# The Freshman (Holman)/Chapter 1

The shrill war cry, flung into the autumn air by thirty thousand loyal Tate throats, thundered across the gridiron streaked by the late afternoon shadows. Down on that lime-marked battlefield the old traditional rivals, Tate and Union State, were fighting out their annual battle. And though the cheers of the Tate cohorts were as voluminous and shrill as they had been at the start of the game, hope burned low in the hearts of the Red and White supporters. For it was the fourth quarter, there remained but three minutes to play, and the scoreboard heralded the dire tidings—Union State 3, Tate 0.
Truth to tell, the germ of discouragement was eating at the spirits of the Tate team also. Battling valiantly for two hours against the ​superior weight and strength of their time-honored adversaries, they had kept down the score, but had been unable even to threaten the Union State goal line. With the game nearly over, they were becoming resigned to defeat. That is, ten of them were. Good old "Speedy" Lamb, captain and fullback, would never acknowledge that his beloved alma mater was beaten. No, never—not until the last whistle blew.
The only man able to gain against the strong Union State line. Lamb had been virtually the whole Tate team. Encouraging his men, carrying the ball on two out of every three downs that it was in Tate's possession, he had been a firebrand, the fly in the Union State ointment, an inspiration to his fellows, a tower of strength. Even now, his whole body battered and bruised, a crimson-stained bandage around his forehead, he danced behind his crouching linemen, slapping backs, shouting words of cheer. "Hold 'em, you huskies," he cried, "for Good Old Tate."
And well "Speedy" might admonish them, for the ball was but two yards from the Red and White goal posts and Union State's long-delayed touchdown seemed imminent. For an instant a deep silence filled the huge Tate stadium. Then the Union State quarterback barked his signals. The ball passed. A rasp ​of canvas, the thud of human bodies meeting as both lines charged and a Union State halfback, head down, catapulted into the mêlée off left tackle. Suddenly there was a sharp cry. The halfback had fumbled! Out of the heap of struggling bodies trickled the elusive pigskin and bobbed about crazily on the brown turf.
Ah, who was this leaping from the pile, scooping the ball up with a deft lowering of the arms, without slackening his speed an instant? Who other than "Speedy" Lamb himself! And down he swung—down the field with the speed of an express train, straightarming the lone Union State tackier who attempted to bar his flight. The Tate section of the grandstand sprang to its collective feet, shrieking like madmen. On down the field flew "Speedy," the whole Union State team now in wild pursuit behind him. On and on he drove his tired legs. Past the middle of the field. Past the Union State twenty-yard line. He could hear the pounding of another pair of legs close behind him, could almost feel the hot breath of the foremost pursuer upon his neck. With a last desperate effort he summoned forth a final burst of speed. Five yards from "Speedy's" haven, the Union State quarterback flung himself through the air and, with a marvelous flying tackle, man​aged to hurl "Speedy" to earth. But, alas, for the hopes of Union State, too late!
For, as Lamb fell, he stretched out the ball at full arm's length ahead of him and he could feel the lime of the goal line in his teeth. And though all eleven men of the Union State team were now piled upon him, he smiled. The referee, demolishing the human pyre, confirmed "Speedy's" optimism. The ball was six inches over the line. Tate had won! Pandemonium broke loose in the Tate stands. "Speedy's" teammates pounded his back and danced for joy. If there had ever been any doubt as to who was the most popular man in college, it was forever dispelled now. Even the famous Chester Trask had never accomplished a herculean deed like this.
What matter if there was not enough time left to try for the goal after the touchdown? Did not the scoreboard now read Tate 6, Union State 3? As the final whistle blew, the hordes of Tate rooters swarmed down upon the field. The historic snake dance got under way. Hats enough to equip an army were flung over the goal posts. "Speedy" was borne aloft upon a score of willing shoulders. "Hurray for 'Speedy'! Good Old 'Speedy'! Hurray!"
