Betty Wales, Freshman

CHAPTER XV

AT THE GREAT GAME

“Well, I thought I’d seen some excitement before,” declared Betty Wales, struggling to settle herself more comfortably on the scant ten square inches of space allotted her by the surging, swaying mass of girls behind. “But I was mistaken. Even the rally was nothing to this. Helen, do you feel as if they’d push you under the railing?”

“A little,” laughed Helen, “but I don’t suppose they could, do you?”

“I guess not,” said Betty hopefully, “but they might break my spine. They’re actually sitting on me, and I haven’t room to turn around and see who’s doing it. Oh, but isn’t it fun!”

The day of the great basket-ball game had come at last. A bare two hours more and the freshman team would either be celebrating its victory over the sophomores, or bravely shouldering its defeat; and the college had turned out en masse to witness the struggle. The floor of the gymnasium was cleared, only Miss Andrews, the gym teacher, her assistant line-keepers and the ushers in white duck, with paper hats of green or purple, being allowed on the field of battle. On the little stage at one end of the hall sat the faculty, most of them manifesting their partisanship by the display of class-colors. The more popular supporters of the purple had been furnished with violets by their admirers, while the wearers of the green had American beauty roses–red being the junior color–tied with great bows of green ribbon. The prize exhibit was undoubtedly that of the enterprising young head of the chemistry department, who carried an enormous bunch of vivid green carnations; but the centre of interest was the president of the college, who of course displayed impartially the colors of both sides.

He divided interest with a sprightly little lady in a brilliant purple gown, whose arms were so full of violets and daffodils and purple and yellow ribbons that she looked like an animated flower bed. She smiled and nodded at the sophomore gallery from behind their floral tributes; and the freshmen watched her eagerly and wished she had worn the green. But of course she wouldn’t; she had nothing but sophomore lit., and all her classes adored her.

In the gallery were the students, seniors and sophomores on one side, juniors and freshmen on the other, packed in like sardines. The front row of them sat on the floor, dangling their feet over the edge of the balcony–they had been warned at the gym classes of the day before to look to their soles and their skirt braids. The next row kneeled and peered over the shoulders of the first. The third row stood up and saw what it could. The others stood up and saw nothing, unless they were very tall or had been lucky enough to secure a place on a stray chair or a radiator. The balcony railings and posts were draped with bunting, and in every hand waved banners and streamers, purple and yellow on one side, red and green on the other.

In the middle of each side were grouped the best singers of the classes, ready to lead the chorus in the songs which had been written for the occasion to the music of popular tunes. These were supposed to take the place of “yells,” and cheers, both proscribed as verging upon the unwomanly. By rule the opposing factions sang in turn, but occasionally, quite by accident, both started at once, with deafening discords that rocked the gallery, and caused the musical head of the German Department to stop her ears in agony.

Most of the girls had been standing in line for an hour waiting for the gymnasium doors to open, but a few, like Betty and Helen, had had reserved seat tickets given them by some one on the teams. These admitted their fortunate holders by a back door ahead of the crowd. All the faculty seats were reserved, of course, and the occupants of them were still coming in. As each appeared, he or she was met by a group of ushers and escorted ceremoniously across the floor, amid vigorous hand-clapping from the side whose colors were in evidence, and the singing of a verse of “Balm of Gilead” adapted to the occasion. Most of these had been written beforehand and were now hastily “passed along” from a paper in the hands of the leader. The rhymes were execrable, but that did not matter since almost nobody could understand them; and the main point was to come out strong on the chorus.

“Oh, there’s Miss Ferris!” cried Betty, “and she’s wearing my ro–goodness, she’s half covered with roses. Helen, see that lovely green dragon pennant!”

“Here’s to our Miss Ferris, drink her down!”

sang the freshman chorus.

“Here’s to our Miss Ferris, drink her down!

Here’s to our Miss Ferris, may she never, never perish!

Drink her down, drink her down, drink her down, down, down!”

Back by the door there was a sudden commotion, and the sophomore faction broke out into tumultuous applause as a tall and stately gentleman appeared carrying a “shower bouquet” of daffodils with a border and streamers of violets.

“Here’s to Dr. Hinsdale, he’s the finest man within hail!

Drink him down, drink him down, drink him down, down, down!”

sang the sophomores.

“There is a team of great renown,”

began the freshmen lustily. What did the sophomores mean by clapping so? Ah! Miss Andrews was opening a door.

“They’re coming!” cried Betty eagerly.

“Only the sophomore subs,” amended the junior next to her. “So please don’t stick your elbow into me.”

“Excuse me,” said Betty hastily. “Oh Helen, there’s Katherine!”

