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      The Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys

      THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

      I

      THE DEPARTURE

      The rain fell in a steady, remorseless drizzle upon the rain-coats and umbrellas of the throng that blocked the sidewalks and overflowed on to the car-tracks; but the fires of patriotism were unquenchable, and a thousand voices arose to the leaden sky in a fierce clamor of intense enthusiasm. It had rained all night. The streets ran water, and the spouts emptied their tides between the feet of the cheerers. The lumbering cars, their crimson sides glistening, clanged their way carefully through the crowds, and lent a dash of color to the scene. The back of Grays loomed cheerless and bleak through the drizzle, and beyond, the college yard lay deserted. In store windows the placards were hidden behind the blurred and misty panes, and farther up the avenue, the tattered red flag above Foster’s hung limp and dripping.

      Under the leafless elm, the barge, filled to overflowing with departing heroes, stood ready for its start to Boston. On the steps, bareheaded and umbrellaless, stood Benham, ’95, who, with outstretched and waving arms, was tempting the throng into ever greater vocal excesses.

      “Now, then, fellows! Three times three for Meredith.”

      “’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah! Meredith!” A thousand throats raised the cry; umbrellas clashed wildly in mid-air; the crowd surged to and fro; horses curveted nervously; and the rain poured down impartially upon the reverend senior and the clamorous freshman.

      “Fellows, you’re not half cheering!” cried the relentless Benham. “Now, three long Harvards, three times three and three long Harvards for the team.”

      “Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’rah, ’rah, ’rah! Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! Team!”

      Inside the coach there was a babel of voices. Members of the eleven leaned out and conversed jerkily with friends on the sidewalk. Valises and suit-cases were piled high in the aisle and held in the owners’ laps. The manager was checking off his list.

      “Cowper?”

      “Here.”

      “Turner?”

      “All right.”

      “Truesdale?”

      “Hey? Oh, yes; I’m here.” The manager folded the list. Then a penciled line on the margin caught his eye.

      “Who’s Jameson? Jameson here?”

      “Should be Jimpson,” corrected the man next to him; and a low voice called from the far end of the barge:

      “Here, sir.” It sounded so much like the response of a schoolboy to the teacher that the hearers laughed with the mirth begot of tight-stretched nerves. A youth wearing a faded brown ulster, who was between Gates, the big center, and the corner of the coach, grew painfully red in the face, and went into retirement behind the big man’s shoulder.

      “Who is this fellow Jimpson?” queried a man in a yellow mackintosh.

      “Jimpson? He’s a freshie. Trying for right half-back all fall. I suppose Brattle took him along, now that Ward’s given up, to substitute Sills. They say he’s an A 1 runner, and plucky. He’s played some on the second eleven. Taunton told me, the other day, that he played great ball at Exeter, last year.”

      The strident strains of the Washington Post burst out on the air, urging the cheerers to even greater efforts. They were cheering indiscriminately now. Trainer, rubbers, and coaches had received their shares of the ovation. But Benham, ’95, with his coat soaked through, was still unsatisfied, and sought for further tests. Two professors, half hidden under umbrellas, had emerged from the yard, and were standing at a little distance, watching the scene.

      “Three times three for Professor Dablee!” The cheers that followed were mixed with laughter, and the two professors moved off, but not until the identity of the second had been revealed, and the air had filled with the refrain of “’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! Pollock!”

      “They look as though they ought to win; don’t you think so?” asked one of them.

      The other professor frowned.

      “Yes, they look like that; every eleven does. You’d think, to see them before a game, that nothing short of a pile-driver or dynamite could drive them an inch. And a few days later they return, heartbroken and defeated.”

      Across the square floated a husky bellow:

      “Now, then, fellows! Once more! All together! Three times three for Harvard!”

      The band played wildly, frenziedly, out of time and tune; the crowd strained its tired throats for one last farewell slogan; the men in the barge waved their hands; the horses jumped forward; a belated riser in Holyoke threw open a front window, and drowsily yelled, “Shut up”; and the Harvard eleven sped on its way up the avenue, and soon became a blur in the gray vista.

      “Say, Bob, you forgot to cheer Jimpson.”

      The wearied youth faced his accuser, struck an attitude indicative of intense despair, and then joyfully seized the opportunity.

      “Fellows! Fellows! Hold on! Three times three for Jim – Jim – who’d you say?”

      “Jimpson,” prompted the friend.

      “Three times three for Jimpson! Now, then, all together!”

      “Say – who is Jimpson?” shouted a dozen voices at once.

      “Don’t know. Don’t care. Three times three for Jimpson!”

      And so that youth, had he but known it, received a cheer, after all. But he didn’t know it – at least, not until long afterward, when cheers meant so much less to him.

      II

      A LETTER