CHAPTER IX
THE SHAMPOO
Football was in the air. On every side was the talk of it, and aroundthe college, on the streets leading to the gridiron, and in the carsthat took the students out there to watch the practice, could be heardlittle else but snatches of conversation about "punts" and "forwardpasses," the chances for this end or that fullback--how the Bulldogsized up against Princeton and Harvard.
Of course Joe was interested in this, and he was among the most loyalsupporters of the team, going out to the practice, and cheering when the'varsity made a touchdown against the luckless scrub.
"We're going to have a great team!" declared Ricky, as he walked backfrom practice with Joe one day.
"I'm sure I hope so," spoke our hero. "Have you had a chance?"
"Well, I'm one of the subs, and I've reported every day. They kept ustackling the dummy for quite a while, and I think I got the eye ofone of the coaches. But there are so many fellows trying, and suchcompetition, that I don't know--it's a fierce fight," and Ricky sighed.
"Never mind," consoled Joe. "You'll make good, I'm sure. I'll have mytroubles when the baseball season opens. I guess it won't be easy to geton the nine."
"Well, maybe not, if you insist on being pitcher," said Ricky. "I hearthat Weston, who twirled last season, is in line for it again."
"Weston--does he pitch?" gasped Joe. It was the first time he hadheard--or thought to ask--what position the lad held who had sneered athim.
"That's his specialty," declared Ricky. "They're depending on him forthe Yale-Princeton game. Princeton took the odd game last year, and wewant it this."
"I hope we get it," murmured Joe. "And so Ford Weston pitches; eh? If itcomes to a contest between us I'm afraid it will be a bitter one. Hehates me already. I guess he thinks I've got a swelled head."
"Say, look here, Joe!" exclaimed Ricky, with a curious look on his face,"you don't seem to know the ropes here. You're a Freshman, you know."
"Sure I know that. What of it?"
"Lots. You know that you haven't got the ghost of a show to be pitcheron the 'varsity; don't you?"
"Know it? Do you mean that Weston can so work things as to keep me off?"
"Not Weston; no. But the rules themselves are against you. It's utterlyimpossible that you should pitch this year."
"Why? What rules? I didn't know I was ineligible."
"Well, you are. Listen, Joe. Under the intercollegiate rules no Freshmancan play on the 'varsity baseball nine, let alone being the pitcher."
"He can't?" and Joe stood aghast.
"No. It's out of the question. I supposed you knew that or I'd havementioned it before."
Joe was silent a moment. His heart seemed almost to stop beating. Hefelt as though the floor of the room was sinking from under his feet.
"I--I never thought to ask about rules," said Joe, slowly. "I took itfor granted that Yale was like other smaller universities--that anyfellow could play on the 'varsity if he could make it."
"Not at Yale, or any of the big universities," went on Ricky in softenedtones, for he saw that Joe was much affected. "You see the rule wasadopted to prevent the ringing in of a semi-professional, who might comehere for a few months, qualify as a Freshman, and play on the 'varsity.You've got to be a Sophomore, at least, before you can hope to make thebig team, and then of course, it's up to you to make a fight for thepitcher's box."
Once more Joe was silent. His hopes had been suddenly crushed, and, in ameasure, it was his own fault, for he had taken too much for granted. Hefelt a sense of bitterness--bitterness that he had allowed himself to bepersuaded to come to Yale against his own wishes.
And yet he knew that it would never have done to have gone against hisparents. They had their hearts set on a college course for him.
"Hang it all!" exclaimed Joe, as he paced up and down, "why didn't Ithink to make some inquiries?"
"It would have been better," agreed Ricky. "But there's no great harmdone. You can play on the Freshman team this coming season, and then,when you're a Soph., you can go on that team, and you'll be in line forthe 'varsity. You can play on the Junior team, if you like, and theyhave some smashing good games once in a while."
"But it isn't the 'varsity," lamented Joe.
"No. But look here, old man; you've got to take things as they come. Idon't want to preach, but----"
"That's all right--slam it into me!" exclaimed Joe. "I need it--Ideserve it. It'll do me good. I won't be so cock-sure next time. But Ihoped to make the 'varsity this season."
"It'll be better for you in the end not to have done so," went on hisfriend. "You need more practice, than you have had, to take your placeon the big team. A season with the Freshmen will give it to you. You'lllearn the ropes better--get imbued with some of the Yale spirit, andyou'll be more of a man. It's no joke, I tell you, to pitch on the'varsity."
"No, I imagine not," agreed Joe, slowly. "Then, I suppose there's no useof me trying to even get my name down on a sort of waiting list."
"Not until you see how you make out on the Freshman team," agreed Ricky."You'll be watched there, so look out for yourself. The old players, whoact as coaches, are always on the lookout for promising material. You'llbe sized up when you aren't expecting it. And, not only will they watchto see how you play ball, but how you act under all sorts of cross-fire,and in emergencies. It isn't going to be any cinch."
"No, I can realize that," replied Joe. "And so Weston has been throughthe mill, and made good?"
"He's been through the mill, that's sure enough," agreed Ricky, "butjust how good he's made will have to be judged later. He wasn't such awonder last season."
"There's something queer about him," said Joe.
"How's that?"
"Why, if he's only a Soph. this year he must have been a Freshman last.And yet he pitched on the 'varsity I understand."