Through the door at one side of the stage the freshman subs were coming, through the other the sophomores. Out on the floor of the gym they ran, all in their dark blue gym suits with green or purple stripes on the right sleeves, tossing their balls from hand to hand, throwing them into the baskets, bouncing them adroitly out of one another’s reach, trying to appear as unconcerned as if a thousand people were not applauding them madly and singing songs about them and wondering which of them would get a chance to play in the great game. In a moment a little whistle blew and the subs found their places on the edge of the stage, where they sat in a restive, eager row, each girl in readiness to take the field the moment she should be needed.

The door of the sophomore room opened again and the “real team” ran out. Then the gallery shook indeed! Even the freshmen cheered when the mascot appeared hand in hand with the captain. He was a dashing little Indian brave in full panoply of war-paint, beads, and feathers, with fringed leggins and a real Navajo blanket. When he had finished his grand entry, which consisted of a war-dance, accompanied by ear-splitting war-whoops, he came to himself suddenly to find a thousand people staring at him, and he was somewhat appalled. He could not blush, for Mary Brooks had stained his face and neck a beautiful brick-red, and he lacked the courage to run away. So he waited, forlorn and uncomfortable, while the freshman team rushed in, circling gaily about a diminutive knight in shining silver armor, with a green plume. He marched proudly, but with some difficulty, for his helmet was down and his sword, which was much too long for him, had an unbecoming tendency to trip him up. When his hesitating steps had brought him to the middle of the gymnasium, the knight, apparently perceiving the Indian for the first time, dropped his encumbering sword and rushed at his rival with sudden vehemence and blood-curdling cries. The little Indian stared for a moment in blank amazement, then slipping off his blanket turned tail and ran, reaching the door long before his sophomore supporters could stop him. The knight meanwhile, left in full possession of the field, waited for a moment until the laughter and applause had died away into curiosity. Then, deliberately reaching up one gauntleted hand, he pulled off his helmet, and disclosed the saucy, freckled face of the popular son of a favorite professor.

He grinned cheerfully at the stage and the gallery, gallantly faced the junior-freshman side, and waving his green plume aloft yelled, “Hip, hip, hurrah for the freshmen!” at the top of a pair of very strong lungs. Then he raced off to find the seat which had been the price of his performance between two of his devoted admirers on the sub team, while the gallery, regardless of meaningless prohibitions and forgetful of class distinctions, cheered him to the echo.

All of a sudden a businesslike air began to pervade the floor of the gymnasium. Somebody picked up the knight’s sword and the Indian’s blanket, and Miss Andrews took her position under the gallery. The ushers crowded onto the steps of the stage, and the members of the teams, who had gathered around their captains for a last hurried conference, began to find their places.

“Oh, I almost wished they’d sing for a while more,” sighed Betty.

“Do you?” answered Helen absently. She was leaning out over the iron bar of the railing with her eyes glued to the smallest freshman centre. “Why?”

“Oh, it makes me feel so thrilled and the songs are so clever and amusing, and the mascots so funny.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Helen. “The things here are all like that, but I want to see them play.”

“You mean you want to see her play,” corrected Betty merrily. “I don’t believe you care for a single other thing but T. Reed. Where is she?”

Helen pointed her out proudly.

“Oh, what an awfully funny, thin little braid! Isn’t she comical in her gym suit, anyway? You wouldn’t think she could play at all, would you, she’s so small.”

“But she can,” said Helen stoutly.

“Don’t I know it? I guarded her once–that is, I tried to. She’s a perfect wonder. See, there’s Rachel up by our basket. Katherine says she’s fine too. Helen, they’re going to begin.”

The assistant gym teacher had the whistle now. She blew it shrilly. “Play!” called Miss Andrews, and tossed the ball out over the heads of the waiting centres. A tall sophomore reached up confidently to grab it, but she found her hands empty. T. Reed had jumped at it and batted it off sidewise. Then she had slipped under Cornelia Thompson’s famous “perpetual motion” elbow, and was on hand to capture the ball again when it bounced out from under a confused mass of homes and centres who were struggling over it on the freshman line. The freshmen clapped riotously. The sophomores looked at each other. Freshman teams were always rattled, and “muffed” their plays just at first. What did this mean? Oh, well, the homes would miss it. They did, and the sophomores breathed again, but only for a moment. Then T. Reed jumped and the ball went pounding back toward the freshman basket. This time a home got it, passed it successfully to Rachel, and Rachel poised it for an instant and sent it cleanly into the basket.

The freshmen were shouting and thumping as if they had never heard that it was unlady-like (and incidentally too great a strain on the crowded gallery) to do so. Miss Andrews blew her whistle. “Either the game will stop or you must be less noisy,” she commanded, and amid the ominous silence that followed she threw the ball.

This time T. Reed missed her jump, and the tall sophomore got the ball and tossed it unerringly at Captain Marion Lawrence, who was playing home on her team. She bounded it off in an unexpected direction and then passed it to a home nearer the basket, who on the second trial put it in. The sophomores clapped, but the freshmen smiled serenely. Their home had done better, and they had T. Reed!

