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     Princeton Stories

     By
     Jesse Lynch Williams

     _FOURTH EDITION_

     Charles Scribner's Sons
     New York 1895




     _Copyright, 1895, by
     Charles Scribner's Sons_

     TROW DIRECTORY
     PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
     NEW YORK




To '92




TABLE OF CONTENTS


                                         PAGE

     THE WINNING OF THE CANE,               1

     THE MADNESS OF POLER STACY,           37

     THE HAZING OF VALLIANT,               67

     HERO WORSHIP,                         89

     THE RESPONSIBILITY OF LAWRENCE,      105

     FIXING THAT FRESHMAN,                139

     THE SCRUB QUARTER-BACK,              177

     WHEN GIRLS COME TO PRINCETON,        193

     THE LITTLE TUTOR,                    209

     COLLEGE MEN,                         241

     THE MAN THAT LED THE CLASS,          277


_Acknowledgements are due Messrs. Harper & Brothers for permission
to republish "The Scrub Quarter-Back" and "When Girls Come to
Princeton."_




THE WINNING OF THE CANE


The modern Cane Spree is held in broad daylight on University Field.
It is a vastly different affair from the Spree we used to watch with
chattering teeth at midnight, kneeling on the wet grass in front of
Witherspoon, with a full moon watching over West College and Mat.
Goldie and two assistants waiting by the lamp-post to join in the
fierce rush which followed each bout.

Nowadays it is one of the regular events of the Annual Fall Handicap
Games, and is advertised in large special feature letters on the
posters hanging in the shop windows and on the bulletin elm. It is a
perfectly proper and legitimate proceeding, and is watched like any
other field event from the bleachers and Grand Stand, with girls there
to catch their breath and say "Oh!" The class that wins is glad. They
cheer awhile and then watch the final heat of the 2.20.

In our day you could seldom see much of anything, and there was
nothing proper about it. But it was one of the things a fellow lived
for, like Thanksgiving games and Spring Term. To win a cane for one's
class was an honor of a lifetime, like playing on the 'Varsity, or
winning the Lynde debate. Men are still pointed out when back at
Commencement as the light or middle weight spreers of their class, and
a member of the faculty is famous for having "described a parabola
with his opponent." This trick and a book called "Basal Concepts in
Philosophy" bear his name, though it is maintained by some that he is
more proud of the book.

This is to be a story of "How we used to do when we were in college."
It would not do to revive the ancient cane spree. Things have changed
since then. We are a university now. We mustn't behave like a college
any longer. Besides, it was bad for the football men and training
hours. But all the same, those old times were fun while they lasted.
Weren't they?

       *       *       *       *       *

High up over Clio Hall hung a moon, which a night or two before had
been full. Over there, on the balconies of Witherspoon, blue and red
and green lights were flaring. On the grass-plot in front was a huge
black circle. This was made up of the College of New Jersey.

Their hats were off, and the red and the green and the blue mingled
with the moonlight and glared upon the bare heads and the white of
the faces with an effect as ghastly as it sounds.

The elms over toward Reunion and West cast long ugly-looking shadows.
Beyond these everything seemed far away and dark and silent. Yet only
a few hours before this same spot had served the innocent purpose of
batting up flies and kicking footballs for points, with fellows
shouting in loud, careless voices, "Aw! Come off! That was over the
line!"

The circle was not yet perfectly formed. The crowd shivered and
fidgeted, and borrowed lights of one another. Those behind called
"Down in front!" And everyone wished it would begin. Some fellows kept
edging in and were shoved back again by those appointed for that
purpose. A few were moving about inside the circle displaying rolls of
bills with which they made bets, and a great impression on
under-classmen of a certain sort. The night was to be clear and
frosty, and the strain on the nerves tremendous. So all those who
believed in artificial warmth had it in their pockets, and some who
did not.

For a month it had been, next to football, the most discussed topic at
dinner-tables. Almost as soon as the rush was over--the annual cannon
rush of the second night of the term without which the freshmen would
not have considered themselves a class, while the underclassmen were
still occupied in hazing and being hazed, and putting up and pulling
down each other's proclamations throughout the state, and painting and
repainting water-towers, and losing sleep in other good causes; in
short, early in the term the candidates for the spreeing positions
went into training, and they had been spreeing vigorously every night
since--the freshmen back of the chapel and the sophs on the South
Campus, about where Brown Hall now stands.

All sorts of rumors and counter-rumors had floated about the campus.
The sophomores were frightened about a hinted-at dark horse of the
freshmen, only they did not show it; and the freshmen were scared to
death at the confident air of the well-known champion of the
sophomores, and tried not to show it. And each was awed at the
mysterious air of the other, and both had betted more than they had
any business to on the result, and were now lined up in front of
Witherspoon. All were as excited as they cared to be, and they had
been cheering for themselves since nine o'clock. The cheers echoed in
the frosty air from dark West and bright Witherspoon, and from far
away first Church.

