The Girl and the Game and Other College Stories/Talks with a Kid Brother/Concerning Horse Play
CONCERNING HORSE PLAY
I hear they have been electing you president, or is it manager, of one of the teams—what's that? Only assistant manager, is it? Same thing; as you are to be graduated into full importance of managership next year.
How did I find out about it? Not from you; you said nothing about this momentous matter in your last letter. But it wasn't necessary. I am a fairly intelligent American citizen; I keep in touch with the more important developments of civilization. This piece of history was spread broadcast to the metropolitan newspapers—took its place along with news of Congress' action about that little Philippine matter, and the trouble with the Northern Pacific and the attempt at assassination of some foreign potentate or other, who wasn't important enough for me to remember.
Think how proud I must be! I am his brother. "I knew him when." Didn't I point this item out to every one within hail of my chair at the club? And when I finally put the paper down I left it on the table folded over at that place so the next man who picked up that copy would be sure to see the news about the family—only just then along came Peter, a most unimaginative servant, who smoothed it out straight again, just as if it were an ordinary newspaper. Say, Dick, you ought to subscribe to a clipping bureau now; think of the number of times your name will be in the papers during the next two years: "At the close of the meeting, Manager Dickie was asked to make a statement, but declined to discuss the matter." Ah! "declined to discuss the matter!" Think of waving the reporters aside magnificently, jumping into a cab and dashing away with an important scowl upon your brow! Been bothered with many requests from boarding-school girls for your autograph?
"Horse you?" I wouldn't do that for the world. Quit grinning and looking foolish. No. You needn't wear that resigned look of silent suffering either. I'm not going to preach to you against the danger of a swelled head. You fellows are keen enough about spotting symptoms of swelled head in one another. Sometimes you overdo the thing. Now, there was Chesty Chisholm.
A charming fellow; not prominent, like you—that's right, blush and dodge behind yourself—but a nice, normal chap, of more than average intelligence and breeding, who had an efficient sense of humor and therefore a fairly adequate appreciation of the mutual attitude and interrelations of himself and the universe. But he had an odd gait, carried his shoulders with a conceited swing, looked chesty. So they called him "Chesty."
This is a good illustration, by the way, of how some fellows get an undeserved reputation. He inherited this peculiarity from his father, class of 'sixty-something—his father was back here for a reunion one Commencement and we noticed that he walked in exactly the same way. But Chesty did not know he had an odd walk, and, for that matter, he did not worry much over being called Chesty—until he was more than halfway through his college course.
One night in the spring of his Junior year a gang of his pals happened to be passing by—I believe this is the way the thing began—when one of them saw Chesty standing at his window, and so naturally bawled out, "Hello-o, Chesty Chisholm!" Chesty looked down at them and nodded. "Hello, you fellows," he remarked casually.
"Hello-o, Chesty Chisholm," yelled another of the gang.
"Hello, Chesty Chisholm," bellowed a third—you know how I mean. Then, being in a jocular mood, they all began shouting it together in a way that would seem very foolish to older people who are not in sympathy with youth, or certain youths who are as self-possessed as they are self-conscious.
Chesty stood at the window grinning at these wild Indians for a moment, and then telling them where to go or some other proper or improper retort, slammed the window and thought that was the end of a little episode like hundreds of campus episodes which happen nightly. But the next night the same gang happened to be coming home from the grill-room and the same thing happened again.
This time some other fellows across the quadrangle, hearing the racket, poked their heads out of their open windows and also yelled, "Hello, Chesty Chisholm." Then some others way down on the back campus, being tired of poling, and desirous of a diversion, echoed the refrain from the distance. Chesty grinned, kept on undressing and went to sleep. That was the last good sleep he had for two weeks. As soon as he appeared the next day the gang reminiscently saluted him from a distance in the same manner. For no reason in the world except that they felt like it they continued to do so. By nightfall all of his classmates were shouting, "Hello-o, Chesty Chisholm," whether they spied him a quarter of a mile away or did not see him at all. After that everybody, whether friends of his or not, took it up like a war cry. Even under-classmen joined in who did not know him, except by sight as a man who looked stuck on himself. On the way to lectures, coming back from the club or at the close of baseball practice, some one would think to shout, "Hello, Chesty Chisholm"; then some one else, then every one would echo it. After Senior singing the front campus sounded like a riot. No one had anything against him, you know, but it seemed worth while to join in the chorus.
He stood it pretty well for a while; smiled and went on about his business, swinging his shoulders; but eventually it got on his nerves. He wondered why they did it; hadn't thought much about himself before; and decided that there must be something queer about him. He tried to keep out of the way as much as possible; stuck to his room—even there he could hear them yell when any one in the crowd thought to start it going. Came late to his meals. If they helloed at him he grinned outside, but within he winced.