Hardly had the cheers started to die down when the scene shifted.
​It was the last half of the ninth inning in the annual baseball game between Tate and their historic adversary, Union State. The score, as the forty thousand spectators could read upon the board out in left field, was Union State 3, Tate 0. And two Tate batsmen were already out. Yet, as the followers of Good Old Tate gazed out upon the hard-fought diamond, there was still a little hope in their hearts. For three Red and White runners were on the bases, and none other than "Speedy" Lamb was striding to the plate, swinging three bats as he strode.
"Get hold of one, Lamb. Save the day for your alma mater," the coach begged the hardest hitter in the intercollegiate ranks as the latter was selecting his bat. "We're relying on you, 'Speedy.' It's for Good Old Tate," the manager of the team said hoarsely.
Now the noted slugger stood at the plate gracefully, confidently. The Union State pitcher, who had held the Tate batters in the hollow of his hand all through the game, now realized that he had an opponent worthy of his steel. He wound up with the utmost care. The Tate runners were poised at their bases, eager to be off at the crack of the bat. The white ball whizzed toward the plate. "Strike One!" the umpire yelled. "Speedy" Lamb permitted a confident smile to flood his face. ​though he had not taken the bat from his shoulder. The ball had been six inches outside of the plate, but "Speedy" had never been one to dispute with umpires.
There came then two obviously bad balls in succession, followed by another strike, a wicked outshoot at which Lamb swung with all the force of his broad shoulders and brawny arms, and missed by an eyelash. The destiny of Tate University hinged upon the next two pitches!
His trained baseball mind sensing that the pitcher would now probably waste one, the crack slugger let the next ball pass. And, confirming his judgment, the umpire shouted "Ball Three!" Three balls and two strikes!
Forty thousand hearts were stilled as the pitcher prepared for the crucial toss. He went through his preliminary motions with meticulous care. The runners were away from their bases with the movement of his arm. The ball streaked toward the big mit of the Union State catcher with blinding speed. But it never reached its destination. For the trusty bat of "Speedy" Lamb swung true and clean. There was a sharp crack. A wild yell rose from the grandstand. All three Union State outfielders raced back. But in vain. The hit was labeled "home run" as it left "Speedy's" bat. It was the stoutest blow ​ever struck on the Tate grounds. The three Tate runners raced across the plate. As Lamb, his head modestly lowered, followed, the Tate supporters were already out in the field. Fifty eager pairs of arms reached for him. The historic snake dance formed, Lamb riding precariously amid it all. And the scoreboard read Tate 4, Union State 3.
But, after all, it was in still another rôle that "Speedy" Lamb preferred himself. A rôle in which he could do no less heroic labors for Good Old Tate than as football or baseball hero. For had not the Tate "Tattler" carried the account of the mass meeting at which Chester Trask, captain of the football and baseball teams, had said, "You cheer leaders, you fellows in the cheering section, can do as much toward beating Union State as we eleven men down there on the field. You'll be fighting for Good Old Tate when you're yelling your heads off up there in the stands. It's put new courage in the team, I can tell you, to sit up here and listen to the way you've cheered and sung to-night. Do the same thing next Saturday, fellows. Yell for Good Old Tate. We'll hear you down there."
So "Speedy" Lamb, wearing a big white turtle-neck sweater with an enormous red "T" sewed upon the chest, clutched his megaphone ​down there in front of thirty thousand Tate rooters in the huge Tate stadium and shouted, "Now altogether, fellows, for the team yell. And make it a good one! They need you now if they never did before. Are you rea-a-dy? Hip! Hi-i-ip!" And he hurled down his megaphone and leaped into an imitation of a stage contortionist attacked by hysteria.
He skipped madly first to one side and then to the other. He bent, whirled and jerked his long body into all sorts of incredible postures. He flung clenched fists into the air with violent forward, backward, downward, upward, sideways and circular movements.
