The Plastic Age | Page 7

some one in the rear. The fight was on! Yelling like madmen, the students stood on their chairs and hurled peanuts, the front and rear of the house automatically dividing into enemy camps. When the fight was at its hottest, three girls entered.
"Wimmen! Wimmen!" As the girls walked down the aisle, infinitely pleased with their reception, five hundred men stamped in time with their steps.
No sooner were the girls seated than there was a scramble in one corner, an excited scuffling of feet. "I've got it!" a boy screamed. He stood on his chair and held up a live mouse by its tail. There was a shout of applause and then--"Play catch!"
The boy dropped the writhing mouse into a peanut bag, screwed the open end tight-closed, and then threw the bag far across the room. Another boy caught it and threw it, this time over the girls' heads. They screamed and jumped upon their chairs, holding their skirts, and dancing up and down in assumed terror. Back over their heads, back and over, again and again the bagged mouse was thrown while the girls screamed and the boys roared with delight. Suddenly one of the girls threw up her arm, caught the bag deftly, held it for a second, and then tossed it into the rear of the theater.
Cheers of terrifying violence broke loose: "Ray! Ray! Atta girl! Hot dog! Ray, ray!" And then the lights went out.
"Moosick! Moosick! Moo-sick!" The audience stamped and roared, whistled and howled. "Moosick! We want moosick!"
The pianist, an undergraduate, calmly strolled down the aisle.
"Get a move on!"... "Earn your salary!"... "Give us moosick!"
The pianist paused to thumb his nose casually at the entire audience, and then amid shouts and hisses sat down at the piano and began to play "Love Nest."
Immediately the boys began to whistle, and as the comedy was utterly stupid, they relieved their boredom by whistling the various tunes that the pianist played until the miserable film flickered out.
Then the "feature" and the fun began. During the stretches of pure narrative, the boys whistled, but when there was any real action they talked. The picture was a melodrama of "love and hate," as the advertisement said.
The boys told the actors what to do; they revealed to them the secrets of the plot. "She's hiding behind the door, Harold. No, no! Not that way. Hey, dumbbell--behind the door."... "Catch him, Gloria; he's only shy!"... "No, that's not him!"
The climactic fight brought shouts of encouragement--to the villain. "Kill him!"... "Shoot one to his kidneys!"... "Ahhhhh," as the villain hit the hero in the stomach.... "Muss his hair. Attaboy!"... "Kill the skunk!" And finally groans of despair when the hero won his inevitable victory.
But it was the love scenes that aroused the greatest ardor and joy. The hero was given careful instructions. "Some neckin', Harold!"... "Kiss her! Kiss her! Ahhh!"... "Harold, Harold, you're getting rough!"... "She's vamping you, Harold!"... "Stop it; Gloria; he's a good boy." And so on until the picture ended in the usual close-up of the hero and heroine silhouetted in a tender embrace against the setting sun. The boys breathed "Ahhhh" and "Ooooh" ecstatically--and laughed. The meretricious melodrama did not fool them, but they delighted in its absurdities.
The lights flashed on and the crowd filed out, "wise-cracking" about the picture and commenting favorably on the heroine's figure. There were shouts to this fellow or that fellow to come on over and play bridge, and suggestions here and there to go to a drug store and get a drink.
Hugh and Carl strolled home over the dark campus, both of them radiant with excitement, Hugh frankly so.
"Golly, I did enjoy that," he exclaimed. "I never had a better time. It was sure hot stuff. I don't want to go to the room; let's walk for a while."
"Yeah, it was pretty good," Carl admitted. "Nope, I can't go walking; gotta write a letter."
"Who to? The harem?"
Carl hunched his shoulders until his ears touched his coat collar. "Gettin' cold. Fall's here. Nope, not the harem. My old lady."
Hugh looked at him bewildered. He was finding Carl more and more a conundrum. He consistently called his mother his old lady, insisted that she was a damned nuisance--and wrote to her every night. Hugh was writing to his mother only twice a week. It was very confusing....
CHAPTER V
Capwell Chapel--it bore the pork merchant's name as an eternal memorial to him--was as impressive inside as out. The stained-glass windows had been made by a famous New York firm; the altar had been designed by an even more famous sculptor. The walls, quite improperly, were adorned with paintings of former presidents, but the largest painting of all--it was fairly Gargantuan--was of the pork merchant, a large, ruddy gentleman, whom the artist, a keen observer, had painted truly--complacently porcine,