A Princetonian/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
CARMINA PRINCETONIA.
There was a long Pullman sleeping-car resting on the side-track in the Omaha freight yards. A banner that stretched along the side had the word "Princeton" upon it in black letters on an orange background.
Inside there was a great deal of hubbub and confusion. Young men were dressing in various parts of the car, that was thick with clouds of tobacco smoke, and there was the sound of the tuning of banjos.
"Great Snakes! I'll have to buy a shirt before I go on the stage to-night!" said a young man, who had upset the contents of a dress-suit case on a seat by the window. "Biff Wainwright did n't do anything to this last night,—only stepped on it when he got into the bunk. It looks like a hoop after a circus lady is through with it, doesn't it, eh?"
"Oh, you are too particular, Bliss," returned a good-looking chap with a Southern drawl. "Who's seen my studs? I hope there'll be some pretty girls there to-night."
"Say, I'd like to get into Hollingsworth's trunk," remarked Bliss. "These heelers take too much room anyhow. He 's got a washline full of shirts. It 's enough to make him bilious."
John Hollingsworth, who was already dressed in an immaculate suit, closed the trunk lid with a snap.
"Go to thunder!" he said; "wear your own shirts." Then he turned to the looking-glass, and brazenly inspected his shadowy mustache.
"If you get on the wrong key to-night, Tommy Wilson," said Emory Smith, the Glee Club leader, knocking a short youth on the top of the head with his ebony baton, "I'll have you sued for breach of contract."
"He'll be sued for breach of promise before he gets through with this trip," said a deep bass voice from another compartment. "The way he carried on with that little yaller-haired thing at Kansas City was scandalous. Let's chain him up to-night."
"Chain nothing," said Tommy Wilson, who had the mobile face of the comedian, and a twinkle in his eyes that never failed to catch his audience. "You fellows are jest jealous. Now we handsome men—"
"Oh, shut up!" said one of the banjo players. "If you don't get a move on you, and get dressed, Tommy, you'll be late again. Then the 'gentleman of the cash box' will throw a fine at you."
At this, a tall, rather sleepy-looking youth turned about. He put a finishing touch to his white tie, and came down the aisle of the car.
"Now I want all you fellows to be witnesses," he said, "that I have bought Tommy a pair of suspenders. He had on the porter's last night."
"Oh, but they were giddy," said Tommy, "kinder hated to give 'em up; brought me luck."
But he took the ones Manager Bishop handed him, objecting strongly, however, to the style, "because they did not have a flower garden on 'em."
"There 's one of our posters," said some one, looking out of the window, and pointing to a bill-board fence. "Read as you run: 'Concert! Princeton College Glee and Banjo Clubs!'" he quoted; then he added: "Come one; come all; bring your children; make the little tots happy—you don't word these things right, Manager! You should star the performers like Tommy here, and have a street parade in advance, and you haven't said anything about the 'Maudlin Club' at all. Oh, I tell you, I have a head like a tack."
In a few minutes the banjos and mandolins were placed in their leather cases, and, leaving the porter (who promptly went to bed in the most comfortable bunk) in sole charge of the car, the party of well dressed and gaily hilarious young men crossed the freight yard, and wended their way toward the big hotel near the opera house, at which the concert was to be given.
"Newton Wilberforce Hart," read the manager, from the hotel register. There it was written in a round, strong hand that was more or less characteristic of Mr. Hart's personal appearance.
The latter had arrived only a few minutes before the Glee Club came into the hotel; he had made up his mind that he would go to the theatre that night, if there was anything in town, and the big posters of the college entertainment outside the hotel door had caught his eye. But he had not decided, and being very hungry he had gone into the dining-room and had taken a seat in the corner, when he heard the sound of men's voices talking together, as the Glee Club entered in a body.
They excited a great deal of interest among the other guests of the hotel, and Hart, who had his napkin tucked in at his collar and spread across his broad chest, found himself watching them attentively. He had the Westerner's contempt for the East, and had placed the college graduate in a category of his own. Although he had never been thrown in contact with the type, he was prejudiced entirely in the matter, thinking that the college man was apt to be self-satisfied, assuming, and somewhat useless.
