Active Service, Stephen Crane [classic books for 11 year olds TXT] 📗

Ground Or Heart. This Was In order To

Prolong The Conflict.

 

The Combat,  Waged in the Desperation Of Proudest Youth,

Waxed hot And Hotter. The Wedge Had Been Instantly Smitten

Into A Kind Of Block Of Men. It Had Crumpled into An Irregular

Square And On Three Sides It Was Now Assailed with Remarkable

Ferocity.

 

It Was A Matter Of Wall Meet Wall In terrific Rushes,  During

Which Lads Could Feel Their Very Hearts Leaving them In the

Compress Of Friends And Foes. They On The Outskirts Upheld The

Honour Of Their Classes By Squeezing into Paper Thickness The

Lungs Of Those Of Their Fellows Who Formed the Centre Of The

Melee

 

In Some Way It Resembled a Panic At A Theatre.

 

The First Lance-Like Attack Of The Sophomores Had Been

Formidable,  But The Freshmen Outnumbering their Enemies And

Smarting from Continual Sophomoric Oppression,  Had Swarmed

To The Front Like Drilled collegians And Given The Arrogant Foe The

First Serious Check Of The Year. Therefore The Tall Gothic

Windows Which Lined one Side Of The Corridor Looked down

Upon As Incomprehensible And Enjoyable A Tumult As Could

Mark The Steps Of Advanced education. The Seniors And Juniors

Cheered themselves Ill. Long Freed from The Joy Of Such

Meetings,  Their Only Means For This Kind Of Recreation Was To

Involve The Lower Classes,  And They Had Never Seen The Victims

Fall To With Such Vigour And Courage. Bits Of Printed leaves,

Torn Note-Books,  Dismantled collars And Cravats,  All Floated to

The Floor Beneath The Feet Of The Warring hordes. There Were No

Blows; It Was A Battle Of Pressure. It Was A Deadly Pushing

Where The Leaders On Either Side Often Suffered the Most Cruel

And Sickening agony Caught Thus Between Phalanxes Of

Shoulders With Friend As Well As Foe Contributing to The Pain.

 

Charge After Charge Of Freshmen Beat Upon The Now

Compact And Organised sophomores. Then,  Finally,  The Rock

Began To Give Slow Way. A Roar Came From The Freshmen And

They Hurled themselves In a Frenzy Upon Their Betters.

 

To Be Under The Gaze Of The Juniors And Seniors Is

To Be In sight Of All Men,  And So The Sophomores At This

Important Moment Laboured with The Desperation Of The Half-

Doomed to Stem The Terrible Freshmen.

 

In The Kind Of Game,  It Was The Time When Bad Tempers Came

Strongly To The Front,  And In many Sophomores' Minds A

Thought Arose Of The Incomparable Insolence Of The Freshmen.

A Blow Was Struck; An Infuriated sophomore Had Swung An

Arm High And Smote A Freshman.

 

Although It Had Seemed that No Greater Noise Could Be Made

By The Given Numbers,  The Din That Succeeded this Manifestation

Surpassed everything. The Juniors And Seniors Immediately Set

Up An Angry Howl. These Veteran Classes Projected themselves

Into The Middle Of The Fight,  Buffeting everybody With Small

Thought As To Merit. This Method Of Bringing peace Was As

Militant As A Landslide,  But They Had Much Trouble Before They

Could Separate The Central Clump Of Antagonists Into Its Parts.

A Score Of Freshmen Had Cried out: "It Was Coke. Coke Punched

Him. Coke." A Dozen Of Them Were Tempestuously Endeavouring

To Register Their Protest Against Fisticuffs By Means Of An

Introduction Of More Fisticuffs.

 

The Upper Classmen Were Swift,  Harsh And Hard. "Come,  Now,

Freshies,  Quit It. Get Back,  Get Back,  D'Y'Hear?" With A Wrench Of

Muscles They Forced themselves In front Of Coke,  Who Was

Being blindly Defended by His Classmates From Intensely Earnest

Attacks By Outraged freshmen.

 

These Meetings Between The Lower Classes At The Door Of A

Recitation Room Were Accounted quite Comfortable And Idle

Affairs,  And A Blow Delivered openly And In hatred fractured a

Sharply Defined rule Of Conduct. The Corridor Was In a Hubbub.

Many Seniors And Juniors,  Bursting from Old And Iron Discipline,

Wildly Clamoured that Some Freshman Should Be Given The

Privilege Of A Single Encounter With Coke. The Freshmen

Themselves Were Frantic. They Besieged the Tight And Dauntless

Circle Of Men That Encompassed coke. None Dared confront The

Seniors Openly,  But By Headlong Rushes At Auspicious Moments

They Tried to Come To Quarters With The Rings Of Dark-Browed

Sophomores. It Was No Longer A Festival,  A Game; It Was A Riot.

