Hike and the aeroplane

Such was the song that sounded below the windows of Hike and Poodle, as they sat studying in their room, at ten of the evening.

“This is getting to be too much,” growled Hike. “Some one’s going to get hurt.”

Poodle looked at him shyly. He scarcely knew this savage, stern young man, this new Hike.

There was a sound as of many boys talking all at once, below; then Pink Eye Morrison, president of the Senior Class, rushed in.

“The Seniors below,” he panted. “You fellows are to come down and get hazed—good and plenty!”

“Say, this is a little too much,” said Hike, quietly. “I’m getting pretty fairly tired of this being kidded for having done fairly decent work with a machine that most of you fellows would be scared to look at. Come ahead, you fellows, and I’ll lick as many of you as I can. But hazed—us, Sophomores? No, indeed. Ring off—you’ve got the wrong number.”

“Why, you poor nut—” began Pink Eye, when Poodle interrupted.

“Say, Hike, you’ve got the wrong idea. This is a Hazing Extraordinary, isn’t it, Morrison?”

Pink Eye nodded. Poodle went on:

“Don’t you remember hearing about how a Sophomore got hazed by the Senior Class two years ago, because he was really a darn nice fellow, only everybody was kidding him, and the Seniors wanted the kidding to wind up in a grand jamboree, and then stop? Stop absolute. Ain’t that the idea here, Morrison?”

“Of course,” snapped Pink Eye. “No more references to aviation after to-night unless you want them. Why, Hike, you young goat, do you suppose we’d honor you with a Hazing Extraordinary and take the trouble to stop all this kidding unless we liked you?”

Hike held out his hand to Pink Eye, and gave him one of his rarest smiles—one of those smiles so filled with strength and kindness and affection that no one could resist.

“I was a fool,” said he.

“’S all right,” said Morrison. “Hustle up, you fellows, get into pink pajamas—or blue or something, if you haven’t got pink—and come on. The theory of a Hazing Extraordinary is that we crooly snatch you out of bed, see?”

Below, the Seniors were singing the hazing-ditty again, and bellowing, “On with ’em. Where’s the victims. Hurry ’em, Pink Eye.”

The Seniors were led by the most prominent boys in the class—fellows like Pink Eye, president of the class; the noble Taffy Bingham, champion wrestler of the school and right tackle of the school team; Gimlet Jones, the prize scholar, who would probably win the school scholarship, that year, and go to Yale; Bunk Tarver, football player and class clown; and big Bill McDever, captain of the school football-team.

Finally, Hike and Poodle appeared below, followed by a crowd of under-classmen, wondering what was up; marveling at the hazing of Sophomores.

The culprits were marched out to the open space behind Fig Tree Major, where the Senior Class formed in a ring. Behind them appeared the Juniors, with Sophomores at the rear, keeping the Freshmen back.

Pink Eye Morrison had put on a foolish wig and a more foolish black gown, hastily made out of a deceased overcoat-lining. He sat on his haunches, the most dignified judge that ever scowled at a criminal. Taffy Bingham, the wrestler, was the State’s Attorney; Gimlet Jones, Santa Benicia’s prize scholar, the attorney for the prisoners.

“May it please Your Dishonor,” orated Taffy Bingham, “the State charges these two wang-footed chumps with criminal conspiracy against the peace and class-feeling of Santa Benicia Academy. By indulging in actions which have given them wide notoriety, they have shown their opinion that a Sophomore is as good as a Senior. It is with pleasure that I have seen their classmates showing disapproval of such actions, but the State feels that only by proper punishment visited by the Senior Class can they be brought to their senses.

“That their actions would readily lead to a complete revolt of the whole school, no sane nobleman or Senior could doubt. Tears come to my ears as I think of what may happen. Freshmen carrying canes. Sophomores spending some time in study and letting the team go to pot. Juniors learning to smoke hay-seed. Such are the horrors we may expect if we permit these ring-leaders to go on with their criminal actions.

“Your Dishonor, the State expects to prove that not only did these prisoners fly in the businesses called aeroplanes, but also say to reporters that they expected to discover the lost Atlantis in them, when all the world knows that Morgan Shuster discovered Atlantis, and hid it in the woodshed of the Headmaster at Yale, where it is to remain till a celebrated restaurant in Waterloo, Iowa, buys it for hash. Need I say more? Deliberately, these children, these—pardon the word—these brats, have set themselves up over Peary and Borup and Cap’n Scott. Talking to reporters! And them Sophomores! Sophomores!

