Books: The New Boy at Hilltop
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Ralph Henry Barbour >> The New Boy at Hilltop
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From the dormitory window the river was visible for a quarter of a mile as
it curved slowly to the south between Winthrop Academy and the town bridge.
It was late February, and for two days the mercury had lingered around
fifty degrees. Along the nearest shore the ice still held, but in midstream
and across by the Peterboro side the river, swollen by melting snow and
ice, flowed in a turbid, ice-strewn torrent. For a while at noon the sun
had shone, but now, at four o'clock, the clouds had gathered and the moist
air coming in at the open window of the room suggested rain.
"There's plenty of ice along this bank," answered Ned cheerfully, "and as
it may be the last chance I'll get to skate I'm going to make the most of
it. I promised Tom Thurber and Herb Welch I'd meet them at four. I must get
a move on." He closed the book before him and arose from the study table.
"You'd better come along, Jerry."
But Jerry shook his head, staring moodily out over the dreary prospect of
wet campus and slushy road. A mile away the little town of Peterboro lay
straggling along the river, the chimneys of its three or four factories
spouting thick black smoke into the heavy air. Jerry was disappointed. It
meant a good deal to win election to the Lyceum, and, in spite of what he
had told Ned, he had all along entertained a sneaking idea that he would
make it, Welch or no Welch. He wondered whether Ned couldn't have got him
in if he had tried real hard. Ned and he were very good friends, even
though they had never met until they had been roomed together in the fall,
but Jerry was a new boy still, while Ned was a Junior and had known Herb
Welch three years.
"I suppose," he thought, "Ned didn't want to offend Welch. Much he cares
whether I'm elected or not!"
"Coming?" asked Ned, pausing at the door. Jerry shook his head.
"No, I guess not. I think I'll walk over to town and get some things."
"Well, buy me half a dozen blue books, will you?" asked Ned eagerly. He
tossed a coin across and Jerry caught it deftly and dropped it into his
pocket with a nod. Ned slammed the door behind him and went clattering
downstairs. Jerry watched him emerge below, jump a miniature rivulet
flowing beside the board walk and disappear around the corner of the
dormitory. Then he got into his sweater, put his cap on, and in turn
descended the stairs.
It was a good twenty-minutes walk to the village. By keeping along the
river path to the bridge he might have saved something in time and
distance, but the river path was ankle-deep in slush and mud, while the
road, although longer, gave firmer foothold. When he reached the old wooden
bridge he paused and watched the water rushing under between the stone
pillars. He had never seen the stream so high. The surface appeared
scarcely eight feet beneath the floor of the bridge. Huge cakes of ice,
broken loose upstream, went tearing by, grinding against each other and
hurling themselves at the worn stones. And between the fragments of ice the
surface was almost covered with a layer of slush. Jerry flattened himself
against the wooden railing while a team of sweating horses, tugging a great
load of hay, went creaking by him. Then he followed it across and turned to
the right at the end of the bridge into the main street of the town.
His purchases didn't take him long, and soon he was back at the bridge
again. Upstream, on the Academy side of the river, he could see the
skaters. Apparently half the school had decided to seize this last chance
for indulging in the sport, for the long and narrow strip of ice remaining
was quite black with figures. At the end of the bridge Jerry decided to
take the river path, for a glance at his shoes and stockings convinced him
that it was no longer necessary to consider them; they were already as wet
and muddy as it was possible for them to be. He felt rather more cheerful
after his tramp, and told himself that if there was time he would run up to
the room, leave his purchases, get his skates, and join the group on the
ice. By the time he had covered half the distance between bridge and
Academy he could distinguish several of the skaters. There was Morris, with
his blue sweater, and the tall fellow was, of course, Jim Kennedy; and
there was Burns, and young Gordon; Gordon, even if he couldn't swim, was a
dandy skater.
"Only," thought Jerry, "if he got into the river it would be a bad outlook
for him."
He had left the bridge a full quarter of a mile behind when a sudden
commotion among the skaters attracted his attention. There was a scurrying
together and the skating stopped. Jerry paused and watched intently, but
for a moment saw nothing to account for the actions of the fellows. They
were lined up along the edge of the ice in little groups. Then several of
them turned and skated frantically toward the bank. Jerry's first thought
now was that some one had fallen into the water, that the ice had given
way, as it was quite likely to do in its present half-rotten state, and he
looked anxiously for young Gordon's slight figure. He couldn't see him, but
that signified little, since the fellows were packed together and the light
was failing.
