# A Princetonian/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.
QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM.
It was toward the latter half of the first entrance examination—all was silence and gloom within and sunshine and shouting without—baseballs were in the air and a very amateur battery was practising beneath the window.
Congreve looked about the room. He had just printed Q.E.D. in very large letters at the end of a labyrinth of algebraic signs and formulæ. He was quite sure in his own mind that he was entirely wrong, but, nevertheless, Q.E.D. looked well in place.
In the next seat to him, writing with a long gold pencil attached to his heavy watch chain, was a short young man, very natty in dress, with a big pearl horse-shoe in his spotted necktie. He had nearly finished his paper, and he occasionally shuffled with his feet. At last he looked at his huge gold watch, and, despite the ​fact that the time was quite evident by a glance at the face, he pressed a spring and the hour rang out in the repeater's musical tinkling notes. So still was the room that the sound was quite audible, and even the professor, seated cross-legged on the platform, looked up. The young man closed the watch with a snap, heaved a sigh, and, walking down the aisle, was the first to give in his papers. Inscribed in a bold hand on the outside sheet was, "L. Putney Betts, New York, New York."
There was a flutter as he passed.
Once outside the door, he paused and drew a cigarette from a silver case.
"Dead easy," he said: "struck four out of five. Knew 'em by heart." Then he chuckled, "There's nothing like having a professor's brother for a tutor," he remarked to himself; "there's where I had a great head."
But to return to the busy room again.
The big freshman was seated in one of the back seats. His brow was wrinkled and he had run his fingers so often through his hair that it stood up from his head in all directions like an aurora. At last, however, he wrote his name carefully in the right-hand corner of his paper ​and walked to the professor's desk. The latter glanced up from his book, and turned the paper about so as to read the signature. It read Newton Wilberforce Hart, Oakland, Nebraska.
Mr. Congreve, who had been drawing a picture of a yacht on the arm of the seat, grew nervous; several more candidates had gone out of the room. He glanced at the questions again. To his delight Simeon Tolker remembered having once had the next problem given him at St. Paul's. He wrote Q.E.D. a little bit larger and, if anything, more distinctly than before; and now there seemed to be an epidemic of finishing; figure after figure left their seats and the pile of little white pamphlets on the professor's desk grew taller and taller.
Soon only a dozen or so were left and there was but one problem for Mr. Congreve to answer. A short thick-set youth with eyeglasses was drumming on his teeth with the end of his lead pencil. As he caught Congreve's eye, he winked and shook his head hopelessly; at last, however, he dashed his name on the paper with a flourish, yawned extravagantly, and sauntered slowly down the aisle. Congreve was ​at his heels. When they emerged into the sunlight, the latter turned and spoke:
"Stickler, wasn't it?"
"Mucilaginous," replied the young man with glasses; "I hope he doesn't send mine to Puck."
"It's a funny thing how you can forget now, isn't it? My name is Congreve."
"And mine is Golatly," replied the other.
They shook hands. In another moment there was quite a group about the door-way, and after a short discussion upon the examination, the freshmen strolled off in groups of three and four.
L. Putney Betts had been fortunate enough to secure a room in University Hall. As he had already been in Princeton for the past week tutoring, it was quite habitable. There were yachting pictures and English sporting prints all over the walls. A handsome mahogany cigar box with silver handles rested upon the table. The room was filled with blue smoke and the odor of very excellent tobacco. The window seat was packed with young men who ​appeared to be very much at home. It was ten o'clock at night.
Three or four uncomfortable-looking figures sat about in chairs. A roar of laughter broke out and even the uncomfortable figures joined in.
The occasion of the merriment, Terence Golatly, emerged from the bedroom. He was in charge of a pudding faced individual who wore an orange-and-black Tam O'Shanter.
"As Master of Ceremonies, gentlemen, I beg to introduce this promising little boy who will talk of politics in his native city, Newark," said the fat sophomore.
Freshman Golatly was attired in a dressing gown and had on his head a waste-paper basket, shaped like an Uncle Sam's beaver hat. If this was hazing, there was nothing cruel in it—he apparently was enjoying his position as much as the rest.
L. Putney Betts nervously passed the handsome cigar box.
There is no use recording Mr. Golatly's oratorical outburst; but in the midst of it there was an interruption. Three or four freshmen entered the room, and among them the ​broad-shouldered man from Nebraska. He glanced awkwardly around, declined a cigar, and leaned back in the corner.
"That will do," said some one from the window seat, after the young man from Newark had rambled on at some length ; "let's, let's try what somebody else can do for us." He approached one of the figures seated against the wall.
"Dance, sing, or tell a story. What's your name?" he said.
"My name is James," was the answer. The speaker was a slim, sharp-featured lad with deep-set eyes like a young hawk's. He was sunburned and had a keen air about him. His fingers showed the marks of the base-ball player. "Oh, I say," he replied, "I'm no good at anything of that kind, or I would do it in a minute. Ask some one else."
"Try the large infant in the corner," came another suggestion from one of the visitors. Thus publicly dared, the sophomore walked up to Hart.