But there were two or three young men at the table whose shoulders were quite as broad as his own, and whom the deputy sheriff would have picked out in an instant as bad men to handle in a "rough-and-tumble." Besides this, they minded their own business, and, although their good spirits were evident, their manners were very different from those of a travelling minstrel show that he had once seen at this same hotel. The head waiter bowed them out of the room with a graciousness that was different from his usual condescension. Hart had secretly admired their well-fitting clothes, and, noticing that they did not have their napkins tucked around their necks, he had pulled his down into his lap.
When he went out into the rotunda of the hotel, he found himself at the cigar counter at the same moment with a young man of almost his own age who said, "After you," politely, as both reached forward toward the match safe. Hart was not bashful, and the remark had broken the ice. He struck a match and held it for the other to light his cigar. "Where can I get a ticket for your show to-night?" he inquired.
"At the Opera House," was the answer.
"Oh, I didn't know," said Hart, " but what you sent out invitations, or something."
"No," said the other, "we are just like any other show, and have to run the same chances."
"I didn't know but that your Alumni helped you," said Hart, who knew he used the word correctly.
"Oh, they do, once a college man, always a college man," was the response. "I hope you'll come." He nodded pleasantly, and Walked away toward a group that was seated in a corner.
The manager was acting as whipper-in and was gathering the clan, as it were, preparatory to starting. Hart followed them to the Opera House and bought his ticket from a businesslike young chap, who assumed the position of agent behind the little glass window. When he entered the orchestra circle, he was shown politely to his seat by another of the young men he had recognized as one of the party at table.
Soon the big hall began to fill.
Never in his life had the young deputy sheriff seen so many well dressed people together. There was a chatter and hum of conversation that was confounding; people bowed and nodded to one another, and the young men who were acting as ushers stopped and spoke to many of the girls. Every one appeared to expect a good time. There was nothing of the sitting-in-judgment that Hart had noticed in the audiences of the few entertainments he had attended. It was all very new to him.
Soon the curtain went up, and the white-fronted little army marched out from the wings. It was not like the minstrel show at all; they appeared really quite dignified and much at their ease as they formed in line at the centre of the stage. The leader stood in front. He gave a little toot with something like a penny whistle that he had in his hand; made two or three flourishes with his baton, and at once the young men burst out into a marching chorus with a swing and spirit that set Hart's feet to keeping time. He looked at the program and found that the words of the first song were printed there in full. He read them as the song went on:
"Tune every heart and every voice,
Bid every care withdraw,
Let all with one accord rejoice
In praise of old Nassau!"
And so it went. The music stirred with the words, and at the end Hart found himself applauding as loudly as the old gentleman behind him who had brought his daughters to hear the old song again.
"They sing it a little faster than they used to," the old gentleman remarked.
But, hold! They were all back again.
The encore was not printed, but Hart caught the words:
"Through the four long years of college,
'Midst the scenes we loved so well,
Where the mystic charm to knowledge
We vainly seek to spell."
"Mystic charm to knowledge" touched a chord in Mr. Hart's bosom. What would he not give to have the advantages that these young men evidently seemed to appreciate. A desire to learn more about it all came to his mind. But the Glee Club had left the stage, and the men with the banjos were coming on. They each dragged forward a chair from the back of the scenery and seated themselves. Now it was more like the minstrel show. They did not all strike the same attitudes (in fact, some were not very graceful). However, it was a rattling good jig they played, and Hart thought it would have delighted the Dixon boys to have heard it.
"I'll get the music of that," he said to himself, "and have Dirk learn it."
Then Mr. Hart thought how much Mabel would enjoy being there with him. The prospects, however, were that he never might have the pleasure of going to another entertainment like this, and the dreary square of Oakland rose up before him.