But in another instant Jerry saw that his surmise was wrong. For suddenly a
single figure came into view, a figure huddled on hands and knees a full
fifty feet away from his companions. For an instant Jerry couldn't
understand. Then the huddled figure was swept farther away toward the
opposite shore and a clear expanse of angry river showed between it and
those on the ice. One of the fellows had ventured too far, the ice had
broken away, and now he was being borne swiftly down the stream! Already
the current had swept him away from all hope of assistance from his
companions, for up there the channel ran close to the Peterboro shore. The
fragment of ice to which he clung seemed to be fairly large, perhaps ten
feet long by half that in width, but Jerry knew that the chance of its
remaining unbroken for long was very slim. If the fellows had gone for a
boat they might have saved themselves the effort, for no boat could be
managed in that seething mass of broken ice. And a rope would be quite as
useless, since the current would keep the boy along the farther shore and
no one on earth could throw a coil of rope half the distance.
Jerry had already broken into a run, but now he pulled himself up and
glanced behind him toward the bridge. He could be of no more use up there
than were the fellows grouped helplessly at the edge of the ice. If the boy
was to be rescued it must be downstream somewhere, always supposing the
cake of ice hung together and that he managed to retain his place on it.
Jerry thought rapidly with fast-beating heart. Already the boy on the ice
had covered half the distance to where Jerry stood, and the fellows up
there where the accident had happened were leaving the ice, frantically
freeing themselves from their skates and running down the path. Jerry
turned and ran back the way he had come. If he could reach the bridge first
there might be a chance!
His feet slipped in the ice and slush of the path and it was slow going.
Once he fell flat on his face, but was up again in a twinkling, wet and
bruised. A glance over his shoulder told him that the pitching, whirling
slag of ice with its human burden was gaining on him. If only he had
started before! he thought. But he ran on, sliding and tripping, his breath
coming hard and his heart pounding agonizedly against his ribs. He was
almost there now; only another hundred yards or so remained between him and
the end of the bridge. He prayed for strength to keep on as he glanced
again over his shoulder. The boy had thrown himself face down on the ice
and Jerry saw with a sinking heart that already the cake had diminished in
size. If it struck one of the stone pillars of the bridge it would go to
pieces without a doubt, and it would be a hard task for the strongest
swimmer to battle his way clear of that rushing current.
With his breath almost failing him, Jerry reached the bridge and ran out
upon it. He was none too soon. Close to the farther shore the jagged
fragment still held together as it dipped and turned, glancing from the
jutting points of the shore ice and grinding between its fellows in the
ugly green torrent. Face down lay the boy, limp, his hands outthrown beside
him. Under the bridge the river rushed with a loud rushing sound, swift and
relentless.
Jerry ran with aching limbs to the third span, toward which the current was
bearing the helpless, huddled figure. In the brief moment of time left him
Jerry noted two things. One was that those in the van of the straggling
line hurrying toward him along the river path were but a couple of hundred
yards distant. The other was that his left shoulder was aching dully. He
must, he thought, have struck on it when he fell. Then his gaze was on the
motionless form sweeping toward him, and he was leaning over the wooden
rail, his hands at his mouth.
"Stand up!" he cried with all his might.
But there was no answering movement from the boy. Jerry's heart sank, but
once more he shouted, putting, as it seemed to him, every remaining bit of
breath into his call:
"_Stand up and I'll save you_!"
The head raised and a white face gazed up at him as the narrowing current
seized the ice fragment. With a gasp of surprise Jerry looked down into the
horror-stricken eyes of Herbert Welch! Then he had thrown himself down on
the floor of the bridge, his head and shoulders over the water.
"_Stand up_!" he called again. And Welch staggered weakly to his knees, the
ice beneath him tilting perilously. Jerry's hands stretched down over the
rushing water.
"_Catch hold!_" he cried.
A momentary return of hope and courage came to Welch, and as his
treacherous craft shot, crushing and grinding, into the maelstrom, he found
his feet for a moment, and threw his arms above his head, his fingers
clutching hungrily at the empty air. Then a corner of the ice fragment
struck against the left-hand pillar and he lost his balance. But in that
brief moment Jerry's left hand had grasped one of Welch's wrists, and now
the latter hung between bridge and water, swinging slowly and limply. Then
Jerry's right hand found a hold below his left, and he set his teeth and
closed his eyes, praying, as he had done before on the river path, for
strength and endurance. The strain was terrible. He felt the blood rushing
to his head and throbbing there mightily.