The next ball went off to one side. In the scramble after it two opposing centres grabbed it at once, and each claimed precedence. The game stopped while Miss Andrews and the line-men came up to hear the evidence. There was a breathless moment of indecision. Then Miss Andrews took the ball and tossed up between the two contestants. But neither of them got it. Instead, T. Reed, slipping in between them, jumped for it again, and quick as a flash sent it flying toward the freshman goal. There was another breathless moment. Could Rachel Morrison put it in from that distance? No, it had fallen just short and the sophomore guards were playing it along to the opposite end of the home space, possibly intending to – Ah! a stalwart sophomore guard, bracing herself for the effort, had tossed it over the heads of the centres straight across the gymnasium, and Marion Lawrence had it and was working toward the basket, meanwhile playing the ball back to a red haired competent-looking girl whose gray eyes twinkled merrily as her thin, nervous hands closed unerringly and vice-like around the big sphere. It was in the basket, and the freshmen’s faces fell.

“But maybe they’ve lost something on fouls,” suggested Betty hopefully.

“And T. Reed is just splendid,” added Helen.

Everybody was watching the gallant little centre now, but she watched only the ball. Back and forth, up and down the central field she followed it, slipping and sliding between the other players, now bringing the ball down with a phenomenal quick spring, now picking it up from the floor, now catching it on the fly. The sophomore centres were beginning to understand her methods, but it was all they could do to frustrate her; they had no effort left for offensive tactics. Generally because of their superior practice and team play, the sophomores win the inter-class game, and they do it in the first half, when the frightened freshmen, overwhelmed by the terrors of their unaccustomed situation, let the goals mount up so fast that all they can hope to do in the second half is to lighten their defeat. What business had T. Reed to be so cool and collected? If she kept on, there was strong likelihood of a freshman victory. But she was so small, and Cornelia Thompson was guarding her–Cornelia stuck like a burr, and the “perpetual motion” elbow had already circumvented T. Reed more than once.

After a long and stubborn battle, the freshmen scored another point. But in the next round the big sophomore guard repeated her splendid ’crossboard play, and again Marion Lawrence caught the ball.

Ah! Captain Lawrence is down, sliding heavily along the smooth floor; but in an instant she is up again, brushing the hair out of her eyes with one hand and making a goal with the other.

“Time!” calls Miss Andrews. “The goals are three to two, fouls not counted.”

The line-men gather to compare notes on those. The teams hurry off to their rooms, Captain Lawrence limping badly. The first half is finished.

A little shivering sigh of relief swept over the audience. The front row in the gallery struggled to its feet to rest, the back rows sat down suddenly for the same purpose.

“Oh, doesn’t it feel good to stretch out,” said Betty, pulling herself up by the railing and drawing Helen after her. “Aren’t you tired to death sitting still?”

“Why no, I don’t think so,” answered Helen vaguely. “It was so splendid that I forgot.”

“So did I mostly, but I’m remembering good and hard now. I ache all over.” She waved her hand gaily to Dorothy King, then caught Mary Brooks’s eye across the hall and waved again. “T. Reed is a dandy,” she said. “And Rachel was great. They were all great.”

“How do you suppose they feel now?” asked Helen, a note of awe in her voice.

“Tired,” returned Betty promptly, “and thirsty, probably, and proud–awfully proud.” She turned upon Helen suddenly. “Helen Chase Adams, do you know I might have been down there with the subs. Katherine told me this morning that it was nip and tuck between Marie Austin and me. If I’d tried harder–played an inch better–think of it, Helen, I might have been down there too!”

“I couldn’t do anything like that,” said Helen simply, “but next year I mean to write a song.”

Betty looked at her solemnly. “You probably will. You’re a good hard worker, Helen. Isn’t it queer,” she went on, “we’re not a bit alike, but this game is making us feel the same way. I wonder if the others feel so too. Perhaps it’s one reason why they have this game–to wake us all up and make us want to do something worth while.”

“Betty Wales,” called Christy Mason from the floor below. Betty leaned over the railing. “Don’t forget that you’re coming to dinner to-night. We’re going to serenade the team. They’ll be dining at the Belden with Miss Andrews.”

Kate Denise joined her. She had never mentioned the afternoon in Eleanor’s room, but she took especial pains to be pleasant to Betty.

“Hello, Betty Wales,” she called up. “Isn’t it fine? Don’t you think we’ll win? Anyway Miss Andrews says it’s the best game she ever saw.”

“Betty Wales,” called Dorothy King from her leader’s box, “come to vespers with me to-morrow.”

Betty met them all with friendly little nods and enthusiastic answers. Then she turned back to Helen. “It’s funny, but I’m always interrupted when I’m trying to think,” she said. “If there were six of me I think I might be six successful persons. But as it is, I suppose I shall always be just ‘that little Betty Wales’ and have a splendid time.”