He felt the thrill of the great mob responding to his labors. From thirty thousand hoarse Tate throats he could hear the battle cry:
At the last shrieked "Ta-a-ate!" he sprang high into the air, flinging his arms far apart. Harold Lamb, breathing hard from his efforts, sat down and smiled.
He was proud of himself. He was the best ​cheer leader old Tate had ever had. Before his day no white-flanneled exhorter to mass bronchitis had, for instance, ever been able to turn three complete cartwheels and then a forward somersault while leading the famous "long cheer" and keep the cadence perfectly. No former master of the megaphone had ever stimulated such volume from a cheering section singing the historic Tate alma mater song, "Tate Forever More."
Sitting there, Lamb smiled and fell into a blissful reverie.
His thoughts were brusquely interrupted as the door was pushed open and a pair of pinch glasses, riding a long nose, followed by a wrathful elderly face and a lanky body confronted him.
"What in thunder's all this noise up here?" came the irritated accents of the intruder at the door. "I thought you went to bed, Harold. What are you doing waking all the neighbors with that fool college cheering? What's this 'chop suey, chop suey' business, anyway? Gosh, I was listening in on the radio and I says to mamma, says I, 'Gosh, I've got China.' You must be crazy! I can't make you out these days, Harold. Getting out of bed and putting on that thick white sweater this hot weather and that fool little cap and cutting up such capers in front of the ​mirror. Ifs a wonder you didn't knock all the plaster down in the living room. Now, you take that regalia right off and get back into bed and keep quiet."
And so let us abandon for the nonce the make-believe and see our hero as he really is.
Not in any collegiate setting do we find Harold "Speedy" Lamb. Gridiron, diamond and cheer leader's megaphone exist purely in his imagination. Tate University is in reality a thousand or more miles away. And "Speedy" is just a country boy playing, in grim earnest, to be sure, the rôle of college leader in front of the mirror in his bedroom.
Aroused by the racket over his head, Henry Lamb, Harold's father, had abandoned listening to his radio in the living room and had clumped upstairs to ascertain the reason for the disturbance.
But Harold Lamb was, for the moment, neither subdued by his father's stern outburst nor ready quite yet to abandon the rôle of "Speedy." Clad in white turtle-neck sweater and Freshman cap, wearing the sailor-wide trousers that were all the rage in collegiate circles, he approached his irate parent briskly and with a smile upon his face. When quite near the amazed Henry Lamb, Harold paused, executed a peculiar jig step, struck an attitude, held out his hand, and tossed off ​this bon mot snappily, "I'm just a regular fellow. Step right up and call me 'Speedy,' dad." It was the first time he had had a chance to try out the favorite salutation of his new hero, Lester Laurel, whom he had seen that very evening in "The College Hero"—"The Screen Epic Glorifying the American College Man," at Sanford's leading motion picture emporium, Horowitz's Palace.
But Harold's parent did not accept the offer to shake hands. He acknowledged the strange salutation by opening his mouth in fresh amazement and by staring at his son blankly over his gold-rimmed glasses.
Then Henry Lamb found voice. "What's this nonsense now, hey? More of this college craziness?"
"Why, I saw it in the movies, dad," Harold explained eagerly. "Lester Laurel does it in that college picture every time he is introduced to anybody. I've been practicing it ever since. I bet it would make a hit in any college."
"I bet they would fire you out if you did it," retorted Henry Lamb. "I don't know what to make of you, Harold. I'll be glad when you get settled down in Cleveland working for your Uncle Peter."
Harold dropped his pose and took up the plaintive protest that had been annoying his ​father for the past six months. "But I've told you a hundred times, dad, that I didn't want to work in the bank this Summer. I want to sell washing machines again and earn money to go to college. And I've told you I don't want to go to work for Uncle Peter. I don't want to spend the rest of my life making drop forgings. I want to go to college, to be a well-rounded individual ready to assume his proper place as a citizen of this great world of ours. I want to form associations in four glorious carefree years of my youth that will be more precious in the time to come than great riches. I want—"
But how could workaday Henry Lamb, bookkeeper for the First National Bank of Sanford, be expected to appreciate and agree with the words of Dean Pennypacker's baccalaureate sermon just delivered at the Tate commencement exercises and now quoted by Harold as if they represented the sum of the ages' wisdom?