The sophomores were closely massed in the segment of the circle on the
higher ground toward Reunion. Their cheering sounded blatant, and to
the freshmen sickeningly confident. And the freshmen--they were
opposite, with their sweet scared faces still more closely huddled
together. Each freshman had his little cap safely tucked away in his
innermost pocket, and none of them was saying a word, except when he
opened his mouth to cheer with all his heart for his dear class. It
was all new to them. They only waited and waited with the same aching
suspense that you had on Thanksgiving-day, when you saw the referee
toss the coin and one team take the ball while the other crouched, and
then waited and waited, and you felt certain that something awful was
the matter, but you did not know what.

Presently, though no official sign was given, every one felt that the
important moment was at hand. The cheering sounded as if
reinforcements had arrived. A compact circle was now formed by
composite consent. Those in the front row sat down on the grass and
caught cold. The next row kneeled. Those behind leaned on them, and so
on back to those who stood on tip-toe and craned their necks for an
occasional glimpse. Outside the circle, over by the Witherspoon
lamp-post, leaned Proctor Matthew Goldie, Esquire, in a careless
attitude.

Everyone's heart jumped up a little when a voice cried, "Here they
come!" as though it were he who had to spree.

Led by their coachers, the two light weights scudded out mysteriously
from different wings of Witherspoon with overcoats wrapped about them.
As they crossed the light, the crowd, which had hushed for a moment,
broke out in wild prolonged cheering; the two upper classes, who were
not immediately interested, joined in. So did the sporting gentlemen
of the town, and even the little muckers cheered shrilly for their
favorite class.

A path was forced through the crowd, and the two nimble light weights
began peeling their sweaters. The sophomore was dressed in black, the
freshman in pure white. They resined their hands. Everyone felt
things.

The referee held out the stout piece of hickory called cane by
courtesy. He put the freshman's hands outside. The cheering ceased.
Mat. Goldie stretched and changed his position.

There was a hurting stillness as they stood there with their feet
braced, frozen in the ghastly glare, the one in white and the one in
black, while the referee said, in earnest tones, "Are you ready,
freshman?"

You could see his chest filling up from the bottom as he answered,
"Um."

"Are you ready, sophomore?"

"Yes."

"Spree!"

One of them dropped as if shot, the other followed him down, both
turned over, each began struggling and straining; the coachers began
coaching, the referee dropped down on his knees to see fair play, and
then someone in the rear said, "Down in front!" in healthy, human
tones, and you came to yourself and remembered that this was only a
struggle for class honor, after all, and that whichever way it came
out it was not going to kill you. Then you breathed.

Meanwhile, locked up in a room in East Middle Witherspoon, wrapped in
sweaters and blankets, were five other freshmen, and to them the
strain was worst of all. These were the other freshmen spreers, the
light weight, the middle weight, and the three substitutes. They could
only wait and listen and try to guess from the sound of the cheers
which side had the advantage. It was too far off to distinguish
anything but a ring with something undefined inside. The juniors said
they must not go out on the balcony or get excited. This was easy to
say.

While the crowd was in the room and fellows were clattering up and
down the stairs and everyone was talking and the crowd outside was
making a noise, it was not so bad. But now it was so silent they could
almost hear the two contestants straining and wrenching below. Now and
then the shrill, earnest voice of a coacher would cut through the
silence. "Now! Now!" with an echo from the Presbyterian Church. "Right
over with him. Remember what I told you." Once the middle weight arose
from the divan; then he sat down again. A little later one of the subs
whistled two bars of a tune and stopped as if he had forgotten
something. Once in a while someone glanced at one of the others and
then looked away again. They did not say much.

The only one who did not seem to mind it was Hill, the substitute
heavy weight, and that was only because he had not sense enough. He
was a big, thick-headed, sleepy-looking farmer, and the only reason he
was up here with these nimble athletes was that he was such a
tremendous buck and so stupid that when once he put his big hands on
the stick he would not let go. But he would be used only in case the
regular heavy weight died or had a fit or something before time was
called, and that was improbable.

But Hill was enjoying everything. He thought the  lights were
"pretty," and he considered it good fun, loafing in this large,
luxurious room. He glanced approvingly at the water-colors and
examined the photographs and knocked down a few of them, and looked
over the mugs and the foils and the antlers and the usual dust
collectors of a well-furnished room. Then, because he approved of what
he saw, he grinned.