Coke,  Wild-Eyed,  Pallid With Fury,  A Ribbon Of Blood On His Chin,

Swayed in the Middle Of The Mob Of His Classmates,  Comrades

Who Waived the Ethics Of The Blow Under The Circumstance Of

Being obliged as A Corps To Stand Against The Scorn Of The Whole

College,  As Well As Against The Tremendous Assaults Of The

Freshmen. Shamed by Their Own Man,  But Knowing full Well The

Right Time And The Wrong Time For A Palaver Of Regret And

Disavowal,  This Battalion Struggled in the Desperation Of

Despair. Once They Were Upon The Verge Of Making unholy

Campaign Against The Interfering seniors. This Fiery

Impertinence Was The Measure Of Their State.

 

It Was A Critical Moment In the Play Of The College. Four Or

Five Defeats From The Sophomores During the Fall Had Taught The

Freshmen Much. They Had Learned the Comparative

Measurements,  And They Knew Now That Their Prowess Was Ripe

To Enable Them To Amply Revenge What Was,  According to Their

Standards,  An Execrable Deed by A Man Who Had Not The Virtue

To Play The Rough Game,  But Was Obliged to Resort To Uncommon

Methods. In short,  The Freshmen Were Almost Out Of Control,  And

The Sophomores Debased but Defiant,  Were Quite Out Of Control.

The Senior And Junior Classes Which,  In american Colleges

Dictate In these Affrays,  Found Their Dignity Toppling,  And In

Consequence There Was A Sudden Oncome Of The Entire Force Of

Upper Classmen Football Players Naturally In advance. All

Distinctions Were Dissolved at Once In a General Fracas. The Stiff

And Still Gothic Windows Surveyed a Scene Of Dire Carnage.

 

Suddenly A Voice Rang Brazenly Through The Tumult. It Was

Not Loud,  But It Was Different. " Gentlemen! Gentlemen!'"

Instantly There Was A Remarkable Number Of Haltings,  Abrupt

Replacements,  Quick Changes. Prof. Wainwright Stood At The

Door Of His Recitation Room,  Looking into The Eyes Of Each

Member Of The Mob Of Three Hundred. "Ssh! " Said The Mob. "

Ssh! Quit! Stop! It'S The Embassador! Stop!" He Had Once

Been Minister To Austro-Hungary,  And Forever Now To

The Students Of The College His Name Was Embassador. He

Stepped into The Corridor,  And They Cleared for Him A Little

Respectful Zone Of Floor. He Looked about Him Coldly. " It Seems

Quite A General Dishevelment. The Sophomores Display An

Energy In the Halls Which I Do Not Detect In the Class Room." A

Feeble Murmur Of Appreciation Arose From The Outskirts Of The

Throng. While He Had Been Speaking several Remote Groups Of

Battling men Had Been Violently Signaled and Suppressed by

Other Students. The Professor Gazed into Terraces Of Faces That

Were Still Inflamed. " I Needn'T Say That I Am Surprised," He

Remarked in the Accepted rhetoric Of His Kind. He Added

Musingly: " There Seems To Be A Great Deal Of Torn Linen. Who Is

The Young Gentleman With Blood On His Chin?"

 

The Throng Moved restlessly. A Manful Silence,  Such As

Might Be In the Tombs Of Stern And Honourable Knights,  Fell

Upon The Shadowed corridor. The Subdued rustling had Fainted

To Nothing. Then Out Of The Crowd Coke,  Pale And Desperate,

Delivered himself.

 

" Oh,  Mr. Coke," Said The Professor,  "I Would Be Glad If You

Would Tell The Gentlemen They May Retire To Their Dormitories."

He Waited while The Students Passed out To The Campus.

 

The Professor Returned to His Room For Some Books,  And

Then Began His Own March Across The Snowy

Campus. The Wind Twisted his Coat-Tails Fantastically,  And He

Was Obliged to Keep One Hand Firmly On The Top Of His Hat.

When He Arrived home He Met His Wife In the Hall. " Look Here,

Mary," He Cried. She Followed him Into The Library. " Look Here,"

He Said. "What Is This All About? Marjory Tells Me She Wants To

Marry Rufus Coleman."

 

Mrs. Wainwright Was A Fat Woman Who Was Said To Pride

Herself Upon Being very Wise And If Necessary,  Sly. In addition

She Laughed continually In an Inexplicably Personal Way,  Which

Apparently Made Everybody Who Heard Her Feel Offended. Mrs.