Henry Lamb retorted testily, "Now, look here, Harold, just you put up that ball bat and that football and take off those fool clothes. Go right back to bed this instant. There's been enough complaint at the bank about your work already without tiring yourself out nights with this traipsing around. Just remember this—you ain't got any more ​chance of ever getting to college than I have of being president of the First National Bank."
A glance at the ineffectual face and bent shoulders of Henry Lamb, for twenty years occupant of the same high stool behind the bars of the First National, would have convinced one that Harold's chances of emulating the famous Lester Laurel or Chester Trask were very slim indeed.
But the elder Lamb's outburst had brought Harold's soaring imagination back to earth. When the carpet-slippered radio listener had shuffled out of the room, his son slumped dejectedly upon the bed and began slowly pulling off the big white sweater. Gone now the vision of himself as Tate's greatest son. Gone now the scenes of triumph on football and baseball field and as cheer leader extraordinary, just enacted by him, with the aid of one football, one baseball bat and one battered megaphone and one extremely vivid imagination, in front of his bedroom dresser mirror. He had acted them very well, with intricate and exact pantomime, thanks to plenty of practice before this same mirror and to his recent view of Lester Laurel in "The College Hero"—so well that he seemed actually to have felt the groping Union State tackler's hands around his ankles, to have experienced ​the tingle of well-directed bat against ball, to have heard the "ko-ak ko-ak" of the Tate battle cry.
But now he was just Harold Lamb, graduate a week since of Sanford High School, temporarily a clerk in the First National Bank of Sanford. Doomed in a month to begin a business career of doubtful destiny in the drop-forging foundry of his rich Uncle Peter Thatcher, in Cleveland. It was very sad.
Having finished removing his sweater, Harold lay moodily down upon his bed. But not to sleep. Even if Morpheus had been paged, that soothing god would have discovered too much external opposition. It was a hot muggy night and not yet nine o'clock. Harold's strategy in retiring to the privacy of his bedroom with the announced intention to his father and mother of going right to bed was proving, now that the purpose of his early retirement had been frustrated by the elder Lamb, a source of extreme discomfort. In the neighboring yard a hose swished and a baby cried. Under the are light in front of the Lamb house youngsters were noisily busy at "kick the stick." In the living room under him, a penetrating nasal voice from Cleveland was twanging pearls of wisdom through Henry Lamb's loud speaker on "Bank ​Failures. Their Causes and Remedies," mingled with static cat-calls and yowls.
At length Harold rose, procured from his dresser top a book with an ornate black and gold cover, switched on the light beside his pillow and sat up in bed to read. The book was the property of Harlow Gaines, principal of the Sanford High School, a Tate man. The gold embossing upon its black cover was somewhat worn, but it still read "Tate Year Book. 1914." Harold knew its pages by heart, though he now turned them again almost reverently. He surveyed the stern visage of Amos Pennypacker, '82, D.D., A.B., M.A., Ph.D., D.S., Dean of the University. He glanced at the group pictures of the four undergraduate classes, most of the members wearing the Hindenburg pompadours and tight trousers fashionable ten years ago. Then he leafed the pages further, into the beatific regions of football captains resting with artificial nonchalance upon the step of the historic Tate sundial where only captains could rest. Swimming teams striving not to betray that the photographer's studio was rather breezy for their abbreviated costumes. Stirring scenes, slightly out of focus, from athletic contests indulged in by the Tate cohorts during 1913-14.
