"Candidate from the freshman class!"
"Candidate!"
"Robinson!"
"Teddy Robinson!"
"Harris!"
"No, Robinson—Robinson!"
Gimbel's voice dominated the outcry. There was a surging, and then a splitting of the crowd, and Robinson was slung into the ring.
In the midst of contending cheers, the antagonists stripped to the belt and stood forth to shake hands, their bared torsos shining in high lights against the mingled shadows of the audience.
The two, equally matched in skill, went tumbling and whirling over the matted sod, twisting and flopping, until by a sudden hold Robinson caught his adversary in a half nelson and for the brief part of a second had the two shoulders touching the ground. The second round likewise went to the freshman, who was triumphant after a struggle of twenty minutes.
"Middleweights!"
"Candidate from the sophomore class!"
"Candidate from the freshman!"
"Fisher!"
"Denny Fisher!"
The sophomore stepped forth, tall, angular, well knit. Among the freshmen a division of opinion arose:
"Say, Andover, who've you got?"
"Any one from Hotchkiss?"
"What's the matter with French?"
"He doesn't know a thing about wrestling."
"How about Doc White?"
"Not heavy enough."
The seniors began to be impatient.
"Hurry up, now, freshmen, hurry up!"
"Produce something!"
Still a hopeless indecision prevailed.
"I don't know any one."
"Jack's too heavy."
"Say, you Hill School fellows, haven't you got some one?"
"Some one's got to go out."
The sophomores, seizing the advantage, began to gibe at them:
"Don't be afraid, freshmen!"
"We won't hurt you."
"We'll let you down easy."
"Take it by default."
"Call time on them."
"I don't know a thing about it," said Stover, between his teeth, to Hungerford, his hands twitching impatiently, his glance fixed hungrily on the provokingly amused face of the sophomore champion.
"I'm too heavy or I'd go."
"I've a mind to go, all the same."
McCarthy, who knew his impulses of old, seized him by the arm.
"Don't get excited, Dink, old boy; you don't know anything about wrestling."
"No, but I can scrap!"
The outcry became an uproar:
"Quitters!"
"'Fraid cats!"
"Poor little freshmen!"
"They're in a funk."
"By George, I can't stand that," said Stover, setting his teeth, the old love of combat sweeping over him. "I'm going to have a chance at that duck myself!"
He thrust his way forward, shaking off McCarthy's hold, stepped over the reclining front ranks, and, springing into the ring, faced Dana.
"I'm no wrestler, sir, but if there's no one else I'll have a try at it."
There was a sudden hush, and then a chorus:
"Who is it?"
"Who's that fellow?"
"What's his name?"
"Oh, freshmen, who's your candidate?"
"Stover!"
"Stover, a football man!"
"Fellow from Lawrenceville!"
The seniors had him over in a corner, stripping him, talking excitedly.
"Say, Stover, what do you know about it?"
"Not a thing."
"Then go in and attack."
"All right."
"Don't wait for him."
"No."
"He's a clever wrestler, but you can get his nerve."
"His nerve?"
"Keep off the ground."
"Off the ground, yes."
"Go right in; right at him; tackle him hard; shake him up."
"All right," he said, for the tenth time. He had heard nothing that had been said. He was standing erect, looking in a dazed way at the hundreds of eyes that were dancing about him in the living, breathing pit in which he stood. He heard a jumble of roars and cheers, and one clear cry, McCarthy crying:
"Good old Dink!"
Some one was rolling up his trousers to the knee; some one was flinging a sweater over his bared back; some one was whispering in his ear:
"Get right to him. Go for him—don't wait!"
"Already, there," said Captain Dana's quiet, matter-of-fact voice.
"Already, here."
"Shake hands!"
The night air swept over him with a sudden chill as the sweaters were pulled away. He went forth while Dana ran over the rules and regulations, which he did not understand at all. He stood then about five feet ten, in perfect condition, every muscle clearly outlined against the wiry, spare Yankee frame, shoulders and the sinews of his arms extraordinarily developed. From the moment he had stepped out, his eyes had never left Fisher's. Combat transformed his features, sending all the color from his face, narrowing the eyes, and drawing tense the lips. Combat was with him always an overmastering rage in the leash of a cold, nervous, pulsating logic, which by the very force of its passion gave to his expression an almost dispassionate cruelty—a look not easy to meet, that somehow, on the instant, impressed itself on the crowd with the terrific seriousness of the will behind.
"Wiry devil."
"Good shoulders."
"Great fighting face, eh?"
"Scrapper, all right."
"I'll bet he is."
"Shake hands!"
Stover caught the other's hand, looked into his eyes, read something there that told him, science aside, that he was the other's master; and suddenly, rushing forward, he caught him about the knees and, lifting him bodily in the air, hurled him through the circle in a terrific tackle.
The onslaught was so sudden that Fisher, unable to guard himself, went down with a crash, the fall broken by the bodies of the spectators.
A roar, half laughter, half hysteria, went up.
"Go for him!"
"Good boy, Stover!"
"Chew him up!"
"Is he a scrapper!"
"Say, this is a fight!"
"Wow!"
Dana, clapping them on the shoulders, brought them back to the center of the ring