“Furthermore, we shall prove by incompetent witnesses that they were seen last night trying to fly over to Mount Diablo in an aeroplane constructed of curtains swiped from the reception-room, with the Headmaster’s coffee-percolator for an engine. Need I say more? (Shut up, Pink Eye, or I’ll drool all night!)”

And Attorney Taffy Bingham sat down with great majesty. Gimlet Jones, for the prisoners, spoke shortly and to the point. Gimlet was noted for his eccentricity. If he had been expected to speak seriously, he would probably have made fun of the whole trial; but as he was expected to make fun of his clients, he said, very seriously:

“Your Honor, why doesn’t this fool class do something original? Everybody expects us to kid these two Sophomores as much as we can. Why not admit that every last one of us is plain jealous of their bully flights? Why not admit, officially, what we all know, that Santa Benicia Academy has never even begun to have anything to be so proud of as it should be of these two fellows?”

There was silence all through the crowd as Gimlet sat down. In the wavering torch-light, the class looked considerably embarrassed. Then Taffy Bingham, champion wrestler, lost his head at what he considered spoiling their sport. He walked over to Hike, deliberately slapped Hike’s face, and roared, “That’s what I think of your blooming hero, Gimlet, you fool.”

Hike stood up, very quick but very quiet. “You’ll fight me for that, Taffy,” he said, “and you’ll get good and plenty licked. That wasn’t part of the game. I’ll punch you now or afterwards, whichever you want.”

“Wait till afterwards,” urged Gimlet, the only one besides Poodle who had heard Hike’s low words.

“All right,” said Hike, and sat down, while Taffy walked back to his place, white with passion.

Everybody pretended not to have seen the slap, and Taffy went on, as calmly as he could, to call the first witness. This witness was a new member of the Senior Class, who had spent the first three years of his prep. at San Dinero. Taffy explained that, as the new Senior knew nothing at all about the case, he would certainly be unprejudiced. Thus it went:

Taffy: Did or did not the prisoners eat chocolate while ’planing to Mount Diablo with the reception-room curtains?

Gimlet: I object, Y’r Honor. Leading question.

Judge Pink Eye: ’Jection ov’ruled.

Witness: Yes, said the tomcat.

Taffy: There, do you see? Now, witness, did or did not this Griffin wear spats when on Broadway?

Pink Eye (sleepily): ’Jection ov’ruled.

Taffy: Shut up, you goat. Gwan, witness.

Witness: There should have been a fire-escape.

Taffy: That’s all right; beat it, witness. If Gimlet tries to cross-examine you, take the third turning to the right, beyond the ribbon counter. Your Dishonor, the State’s case rests.

Pink Eye: Got any witnesses, Gimlet?

Gimlet: Taffy Bingham’s witness enough for me.

Pink Eye: Guilty. Of—well, whatever it was they were charged—

Gimlet: Hey, hold on, Your Honor; we ain’t summed up yet, and besides, we forgot to get a jury, in the first place.

The Class (with one voice): Dry up, Gimlet. Let His Honor talk.

Pink Eye: Guilty, I said. I sentence them to a general hazing. First, they must get up before us and show us just how they run these cute little aeroplanes of theirs. Then, each of them must beat it around and beg the pardon of each member of the class, and not repeat themselves, either. Also, each Senior shall say something real cute and witty to ’em. But first, there’s a Senior Class school edict, to be read by the school idiot—school crier, I mean. Let ’er go, Bunk.

Bunk Tarver: O yez, o yez, ten times. Listen, especially all youse Sophomores on the side lines (Reads): “This ‘Trial and Punishment Extraordinary’ will be enough to take it out of Griffin and Darby for having the cheek to get notorious; and any one that jollies them, after this, will get Senior Disfavor, also the Grand Queer. They’re good fellows and good Santa Benicians and they are not to get kidded. This strictly goes. Signed by the whole Senior Class.”

“Now for the aeroplane,” shouted the Seniors. Chairs and sheets and golf sticks and a chafing dish and an automobile horn and a whole junk shop of other foolish things were handed into the center of the ring. Out of these, Hike and Poodle had to construct an aeroplane, and show how to fly it, while the Seniors let loose with all the insults of which, just then, they were able to think:

“How does the Army get along without you? How soon do you start teaching Captain Beck how to fly? When’s Vedrines goin’ to learn from you? Did you leave any air for the rest of us to fly in?”