“That would be enough for most people,” said Helen.

“Oh, I hope not,” said Betty soberly. “I don’t amount to anything.” She slipped down into her place again. The teams were coming back.

“See Laurie limp!”

“Their other home–the one with the red hair–looks as fresh as a May morning.”

“Well, so does T. Reed.”

“We have a fighting chance yet.”

Thus the freshman gallery.

But the second half opened with the rapid winning of three goals by the sophomores. Cornelia Thompson had evidently made up her mind that nobody so small as T. Reed should get away from her and mar the reputation of her famous “ever moving and ever present” elbow. The other freshman centres were over-matched, and once Marion Lawrence and the red-haired home got the ball between them, a goal was practically a certainty.

“Play!” called Miss Andrews for the fourth time.

T. Reed’s eyes flashed and her lips shut into a narrow determined line. Another freshman centre got the ball and passed it successfully to T. Reed, who gave it a pounding blow toward the freshman basket. A sophomore guard knocked it out of Rachel Morrison’s hands, and it rolled on to the stage. There was a wild scuffle and the freshman balcony broke into tumultuous cheering, for a home who had missed all her previous chances had clutched it from under the president’s chair and had scored at last.

A moment later she did it again. There was a pause while a freshman guard was carried off with a twisted ankle and Katherine Kittredge ran to her place. Then the sophomores scored twice. Then the freshmen did likewise. “Time!” called Miss Andrews sharply. The game was over.

“Score!” shrieked the galleries.

Then the freshmen bravely began to sing their team song,

“There is a team of great renown.”

They were beaten, of course, but they were proud of that team.

“The freshmen score one goal on fouls. Score, six to eight in favor of the purple,” announced Miss Andrews after a moment. “And I want to say – ”

It was unpardonably rude, but they could not help interrupting to cheer.

“That I am proud of all the players. It was a splendid game,” she finished, when the thoughtful ones had hushed the rest.

Then they cheered again. The sophomore team were carrying their captain around the gym on their shoulders; the freshmen, gathered in a brave little group, were winking hard and cheering with the rest. The gallery was emptying itself with incredible rapidity on to the floor. The stage was watching, and wishing–some of it–that it could go down on the floor and shriek and sing and be young and foolish generally.

Betty and Helen ran down with the rest. “Helen,” whispered Betty on the way, “I don’t care what happens, I will, I will, I will make them sing to me some day. Oh Helen, don’t you love 19–, and aren’t you proud of it and of T. Reed?”

At the foot of the stairs they met the three B’s. “Come on, come on,” cried the three. “We’re going to sing to the sophomores,” and they seized upon Betty and bore her off to the corner where the freshmen were assembling. Left to herself Helen got into a nook by the door and watched. It was queer how much fun it was to watch, lately.

“Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them:”–she had read it in the library that morning and it kept running in her head. Was it selfish and conceited to want to be worth something to her college–to long to do something that would give her a place among the girls? A month ago Theresa had stood with her high up on the bank and watched the current sweep by. Now she was in the stream; even Betty Wales envied her; she had “achieved greatness.” Betty wanted to be sung to. Well, no doubt she would be, in spite of the “interruptions”; she was “born great.” Helen aspired only to write a song to be sung. That wasn’t very much, and she would try hard–Theresa said it was all trying and caring–for she must somehow prove herself worthy of the greatness that had been “thrust upon” her.

Betty was in the centre of an excited group of freshmen. Christy Mason was there too; probably they were planning for the serenade. “She won’t mind if I go,” thought Helen. She would have liked to speak to Theresa, but she had delayed too long; the teams had disappeared. So she slipped out alone. There would be a long, quiet evening for theme work–for Helen had elected Mary’s theme course at mid-years, though no one in the Chapin house knew it.

Betty did not get home till quarter of ten, and then she went straight off to find Katherine and Rachel. “I came to see if there’s anything left of Rachel,” she said.

“There’s a big bump on my forehead,” said Rachel, sitting up in bed with a faint smile. “I’m sure of that because it aches.”

“Poor lady!” Betty turned to Katherine. “You got your chance, didn’t you? I felt it in my bones that you would. Wasn’t it all splendid?”

“Yes indeed,” assented the contestants heartily.

“It made me feel so energetic,” Betty went on eagerly. “Of course I felt proud of you and of 19–, just as I did at the rally, but there was something else, too. You’ll see me going at things next term the way T. Reed went at that ball.”

“You’re one of the most energetic persons I know, as it is,” said Rachel, smiling at her earnestness.

“Yes,” said Betty impatiently. “I fly around and make a great commotion, but I fritter away my time, because I forget to keep my eyes on the ball. Why, I haven’t done anything this year.”