He had grinned at the staring crowd when, half an hour before, it had
stood to one side for him and the other spreers to pass by on the way
back from weighing at the gymnasium. He thought lots of things were
funny. He grinned broadly when, before the spree began, an excitable
junior approached him in the corner where he was sitting alone and
said, in jerky, tremulous tones, "Say, which do you think will win?"
This was before the crowd was put out. That was the funniest thing of
all--the way Cunningham put the crowd out. "Dash it! I wish to dash
you fellows would dash quickly get to dash out of here. This is my
room and, dash it all, I loaned it to the dash freshmen spreers and
not to the whole dash college, dash it!" That was so funny that Hill
let loose his huge laugh and filled up the room with it. This caused
the other freshmen to look at one another and smile pityingly. But
Hill did not notice it.

The other freshmen had little in common with Hill. It was not so much
because he was uncouth as that he had no class spirit. He had entered
college two days late, and those two days are like two years in some
respects. He had missed the class meeting, where freshmen get a first
sight of one another which lasts always, and he had missed the class
rush about the cannon, where freshmen are so closely pressed together
that they never after get quite apart. But the farmer should have
wakened up by this time. Lack of class spirit is never pardonable.
This is the way Hill happened to be here this evening.

One day early in the term, as he was pushing his big chest across the
campus to recitation, he heard someone call: "Hold up, there, you big
freshman!" So he smiled and took off his ugly derby hat.

"No, I'm not a sophomore; I'm a junior," said the stranger, who then
explained that he wanted to talk to him. "You come to my room at one
o'clock, and don't forget about it," said the junior. "Run along, now;
the bell is stopping."

Hill came, and found several other freshmen there. "Take hold of this
stick," said the junior.

He put his big fists about it and found himself flying across the
room. He landed against the door and beside him lay a table, which
never arose.

"Now, that is cane-spreeing," said the junior casually, as one would
say, "Down there is the new Art building," "and I want all you fellows
to meet me at eight o'clock back of chapel."

That night they gave Hill a cane and said, "Take hold of this and
don't let go." He held it for an hour against every one except the
junior that was sophomore heavy weight the previous year. But he had
never yet been quick enough to take it away from anyone, even the
light weights. And that was the reason he was a substitute waiting in
Montie Cunningham's room wrapped in two sweaters and a blanket. His
eyes were closed and he was thinking about what a bully time his
younger brother Ike must be having among the chestnuts this month.

The big leather chair was soft and he might have fallen asleep had not
at that moment a tremendous yell burst into existence down below--a
loud, shrill, fiendish yell which lasted nearly a minute before it
was shaken down to an organized cheer. Hill stretched.

The others were out on the balcony. "Tell us which has it! For
heaven's sake, tell us!" they cried to every one below; and no one
below answered. So all they could do was to bite their lips and wait
until the yelling became cheering, and then they knew from the
exultant tones of the sophomores what they did not want to know.

Just then they caught a glimpse of the victor waving the cane in his
hand as he was borne high on the shoulders of his class-mates to West
Witherspoon.

Then they had a confused view of the rush. The upper classes fell to
one side and the other two fell upon one another. This was the
fiercest sort of rushing known to the proctors. The two sides were
not, as in the cannon rush, evenly lined up four abreast. Not a bit of
it. There were two thickly massed bodies of men, one running up a
grade, the other charging down, and the roll of their footsteps was as
the sound of much cattle, running. For a moment each tried to keep in
solid form. But only long enough for some one to be knocked down and
run over by the rest. After the first crash it was mixed fighting. In
the moonlight one could not invariably distinguish friend from foe.
So each man doubled up both fists and let drive at everyone he saw. It
was glorious.

As soon as they became hopelessly mixed and each class had cheered
itself hoarse and the proctors had carried off an armful of sophomores
to appear before the Discipline Committee the next day, and to be
cheered off at the depot by lamenting classmates later on, everyone
turned up his coat-collar and helped form the ring again.

Those on the balcony, who had been panting and chafing like tied
deer-hounds, now heard the feet of them bearing bad tidings and the
defeated freshman up the entry stairs. The door was kicked open and
three winded juniors laid their burden gently on the bed, which had
been dragged in from the other room for this purpose. With them many
others pushed in who did not belong there, and the room was full of
people once more. Many voices were explaining how it all happened.

Ramsay, the little freshman, was completely done. He had fainted as
they brought him upstairs. His face was set and white, and he lay
there with his tough little resiny hands hanging limp at his side
while his classmates poured brandy down his throat and told each other
what to do. Through the window came a sharp freshman cheer with "Runt
Ramsay" on the end.

Meanwhile the middle weight had stripped to the waist. He was bending
forward with his forearms upon the mantel-piece and his forehead