His left shoulder hurt worse every moment. But he could hold on a moment
longer. Surely the others would be here in just a second. He thought he
heard cries, but the roar of the water beneath and the throbbing in his
head made it uncertain. Then he heard a voice. It was Herb Welch speaking.
"Let me go, Hutton," said Welch quietly. "You can't hold me here."
Jerry tried to answer, but the pressure against his chest was too severe.
His left hand began to slip from Welch's wrist; the fingers wouldn't hold;
there was a strange numbness from hand to shoulder. With a smothered groan
he tried to tighten his clasp again. Then help came. Eager hands took his
burden, and he felt himself being pulled back from the edge. He glanced up
once and had a glimpse of somber twilight sky and Ned's brown eyes....
When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a couch in a cottage at the
edge of the village. There were several figures about him, and one was
Ned's. He smiled and tried to rise, but was glad to lay back again and look
curiously at his bandaged shoulder.
"It's only a busted collarbone," said Ned. "Doctor says it will be all
right in two or three weeks. We're going to take you back in a minute. The
carriage is coming now."
"That's nice," said Jerry drowsily. "How's Welch?"
"Not hurt a bit. He walked home. And say, Jerry," Ned went on, dropping his
voice, "it's all right about the Lyceum. Herb says he's going to bring your
name up himself at the next meeting. You--you proved yourself to-day, old
chum!"
McTURKLE, THE BAND
We had had hard luck at Harvard all that fall. First Phinney, our 208-pound
left guard, dislocated his shoulder in the Indian game; then Hobb, full
back, got a swat on the head that sent him to the Infirmary for two weeks;
then Jones, our best half, hurt his leg. Those were the principal troubles,
but there were lots of smaller ones besides. Every team that came to
Cambridge did something to us; if they didn't beat us they scored; if they
didn't score they laid up one or two of our men just to show that there was
no hard feeling. Then Penn rubbed it into us good and hard--which wasn't
the way it was written--and about half the college began writing letters to
the _Crimson_.
To make matters look worse, Yale had the best team she had had in several
years; in fact, since the Gordon Browne aggregation. And our chance of
winning from her was about one in one hundred. But we were a daffy lot that
fall, and every time fate smote us we grinned harder and hitched up the
enthusiasm another peg. On the Thursday before the game we had our fourth
mass meeting in the Union. The captain, very much embarrassed, assured us
that every man on the team was ready to do his level best and lay down his
life for the honor of the Crimson--a fact which we knew before, but which
we applauded wildly. Then the trainer told us that every "mon on the tame"
was in the best physical condition, something which we seriously doubted,
but which we also applauded wildly. Then the head coach informed us that it
was a great sight to see the college get together in this way and that if
we stood loyally behind the team on Saturday the team would do its part and
fight to the last breath--or ditch, I forget which. We applauded _that_
more wildly. Then the captain of the Nine got up, brushed the perspiration
from his marble brow, and started the singing. The University Band, eleven
strong, got together after a fashion and we pretty near lifted the roof.
After that we cheered and sung some more and the enthusiasm kept on
bubbling up. Finally, a lot of us in the back of the room yelled in unison:
"We--want--another--meeting--to-morrow-night!"
"So-do-we!" yelled the others.
And we kept that up until the leader told us we could have it. And
presently we stood up and sang "Fair Harvard"--or as much as we knew of
it--and broke up.
In the morning the _Crimson_ contained a notice which said that there would
be no meeting that night. But we didn't believe it, because the meeting had
been agreed upon. At least, a good many of us didn't. Some did, though, I
guess, for at eight the room wasn't more than half full. We sat there and
waited a while and did a little singing and cheering. But no one got on the
platform to talk to us, and the band didn't show up. So about a quarter to
nine we moseyed outside. But we were still full of enthusiasm, and we
wanted to work it off. So we stood around, about eight hundred of us, and
informed the world at large that we wanted the band. No one seemed to care.
But, of course, every minute the crowd got bigger, just as it always will
if you get out and yell something. After a bit we decided to do without the
band, and so we formed in fours and marched over to the yard, singing and
cheering like mad.
After we'd marched around twice we had depopulated the buildings. Fellows
put their heads out of windows, had a look, yelled enthusiastically, turned
the gas up high, and tumbled downstairs and into line. By a quarter past
nine we had easily two thousand fellows in the procession. And when you get
that many together something simply _has_ to happen.