But despite this, and to make it short, Mr. Hart enjoyed the evening hugely. He laughed at "The Owl and the Pussy Cat" and "Mary's Little Lamb" with the "Ba, ba" chorus. He enjoyed the tinkling of the mandolins and Tommy Wilson's tale about a man who fell up or down three flights of stairs, and he was tickled to death at Tommy's imitation of a hee-hawing donkey, and wanted to tell him how good it was.
At last it was all over, and he drifted out with the audience, and went back to the hotel. There, in the corridor, he again met his friend with whom he had exchanged the few remarks after dinner.
"Best show I ever saw," he said. "You won't mind my asking you some questions, will you?"
"Why, no," said the other, "fire away."
"Could you tell me how much it costs to go to college?" (Mr. Hart flushed at the idea of his going to college.)
"Well," replied the young man, "I came there with one hundred and fifty dollars, and mud on my boots. But it all depends."
"I suppose I'd be too old to go to school now," suggested Mr. Hart.
"Oh, I don't know," said the other, "I worked on a farm five years before I thought of going. If I'd known what it was going to be, I'd have worked five years longer rather than have given it up."
"Oh," said Mr. Hart.
"If you'll let me have your address, I'll send you some books on the subject," the college man continued. "But, hold on," he exclaimed, "come down to the car, and see how we live.—My name's Franklin."
"My name's Hart."
They shook hands.
"I'll introduce you to some of the boys," said Franklin.
Hart was delighted, and they left the hotel and walked toward the car. All the way down the dark street they chattered, and at last they reached the freight yard and stumbled out across the tracks.
"Why, I was a 'Long-horn,' a regular hayseed, when I came to college," said Franklin, continuing the subject of their conversation. "Seems a long time ago, but it 's only four years. Take care of that switch-bar, it nearly broke my leg!"
"Thank you. What are you going to do when you leave?" asked Hart, who had allowed his new friend to lead the way.
"Don't know, exactly," Franklin returned. "All I want is the chance."
"That's what I've said for a long time," replied Hart, "but chances are not lying loose in the place from which I come. I am afraid," he added, retrospectively, "it's a one-horse town."
When the two entered the Glee Club car (which they found had been moved down the track), there were only a few of the members present, most of them having stayed up in the town to attend a small reception given by one of the Alumni.
Mr. Hart's guide introduced him to four or five young fellows, who, Hart noticed, did not have their hair parted in the middle (he had considered this fashion characteristic of college men in general); they welcomed him, and soon he was smoking and joining in the talking. Tommy Wilson had not stayed for the reception, and Hart congratulated him on his solo; expressing pleasure at the songs he had heard; he was immediately presented with a book containing them with the notes and music, and when he had shown his admiration for the jig the banjoists had played, one of the latter proposed copying it, and promised to send it to him. Altogether, Mr. Hart had a very fine evening, and when he left the car he had made up his mind to talk a certain idea over with his prospective father-in-law, and also see what Mabel thought of it.
As soon as their guest had left, Ned Bliss thrust his head out from his bunk.
"If those wild Indians make any noise when they come in to-night, let's chloroform them," he remarked. "But I say, Buck" (this was addressed to Franklin), "that was a mighty nice chap, that prairie friend of yours."
Franklin responded sleepily from behind the curtain.
"I think I sized him up about right," he said. "He 's got the proper stuff in him,—and what is more, I think he'd play football."
"Did you notice his neck?" asked the banjo player, who was putting his eyes out trying to read in an upper berth. "He's a second Hector,—am I right, or am I right?"
The sound of voices was heard outside just then, and a detachment of the club came in. They evidently did not feel in the mood for "wild Indian" antics, for, seeing that the others were apparently asleep, they went to bed quietly themselves which was wonderful to relate.
Buck Franklin was as good as his word, however, and in three weeks' time, Newton Wilberforce Hart received a package by mail. It was some old entrance examination papers, notes on text-books, and a catalogue of the University. It was this that caused him to broach the subject seriously to Mr. Van Clees, with the result that he was left to decide matters for himself,—the usual method in such cases. Mabel had at first objected, but had suddenly changed her mind in rather an unaccountable way.