"Weston's is a peculiar case," said Ricky. "I heard some of the fellowsdiscussing it. He's classed as a Soph., but he ought really to be aJunior. This is his third year here. He's a smart chap in some things,but he got conditioned in others, and in some studies he is still takingthe Soph. lectures, while in others he is with the Juniors. He waspartly educated abroad, it seems, and that put him ahead of lots ofus in some things. So, while he was rated with the Freshmen in somestudies last year, he was enough of a Sophomore to comply with theintercollegiate rules, and pitch on the 'varsity. He did well, so theysaid."
"I wish fate handed me out something like that," mused Joe. "If Ihad known that I'd have boned away on certain things so as to get aSophomore rating--at least enough to get on the big nine."
"Why, don't you intend to stay at Yale?" asked Ricky. "A year soonpasses. You'll be a Sophomore before you know it."
"I wish I was in Weston's shoes," said Joe softly.
Since that meeting on the campus, when the Sophomore had not recognizedJoe, the two had not encountered each other, and Joe was glad enough ofit.
"I'm glad I didn't meet him in Riverside," thought Joe. "It won't makeit so hard here--when it comes to a showdown. For I'm going to make thenine! The 'varsity nine; if not this year, then next!" and he shut histeeth in determination.
Meanwhile matters were gradually adjusting themselves to the newconditions of affairs at Yale--at least as regards Joe and the otherFreshmen. The congenial spirits in the Red Shack, increased by somenewcomers, had, in a measure, "found" themselves. Recitations andlectures began their regular routine, and though some of the latter were"cut," and though often in the interests of football the report of "notprepared" was made, still on the whole Joe and his chums did fairlywell.
Joe, perhaps because of his lack of active interest in football, as wasthe case with his room-mate, Spike, did better than the others asregards lessons. Yet it did not come easy to Joe to buckle down to thehard and exacting work of a college course, as compared to the rathereasy methods in vogue at Excelsior Hall.
Joe was not a natural student, and to get a certain amount ofcomparatively
dry knowledge into his head required hours of faithfulwork.
"I'm willing to make a try of it--for the sake of the folks," heconfided to Spike; "but I know I'm never going to set the river on firewith classics or math. I'm next door to hating them. I want to playbaseball."
"Well, I can't blame you--in a way," admitted his chum. "Of coursebaseball isn't all there is to life, though I do like it myself."
"It's going to be my business in life," said Joe simply, and Spikerealized then, if never before, the all-absorbing hold the great gamehad on his friend. To Joe baseball was as much of a business--or aprofession if you like--as the pulpit was to a divinity student, or thecourts to a member of the law school.
The Yale football team began its triumphant career, and the expectationsof the friends of the eleven were fully realized. To his delight Rickyplayed part of a game, and there was no holding him afterward.
"I've got a chance to buck the Princeton tiger!" he declared. "The headcoach said I did well!"
"Good!" cried Joe, wondering if he would have such fine luck when thebaseball season started.
Affairs at the Red Shack went on smoothly, and at the Mush and MilkClub, which the Freshmen had dubbed their eating joint, there were manyassemblings of congenial spirits. Occasionally there was a session atGlory's--a session that lasted far into the night--though Joe and hisroom-mate did not hold forth at many such.
"It's bad for the head the next day," declared Spike, and he wasstrictly abstemious in his habits, as was Joe. But not all the crowd atthe Red Shack were in this class, and often there were disturbances atearly hours of the morning--college songs howled under the windows withmore or less "harmony," and appeals to Joe and the others to "stick outtheir heads."
"I think we'll get ours soon," spoke Spike one night, as he and Joe satat the centre table of the room, studying.
"Our what?"
"Drill. I heard that a lot of the Freshmen were caught down the streetthis evening and made to walk Spanish. They're beginning the shampoo,too."
"The shampoo--what's that?"
"An ancient and honorable Yale institution, in which the candidate ishead-massaged with a bucket of paste or something else."
"Paste or what?"
"You're allowed your choice, I believe. Paste for mine, it's easier toget out of your hair if you take it in time."
"That's right. I'm with you--but--er--how about a fight?"
"It's up to you. Lots of the Freshmen stand 'em off. It's allowed if youlike."
"Then I say--fight!" exclaimed Joe. "I'm not going to be shampooed inthat silly fashion if I can help it."
"Then we'll stand 'em off?" questioned Spike.
"Sure--as long as we can," declared Joe. "Though if they bring too big abunch against us we'll probably get the worst of it."
"Very likely, but we can have the satisfaction of punching some of theSophs. I'm with you."
"Where'll they do it?"
"No telling. They may catch us on the street, or they may come here. Forchoice----"
Spike paused and held up his hand for silence. There was a noise in thehall, in the direction of the front door. Then came the voice of RickyHanover saying:
"No, you don't! I've got the bulge on you! No monkey business here!"
"Get away from that door, Fresh.!" shouted someone, half-angrily; "orwe'll bust it in!"
"Give him the shampoo--both of 'em!" yelled another.
"You don't get in here!" cried Ricky. "I say----"
His voice was drowned out in a crash, and a moment later there was thesound of a struggle.
"Here they come," said Spike in a low voice.
"Let's take off our coats," proposed Joe, in the same tone. "If we'regoing to fight I want to be ready."