"What we need," said Bud, "is a band."
"But we can't get one," answered Withey.
"Then let's get part of a band."
"Where?"
"McTurkle," answered Bud, with a grin.
"A-a-aye!" we yelled. "McTurkle! We want McTurkle!"
So we left the gang yelling themselves hoarse in front of the university
and scooted over to our dormitory. McTurkle was in. He was sitting at his
table with a green drop light casting a wan glow over his classic features.
The table was piled high with all sorts of books, and you could just hear
McTurkle's wheels go round. When we walked in he slipped the glasses from
his nose by wriggling his eyebrows and turned around and looked at us
blinking.
McTurkle was a funny genius. He was forever grinding. When he wasn't
grinding he was causing strange, painful sounds to emanate from his room.
For a good while we had puzzled over those sounds. Then, finally, one
fateful night, we had descended upon McTurkle in force and learned the
truth. McTurkle performed on the French horn. A French horn is an
instrument which is wound up in a knot like a morning-glory vine, and the
notes have such a hard time getting out that they get all balled up and
confused and are never the same afterwards. I'm not musical, and don't
pretend to be, but I'll bet a hat that the man who invented the French horn
was the same chap who invented French verbs. Well, we made McTurkle take a
solemn oath never to practice after seven o'clock, because it was simply
impossible to remember anything with those sounds sobbing along the entry.
He was frightfully apologetic and promised at once.
When we went in Bud winked at us to leave the negotiations in his hands. We
did so, drawing up in a semicircle behind him and looking very grave.
"McTurkle," said Bud, "we have come to you on behalf of the university."
McTurkle blinked harder than ever and looked a bit scared.
"Out there"--Bud waved his hand toward the window--"out there our
college--your college--the college we all love awaits you."
McTurkle gasped and tried to find his glasses, which were hanging over the
back of his chair at the end of a black cord which he wore around his neck.
"McTurkle," continued Bud, tensely, "as you know, we are on the eve of a
great conflict. Tomorrow the pick of our athletic young manhood does battle
with the brawny horde of Yale. Defeat looms ominous above--upon the
horizon, but the unconquerable spirit of Harvard arises triumphant
and--er--flaps its flaming pinions!"
"A-a-aye!" murmured Withey.
McTurkle found his glasses, fixed them on his lean nose, and regarded Bud
with genuine alarm.
"Not for a moment do we acknowledge defeat, sir! Not until the pall of
evening settles over the trampled field of battle shall we abandon hope.
The university stands firm and undismayed behind her loyal warriors.
Listen, McTurkey--McTurkle, I mean!"
Bud held up a hand imperiously and we all listened, McTurkle with his mouth
wide open and his near-sighted eyes fixed in fascination upon the speaker's
face. From outside came a long, impatient wail from two thousand throats:
"We-want-to-go-to-the-Stadium!"
"What of that, McTurkle!" demanded Bud, sternly. "The spirit of Harvard
speaks! Her sons demand to be led to the scene of the conflict that with
mighty voices they may--er--consecrate the field to victory!"
"But--but--what is it you wish me to do?" stammered the dazed McTurkle,
visibly affected.
"To lead them!" thundered Bud.
"Lead them?" cried McTurkle. "Who? Me? Me--ah--lead?"
"Ah! You, McTurkle! You, with your French horn!"
"You--you want me to play it?"
"We do. The college calls for you. Your duty, McTurkle, your duty to that
college, to your fellows, summons you. Listen, McTurkle, to the voice of
Duty and Patriotism!"
Apparently McTurkle's manner of listening was to hold his mouth open. He
held it open now, wide open. Also his eyes. At last he said:
"But--but--I'm afraid I don't know any of the--ah--the college airs."
"What of that! It is your leadership we want; that and the inspiring
strains of your dulcet horn. Play what you will, McTurkle, only play.
Remember that the success of the team may depend upon you! That to-night it
is our duty and pleasure to show the team that the whole college is behind
them, eager and loyal in its support!"
Never before in three years of college life had any one ever wanted
McTurkle to do anything. And now the knowledge that the whole university
demanded his aid, his leadership, was too much for McTurkle. His face
glowed; he leaped to his feet; a Greek lexicon crashed to the floor;
McTurkle was transformed.
"I'll go!" he said, with majestic simplicity.
We cheered.
McTurkle feverishly wrested his French horn from its green bag, settled his
glasses upon his aquiline nose, turned up the collar of his plaid lounging
coat, and strode to the door.
