the ring.

"Good boy, Red. You've got to even this thing up."

"Show us you have the goods!" yelled someone[Pg 21] whose sympathies were with the Freshmen.

The Freshman and Sophomore took their corners after the referee had satisfied himself that the pair would be well matched as to weight, and soon they were down to wrestling condition with bare backs and sock feet, because a wrestler is never allowed to wear anything that might in any way injure his opponent.

"Does your friend know anything about the game?" inquired the news-heeler of Frank.

"Not much, he did a little of it at school, but he is very strong," was Frank's reply.

"Well, he'll need it. That fellow who is pitted against him is Francis who won the lightweight event for his class last year, and is one of the best men in his class at the wrestling game."

When the Sophomore got to his feet, it was seen that he was a head taller than his opponent, but not so heavily built. His slender body was finely muscled, and his face wore a smile of confidence which said quite plainly what his opinion was of the outcome.

"Middleweights—Sophomore Francis, weight 148; Freshman Turner, weight 154," bawled the announcer. Then the whistle shrilled and the boys sprang forward to shake hands. That preliminary[Pg 22] over, they backed away from each other and circled around, sparring for an opening. Francis rushed, but Turner cleverly evaded him. Again he tried and was thrown off by Turner, the "spat" of the meeting bodies sounding sharp and clear in the night air.

"Good boy, Turner. Don't let him get that grip on you," yelled a Senior as Turner eluded another bull-like rush which carried both the contestants in among the torches. It was Francis' method of wrestling to carry the fight fast and furious from the beginning. More skirmishing, and finally a savage rush, and Francis got a hold on Turner's leg, lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards. Both crashed to the ground. There was a twisting, squirming struggle with Turner at the bottom, but not downed yet for he managed to break away from Francis' hold and got to his hands and knees with Francis across his back.

The picture at this point was one worthy of the brush of an artist. Riding in a clear sky, a round moon looked down through the branches of the big elms to where the boys fought it out on the grass, panting with their exertions. Most of the torches had by this time burned themselves[Pg 23] out and lay smoking at the feet of the human circle. For a background to the picture hundreds of lights twinkled on in the dormitory windows facing the Campus, and in the dim light of the moon could be seen scores of people who had taken advantage of the Dwight Hall porch from whence they could get a distant view of the struggle.

But the boys struggling on the ground and those crowded around the ring were not interested in the pictures. Back and forth the wrestlers went, the advantage first with one and then with the other. Francis could not get his famous holds on Turner for the latter, with extraordinary strength, either evaded or broke them before he was caught irrevocably. Time was up for the bout before either had scored a fall.

"Keep him off, Turner," counseled one of his seconds, while he pummeled the wrestler's arm and shoulder muscles. "Tire him out in this next bout, and you will get him in the last one."

"Don't let him get that half-Nelson on you or you are going sure as shooting," advised the man who fanned the panting Turner with a towel. "You've taken some of the confidence out of him already."

[Pg 24]

Francis in his corner was getting the same kind of advice.

"You'll get him this time," cheered his advisers. "Carry it right to him and don't let him get out of your grips."

"He's strong," said Francis. "He nearly broke my arm, but I'll get him. Don't worry." But the confident smile had gone from his face. It was going to be a bitter struggle in which his skill was pretty nearly evened by the Freshman's unusual strength.