"Come, come," he said, "let's see what you're good for. Do a stunt, you son of Anak."
Mr. Hart appeared quite embarassed. It all ​seemed very foolish to him, though he tried to smile good-humoredly, but there was a nervous twinkle in his eyes that should have been a warning.
"This, ladies and gentlemen, is Huckleberry John, the Hoosier Giant. You will find him pleasing and affable in conversation. He also has his photographs for sale," began the sophomore. Encouraged by the success of this attempt to be amusing, the orator bowed. "Bow, John," he said, and struck the tall man from Oakland a sharp blow on the back of the head, and just here something happened! Where it came from the assumed showman never knew, but there seemed to be an explosion before his eyes, and he went backwards across the room, bringing down a chair, and upsetting two of his classmates who had seated themselves on the edge of the sofa. There was a dead silence, and Hart was the first to break it. He had partially taken off his coat, but he slipped it on again hurriedly. His face was very white, and he spoke with an effort.
"I didn't mean to hit you so hard," he said, "but you made me mad cuffing a fellow like that,—no fun in it."
​It would have been all right if it had not been for the foolhardiness of the discomfited sophomore. As soon as he regained his feet, he picked up a small book from the table, and hurled it with all his might. It caught Hart squarely in the forehead. Everyone gasped, but the tall figure walked over to where the now frightened crowd were gathered in the window seat.
"Get out of this! I have had enough of all of you," he said. "Get out!"
This was a nice way for a freshman to address members of the class above him. No one stirred, and there was an uncomfortable silence. "Clear out!" said Hart again, a little louder.
He stretched out one big hand and caught the sophomore nearest to him by the back of his coat. This lad had played on his class football team, and he ducked and grabbed the freshman by the knees. Then commenced what was described as a "rukus" in resounding Alexandrines from the pen of Mr. Terence Golatly and spoken by him on many occasions afterwards.
At once there was a rush made by the unbidden guests. They swarmed at the big ​freshman valiantly. The swaying crowd backed against L. Putney Betts's centre-table and over went the drop-light and fine cigar box.
It was dark as a pocket. Some one ran down the hall-way and thumped upon the door, for the noise had startled the dwellers in the rooms along the corridor.
"Here's Mat! Here's Mat!" they shouted, and joined in the pounding.
In the darkness and confusion a deep puffing voice was heard.
"What's going on here? Let me in! Stop it there!"
The door opened and a burly figure forced its way through the crowd.
Well known, well liked, and feared, Matt Goldie, the proctor, had hardly ever failed to stop or quell any disturbance by the mere intervention of his presence. But this occasion was an exception.
To and fro in the darkness surged the struggling mass. Matt extended his great arms.
"Stop this right here," he cried, "or you will be all up before the faculty! Do you hear what I say!"
He had grasped two of the combatants and tossed them to either side, when, suddenly, he ​himself was caught by a strong pair of arms and down he went.
Some one struck a match. It went out at once. But in the brief spurt of light those around had caught a glimpse of a battle royal on the floor.
The sophomores had withdrawn from the fight and had retreated into the hall, but Hart, blind with rage, was grappling with one who had been reckoned only a few years before as the strongest man in Princeton.
A second match was struck and the drop light held in L. Putney Betts's trembling hands was lit. Straining like two fighting bulls were the proctor and the ex-deputy-sheriff, trying to roll from under the table.
"Who are you?" asked Hart, unclasping his fingers to get a stronger grip upon his opponent's collar.
"I am the proctor of the college," panted Matt, whose years told upon him.
"I don't care if you are the President," said Hart, "let go of me or I'll choke your throat."
At last they parted cautiously, and getting to their feet stood looking at one another. The crowd in the hall whispered excitedly.
"What is your name?" panted Matt.
​Hart gave it in full, but his spirit sank within him. No one smiled. Was this to be the end of his college career? He thought of the miles he had travelled,—of what he had given up. Despair and anger filled his soul.
"Is this your room?"
"No, sir; I have a small room in Edwards."
The proctor still breathing hard cleared the crowd out of the hallway. The hilarity that had been going on had ceased entirely, and the freshmen were seated silently about. Newton Wilberforce Hart was much depressed. He had straightened his crumpled collar and brushed his torn clothes, and was now twisting his big fingers nervously. Never had he felt so young or so foolish in his life.
An upper-class man knocked on the door. He had been one of the group who had gathered outside. Every one knew him; his pictures had appeared in the illustrated papers for the last three years—Minton, the Half-Back.
"You had better go over to your room, old chap," he said, addressing Hart; "I will see if I can't straighten matters out. I wouldn't hang around here any more, if I were you."
The big freshman waited a few minutes and ​then, accompanied by three or four of his class, he walked across the campus. Another figure joined them at the corner of the observatory—"Hullo! don't you remember me; I'm Bliss—met you at the Glee Club car," said a cheerful voice.
When Hart reached his little room in Edwards, there was some lettering in green painted upon the door. He did not appear to notice what was written there, as the hall was but dimly lighted.
Bidding his friends good-night, he closed the door behind him and slipped the bolt.