Further back in this golden chronicle, Har​old came once more upon the editorial board of the Tate "Tattler," eight sober youths looking as editorial as possible, and spotted the Harlow Gaines of a decade back, spectacled and over-supplied with hair. Thence to the glee and mandolin clubs, stiff in dress suits. And to the cherubic society slickers of the Junior Promenade committee. He read for the fifteenth time the account of the show, "The Duchess of Dreams," produced that year by the Sock and Buskin Club, and scanned the illustrations of undersized undergraduates dresssd to impersonate girls and looking precisely like undersized undergraduates dressed to impersonate girls.
Harold closed the book with a sigh. Harlow Gaines was a lucky man. Harlow Gaines had lived. Outside the hose still swished and the children shouted and the twangy voice from Cleveland still discoursed on "Bank Failures."
Harold got up, replaced the book upon his dresser, and, opening a drawer, drew out four well-thumbed copies of a four-page newspaper. Returning to his bed, he turned the hot pillow over and resumed his sitting posture, opening the first of the newspapers upon his lap. It was the Tate "Tattler" dated but a month ago.
A stalwart, well-groomed youth in a foot​ball suit smiled out at Harold from the first page. The legend under the picture read, "Chester Trask, varsity football captain. Yesterday voted the most popular Junior in college." Harold re-read the story of Chester's exploits accompanying the photograph. He re-read the whole paper, word for word, not excepting the column headed "University Notices" and containing such intriguing items as: "University Baseball; Following men report at the station at 2 for Union State trip: Crew, Castles, Rhoades, Post, Thorne, Tracy, Dodge, Cluett, Low, Woolsey, Cliff, Blythe, Coach McIntyre, Manager Mudge." "Chemistry 2B. Professor Tobey will be unable to meet his classes to-day." "Social Psychology 4A. Report at station at 3 for trip to State Asylum." Nor did he miss the advertisements, containing such lures as "Cheap George. He buys the Students' Furniture and Clothes. Cash." "University Laundry. We keep the dirt and you keep the shirt." "Skokie's Spring St. Smokery. Select Smoke Supplies for Students."
When at last the hose and the children and the bank expert from Cleveland had hushed their din, the four well-thumbed copies of the Tate "Tattler" had slid down upon the floor. Harold Lamb had slid down in his bed. Harold was quite asleep, dreaming of meeting ​Professor Tobey and "Cheap" George on the station platform at 2 with clean shirts and smokes for the baseball team that was to play Union State at the State Insane Asylum.
And down in the living room, Henry Lamb, the best bookkeeper in the county and the worst radio liar in the state, was trying to get Los Angeles. But a thunderstorm was in the air. And though the second story of the Lamb house was now silent as a tomb, Henry could get nothing but cat-calls and guttural rumblings through his ear phones. Finally he took off the hearing apparatus and closed the machine for the night.
"I don't know where Harold got those crazy notions about going to college," remarked Henry to the patiently knitting Mrs. Lamb. "Goodness knows, I've done all I can to discourage him."
Mrs. Lamb, lifting patient blue eyes that were surprisingly like Harold's, answered quietly, "It does seem a shame that he can't go." On an impulse she put her hand into her knitting basket and produced a worn bank book. "See, Henry," she urged, "he has saved all this money he earned selling washing machines the last three summers to take to college for spending money. It's $485. It is too bad he can't go. Every evening he sits up in his room dreaming about going to col​lege. He simply can't think of anything else."
Henry Lamb made an uncertain gesture that was intended to indicate a strong man whose patience is about to blow up.
"Gosh, you ain't backing him up in this idea, are you?" Henry cried plaintively. "You know we haven't the money to send him. Besides, I don't believe in colleges. Harold's lucky to be able to finish high school. Most boys his age in this town have been working four or five years already. Harold had just better get over this notion."
Henry Lamb sniffed. He did more. He delivered himself of an opinion formed from his recent amazed vision of Harold in sweater and cap leading cheers in front of his mirror.
Henry said slowly, "And if by some miracle Harold ever did get to college and imitated that movie actor, they'd either break his heart or his neck!"