We followed in triumph.
Over in front of the university they had cheered every one and everything,
and now they were forming again into line of march.
"On to Soldier's Field!" they cried.
We hurried across to the head of the procession, McTurkle's long legs
making us work hard to keep up with him. Arrived, Bud waved an arm for
silence.
"Fellows!" he shouted. "Fellows!"
And when silence had fallen about us he swept his hand dramatically toward
McTurkle.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "the band!"
"A-a-a-aye!" they cheered. "Band! band!"
"Where's the band?" called those further down the line, and the news
traveled fast until from far down by Thayer came wild paeans of delight.
"Where'd they get it? ... Where is it? ... We want 'On Soldier's
Field'! ... We want 'Veritas'! ... Strike up! Move on, there! ...
'Ray for the band! ... A-a-a-aye! Band! band!"
Up at the head of the line we were all laughing and shouting for fair.
McTurkle, beaming delightedly through his glasses, his head held back
inspiritingly and the folds of his plaid jacket waving in the November
wind, placed the French horn to his lips, took a mighty breath and--the
procession moved forward to the strains of "Annie Laurie!"
Now, I've heard since then that the French horn has a compass of only four
octaves and is principally useful as an orchestral adjunct; that, in short,
its ability is limited and its use as a solo instrument slight. All I can
say is that the person who said that doesn't know a French horn; anyway, he
doesn't know McTurkle's French horn. Four octaves be blowed! McTurkle went
fourteen, or I'll eat my hat! Why, the way he put that thing through its
paces was a caution! And as for--er--variations and such!--well, you ought
to have heard him, that's all I've got to say!
Out into the avenue we turned, through the Square and down Boylston Street.
The line was so long that the cars were held up for ten minutes, and Bud
was for circling back and holding them up ten minutes more. And all the
while McTurkle, thin, gaunt, but impressive, marched at the head and
informed us startlingly and with convincing emphasis that for Bonnie Annie
Laurie he'd lay him down and dee. And we took up the refrain, and hurled it
back to the gray November sky. Further along they were singing, "Hard luck
for poor old Eli," and still further down the line they were informing the
dark front of the post office that the sun would set in Crimson as the sun
had set before. And way, way back they were cheering like Sam Hill.
Oh, that was a glorious night! Talk about enthusiasm! We had it and to
burn. We exuded it at every step. Enthusiasm was a drug on the market. Down
by the river McTurkle gave Annie Laurie her final death blow and started in
on the overture to "Martha." That carried us as far as the Locker Building,
and we marched on to Soldiers' Field to the inspiriting strains of a
selection from "Traviata." McTurkle told me what they were afterwards;
that's how I know. Around the gridiron we marched once, the band still
clinging to "Traviata" and the fellows singing whatever pleased them,
generally "Up the Street." Then we had a snake dance, a wonder of a snake
dance! The band got lost in the shuffle, but later on we found him standing
serene and undismayed under the shadow of the west stand spouting "Auld
Lang Syne" till you couldn't see.
Then Bud climbed up on to the edge of the Stadium and we did some more
cheering, and when he called for "a regular cheer for the band" the way we
hit it up was a caution.
Back in the Square, Bud led us over in front of the "Coop," mainly, I
guess, so we would stop the cars for a while. We had some more cheering
then, and then Bud leaped up on the steps and announced "Speech by
McTurkle!"
Nobody except a few of us knew who McTurkle was, but everyone cheered
gloriously. We conducted McTurkle gently but firmly up the steps, and when
the crowd got a good look at him they simply went crazy. McTurkle was
deeply affected. So was the crowd.
"Speech! speech!" they yelled. "Spe-e-eech!" McTurkle, embarrassed but
courageous, his voice faint and tremulous with emotion, spoke.
"Gentlemen," he began.
"Apologize! ... Take it back! ... Who is he? ... It's the band! ... 'Ray
for the band! ... Go on! Say it!"
"Fellows," prompted Bud.
"Fellows," repeated McTurkle.
Deafening applause.
"I wish to thank you for this--ah--this flattering evidence of--shall I say
esteem?"
"Don't say it if it hurts you, old man," some one advised.
"What's he talking about?" asked another.
"I appreciate the honor you have done me," continued McTurkle, warming to
his work. "And it has been a pleasure, a great pleasure, as well as a
privilege, to lead you this evening in your interesting--ah--exercises."
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