One day he did not appear at the club at all. After dinner some of the gang went up to see if he were ill. They found him standing over a half-packed trunk.
"Where're you going, Chesty?" they asked.
"Thought I'd take a little trip," he said.
"Why, see here, your books are all boxed up!"
"Yes, boxed up."
"Do you mean to leave college entirely?"
"Yes, I'm leaving."
"What in thunder are you doing that for?"
Finally they got it out of him.
"Oh, there's nothing tragic about it," he added, flushing. "You needn't look at me that way. I suppose I could stick it out if I wanted to, but I don't care to. It doesn't pay, that's all. I've had about enough. Everybody yells at me all day and most of the night. It's a damned nuisance. So I'm leaving. Good-by. I've got to finish packing."
Well, of course he wasn't allowed to do any more packing that evening. But, do you know, he was so determined that it took them half the night to dissuade him. They had to drag him by main force out of the room. Then, while the rest unpacked his things, two of his best friends took him off and filled him up with a good supper, and afterward walked him away out into the country and talked him out of it. For the first time in his life he found out how well he was liked. Next day, of course, they spread the tip among the class to let up on Chesty. The novelty of the gag had worn off by this time, anyway, so it was comparatively easy to silence the rest of the college by hisses and loud orders to "cut it out" whenever anybody began it. So it gradually ceased entirely and every one forgot all about it. But no one, except his intimate friends, knows how near they came to queering the college course of a man they liked and respected—all because they did not know when to stop their "horsing."
That, of course, is an extreme case, but all the same from my observation the modern young man is not so often hampered by conceit as by the lack of it. Of course, we all know exceptions—and exceptions are always more obtrusive, or else they wouldn't be exceptions. But, at any rate, there has been quite enough said already about the assurance of youth; and so, though it always goes, I don't intend to join in. Youth and conceit are supposed to dash blindly forward, hand in hand; that is proverbial, but if proverbs are sound they must teach something—that is the object of proverbs, isn't it? Well, by this time I believe youth has learned a little from this one. If not, then it isn't worth teaching: Q. E. D. either way. Most of you overwork the modest act. "Oh, my, no! really I am of no account—I can't do anything—please let me crawl into my hole and hide," seems to be your attitude.
Sometimes it takes several years out of college to get over it; more than once I've seen a young man sort of wake up suddenly, when he has found himself, rub his eyes and seem to say, "Well, for Heaven's sake! why didn't I realize this before!"
Just between you and me there is a great deal more Simon-pure overweening conceit among men of my age, or, say, when they're a little older and have begun to take on fat. And to my mind this calm, impenetrable self-satisfaction, this fatty degeneration of the ego, is much more absurd than the yawping, barking confidence of the pup-like age, which at worst is merely amusing.
The fact is, I sometimes wonder how you fellows can keep on listening with so much respectful patience when these old boys come down here and blow off the same old hot-air bombast. But how did we stand it? I can see them now standing before us, smiling kindly, a frock coat buttoned tight across the stomach to make it look like a chest, and seeming to say, "Am I not (as my wife tells me) a fine figure of a man!" as they let fly at us about youth and its futile dreams of conquering the world; "I know how it is, I was once a young man myself (astonishing thought!) I, too, have trod yonder classic, elm-shaded paths," and so on as usual. We used to sit very still and try to look duly impressed as became our youth and inexperience. But sometimes I couldn't help thinking, suppose we did not know our place, suppose instead of holding our peace and filing out modestly while he beamed down upon us with a patronizing smirk, pronouncing us a fine, manly, modest lot—just suppose we were to let loose and say, "Hi there! Fatty, don't judge us by yourself. Simply because you happened to be a conceited prig in college it does not necessarily follow that all of us are. You were a young man at the most artificial period of the century. You read Byron and took Bulwer Lytton seriously, and sat on horse-hair sofas, and curled incipient side-whiskers before ugly walnut bureaus. What do you know about us anyway! But you do know something about the real world, presumably; why don't you give us some straight talk about that. What we, who are kids, want from you, who are men, is a little substantial encouragement once in a while, a little assurance that there's a fighting chance for a fellow across the great divide; not so much discounting of the future and a little more faith in it. Give us something solid to take hold of, to fasten on to, to live by—then we'll rise up and call you blessed."
But nowadays, Dick, I find myself on certain occasions assuming the same irritating note. You will come to it yourself some day. In Freshman year you thought you would always be above "horsing," but when you came to Sophomore year you did it too—was it to get your revenge?