Wainwright Laughed.

 

"Well," Said The Professor,  Bristling,  " What Do You Mean By

That ? "

 

"Oh,  Harris," She Replied. " Oh,  Harris."

 

The Professor Straightened in his Chair. " I Do Not See Any

Illumination In those Remarks,  Mary. I Understand From

Marjory'S Manner That She Is Bent Upon Marrying rufus

Coleman. She Said You Knew Of It."

 

" Why,  Of Course I Knew. It Was As Plain---"

 

" Plain !" Scoffed the Professor. " Plain !"

 

Why,  Of Course," She Cried. "I Knew It All Along."

 

There Was Nothing in her Tone Which Proved that She

Admired the Event Itself. She Was Evidently Carried away By The

Triumph Of Her Penetration. " I Knew It All Along," She Added,

Nodding.

 

The Professor Looked at Her Affectionately. "You Knew It All

Along,  Then,  Mary? Why Didn'T You Tell Me,  Dear ? "

 

" Because You Ought To Have Known It," She Answered

Blatantly.

 

The Professor Was Glaring. Finally He Spoke In tones Of Grim

Reproach. "Mary,  Whenever You Happen To Know Anything,

Dear,  It Seems Only A Matter Of Partial Recompense That You

Should Tell Me."

 

The Wife Had Been Taught In a Terrible School That She Should

Never Invent Any Inexpensive Retorts Concerning bookworms

And So She Yawed at Once. "Really,  Harris. Really,  I Didn'T

Suppose The Affair Was Serious. You Could Have Knocked me

Down With A Feather. Of Course He Has Been Here Very Often,  But

Then Marjory Gets A Great Deal Of Attention. A Great Deal Of

Attention."

The Professor Had Been Thinking. " Rather Than Let My Girl

Marry That Scalawag,  I'Ll Take You And Her To Greece This Winter

With The Class. Separation. It Is A Sure Cure That Has The

Sanction Of Antiquity."

 

"Well," Said Mrs. Wainwright,  "You Know Best,  Harris. You

Know Best." It Was A Common Remark With Her,  And It Probably

Meant Either Approbation Or Disapprobation If It Did Not Mean

Simple Discretion.

Chapter 3

There Had Been A Babe With No Arms Born In one Of The

Western Counties Of Massachusetts. In place Of Upper Limbs The

Child Had Growing from Its Chest A Pair Of Fin-Like Hands,  Mere

Bits Of Skin-Covered bone. Furthermore,  It Had Only One Eye.

This Phenomenon Lived four Days,  But The News Of The Birth

Had Travelled up This Country Road And Through That Village Until

It Reached the Ears Of The Editor Of The Michaelstown Tribune.

He Was Also A Correspondent Of The New York Eclipse. On The

Third Day He Appeared at The Home Of The Parents Accompanied

By A Photographer. While The Latter Arranged his,  Instrument,

The Correspondent Talked to The Father And Mother,  Two

Coweyed and Yellow-Faced people Who Seemed to Suffer A

Primitive Fright Of The Strangers. Afterwards As The

Correspondent And The Photographer Were Climbing into Their

Buggy,  The Mother Crept Furtively Down To The Gate And Asked,

In A Foreigner'S Dialect,  If They Would Send Her A Copy Of The

Photograph. The Correspondent Carelessly Indulgent,  Promised

It. As The Buggy Swung Away,  The Father Came From Behind An

Apple Tree,  And The Two Semi-Humans Watched it With Its Burden

Of Glorious Strangers Until It Rumbled across

The Bridge And Disappeared. The Correspondent Was Elate; He

Told The Photographer That The Eclipse Would Probably Pay Fifty

Dollars For The Article And The Photograph.

 

The Office Of The New York Eclipse Was At The Top Of The Immense

Building on Broadway. It Was A Sheer Mountain To The Heights Of

Which The Interminable Thunder Of The Streets Arose Faintly. The

Hudson Was A Broad Path Of Silver In the Distance. Its Edge Was

Marked by The Tracery Of Sailing ships' Rigging and By The Huge

And Many-Coloured stacks Of Ocean Liners. At The Foot Of The

Cliff Lay City Hall Park. It Seemed no Larger Than A Quilt. The

Grey Walks Patterned the Snow-Covering into Triangles And Ovals

And Upon Them Many Tiny People Scurried here And There,  Without

Sound,  Like A Fish At The Bottom Of A Pool. It Was Only The

Vehicles That Sent High,  Unmistakable,  The Deep Bass Of Their

Movement. And Yet After Listening one Seemed to Hear A Singular

Murmurous Note,  A Pulsation,