Simeon Tolker Congreve turned to the others who had accompanied him. He struck a match, lighted a cigarette, and then he saw that the lettering had been done within the last few minutes, for the paint was running.
The legend ran, "Cave Canem! Do not touch. This animal is dangerous."
Congreve daubed his finger with the pigment and inscribed beneath, "Q.E.D." "Quod erat demonstrandum, which is a true fact," he added.
"By the horn spoon, I wish he was rooming with me," said L. Putney Betts.
​When the others had gone Hart seated himself on the edge of the narrow little bedstead. He leaned his head forward in his hands. Such a feeling of hopelessness came over him, such a great wave of self-pity and remorse (that he had ever been foolish enough to imagine that a man of his age could adapt himself to a college existence) overwhelmed him to the extent that he could hardly control the bitter curses that came to his lips.
All at once there was a knock on the door. Hart arose. There was a devilish expression in his face. It would have gone hard for any sophomore who would have dared to put his head inside that room.
"By the Lord, I'll kill 'em," said the Westerner, through his clenched teeth. "Who's there?" he called aloud.
"It's I, Franklin," was the answer. "Don't you remember? Omaha, you know."
Hart dropped the little poker which he had taken from the fireplace and opened the door.
"Come in," he said, with an effort to be polite.
Franklin noticed, however, that Hart's hand was shaking nervously as he turned up the ​single gas-jet. He seated himself in the only chair, and Hart leaned back against the bare mantelpiece.
"Well," said Franklin at last, seeing that he was expected to speak first, "how did you pass to-day's examinations, and what do you think of it?"
"I wish to God I had never come," said the ex-deputy-sheriff; "this is no place for a man like me. Why," he added, half smiling and yet angry at the recollection, "they treated me like a pesky tender-foot. I got riled up and got into a rukus with the proctor of the college, I believe. I expect I shall be expelled in the morning. Expelled!" He laughed bitterly. "There 's a fine rocket for you. But I'm very much obliged for all you've done for me, I'm sure."
Franklin stood up. He stepped over and put one hand on Hart's shoulder, but there was no patronizing in the action.
"Look here, old man," he said, " now don't get disgusted. I went through this same thing when I came here, and you may have it for a week, but don't give up. The most of these fellows are not so old as you and I, and look ​at things very differently. You've got to put up with some of it—there's a lot else that will make amends. After what happened to-night you'll never be bothered again. But you must not be above things at the first, whether you like them or not. You will have to enter in somehow and have them over with."
"I don't exactly understand you," said Hart.
"Well, just for instance," said Franklin, "there are things that freshmen are expected to do. Why, Heaven knows, but they've always been done. They steal the clapper out of the bell. They paste what they term 'proclamations' all over the scenery, and very often they behave like hyenas. Now, it is not necessary for you to lead in any of this, you see, but you're a freshman, you know, and your class would not like to be sneered at by one of its own members. After a few weeks, or a month or so, you'll have begun to make your friends. Then you can pick out a line of action for yourself. But if there's any way that you can help without doing any harm, pitch in! It may be amusing or not; but then it's a sort of a duty. Now the cane spree——"
​"What's a cane spree?" inquired Hart.
"Well," said Franklin, "the sophs pick out three men from their class, and you pick out three men from yours. They catch hold of a stick and see who can get it. Of course, you'll be chosen."
"Give me a chance," said Hart, grimly.
Franklin laughed. "You'll get it. You'll get your stick, too, old man," he said.
At this moment there came another knock on the door.
"That's Minton," said the senior, as the half-back came into the room.
"Hullo, Buck," he said; "I've fixed things all right with Matt. There'll be no report made of that affair. Matt thinks you're a 'dindy,'" he said, turning to Hart.
"Hope I didn't hurt him," said the latter.
"That 's just what he said about you," replied the half-back, laughing.
"Oh, I guess I 'm all right."
A voice was heard at this juncture in the hallway. "Throw him down, McCloskey," sung in quick-march time, echoed along the walls.
"Here comes Noisy Tom," said Franklin; ​and Tommy Wilson appeared on the door-sill.
"Hullo, you've not forgotten me?" he exclaimed, coming into the room, with the chorus of the song still on his lips. "Don't you remember in the Glee Club car in Omaha you told me that I imitated a jackass more successfully than any man you ever met."
They all laughed and Tommy began to talk torrents of words. Hart found himself feeling much more at ease, and when they had all shaken hands with him, he bade them good-night and went to bed, relieved of much of the bitterness that he had felt an hour or so previously. But he dreamed that Matt, the proctor, was gunning for him with a revolver, and that Mabel had come on all the way from Oakland to tell him to "look out for himself."
He was awakened the next morning by the ringing of the chapel bell, and as he walked along the pathway he was conscious that he was being pointed out. He had that uncomfortable feeling that people of retiring dispositions have when they are being talked about.
After the services were over he was joined by several young fellows whom he recognized as ​his own classmates, and who apparently esteemed it quite an honor to walk over with him toward the hall in which he was to attend his first recitation.