When, finally, Hike and Poodle went solemnly around the Seniors and begged pardon of each for having dared to be born, the Hazing Extraordinary broke up joyously, with whoops and cheers—good, hearty, admiring cheers—for Hike and Poodle, in which the other classes joined. Most of the boys headed for their room and bedsteads.

Most—not all. Hike and Poodle, Taffy Bingham and Bunk Tarver of the Senior Class, and five others—two Sophomores and three Seniors—stood quietly waiting, under Fig Tree Major. When the Yard was quiet, and the lights had most of them gone out, Hike and Taffy quietly advanced into the center of the open space and shook hands.

Bunk Tarver, appointed referee, remarked, “As I get it, you two nuts want to fight because Taffy lost his head over Gimlet’s renigging on the trial and slapped Griffin. Now, understand, there’s to be no bad blood after this fight. This ends the whole thing, right now. One minute rounds and one minute rest between. No clinching. GO AHEAD!”

Just then happened the most surprising thing of all the many night fights that the wise old Fig Tree Major had seen beneath its crown.

Hike Griffin had been doing things rather different from the ordinary Santa Benicia ways, all summer. He had been working against and with a bunch of men who hit hard and quickly. So, instead of the timid circling with which an under-classman usually began a fight with a Senior, Hike waded in at once. No sparring—simply a quick right swing to the point of Taffy’s jaw which jolted him terrifically. The wrestler, used to taking it more easily, made a foolish pat at the air, and got a rib-roaster for his pains. Then Hike bored in with a cruel blow he had learned in boxing with Jack Adeler. He swung for Taffy’s jaw, apparently missed, and brought back his right with a back-hand which brought Taffy staggering to his knees, just as Bunk Tarver shouted “Time.”

Taffy rose slowly, and Bunk declared, “Fight’s over. No use going on with it. Griffin, you’re all to the good. Taffy, old man, sorry, but you’ll have to apologize.”

Taffy started to growl a protest at the decision, but Bunk cut in, “I’m referee.”

“That’s right,” declared Pink Eye Morrison.

“Well,” Taffy rowed, “I ain’t going to apologize—”

“Don’t, old man,” Hike astonished them all by saying. “I’ll apologize. I know how it was—you forgot yourself; you weren’t really intending to insult me. I’m sorry I got hot-headed over it; especially bein’ ’s I think these duel-fights are mostly foolish. Of course, if you want to fight on, I’m game; but I don’t see any use of it. I’m sorry I started all the row, Bingham. Let’s shake hands.”

Still feeling very much jolted by Hike’s backhander, still resentful at having been whipped, Taffy shook hands; and the group broke up.

“Gee, that was great!” Poodle caroled as he trotted back, beside Hike. “How you did lam—”

“Sorry I had to do it,” growled Hike, most impolitely. “Fighting—like hoodlums. ’Course it’s better than keeping ill-feeling going all year; but it’s still better, strikes me, to wade into football, and that’s what I’m going to do, to-morrow. I’m not goody-goody about the foolishness of fighting—I think it’s a whole lot better than keeping up a grouch against a fellow. But when I think of men like General Thorne, that get along by keeping their tempers—why, that cute little scrap under Fig Tree Major looks awfully kiddish to me. But why I should be giving you a lecture on fighting, I don’t know. How do you feel after the jamboree, old Poodski? Great idea of the Seniors, wasn’t it? to end the kidding this way.”

They were in their room, by this time, reflectively pulling off their clothes. “So you liked the idea of the hazing, did you?” Poodle asked.

“Why, sure. ’Course. Wonder who thought it up—probably Gimlet Jones.”

“He did not,” declared Poodle.

“How do you know? Who did get it up?”

“I did.”

“What? You’re crazy, Pood’.”

“I planned it, and fixed it up with Pink Eye Morrison, and he got the Seniors to do it, as his idea. Why, I even wrote that cutely insulting song they sang. Sure, I had us hazed.”

“Well I’ll be—” began Hike, utterly amazed. Poodle retreated behind a chair, and picked up a shoe for defense.

“Well, what do you think of that?” was all Hike could say. “You got it all up. Say, young man, I don’t know whether I ought to drop you out of the window or give you a prize.”

“Let’s compromise it, and get some sleep!” suggested Poodle.