University of San Francisco - USF Don Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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10 THE IGNAT I AN football. That's why they waste their bodies in some Asiatic swamp, or study themselves blind in some laboratory of commerce.” “Rather good speech, that,” drawled Partmour, “but you’re wrong old chap, nobody with any money should exert himself that way—and, really, Parker, I think it’s decidedly lowbrow to be so stagey, don’t you know—that may be all right among the mob that mucks for its living, but the love of conflict for its own sake is gone—submerged utterly—in the higher breeds of men. But, I say old chap, it’s past the hour when we should toddle in for a bite.” Parker laughed. “All right, what you say, you doubtless mean,” he said, 11 but the primal love of battle is deeper in the fiber of man than you give it credit for, and most of the time it doesn’t take a great upheaval to bring that spirit to the top. Why, I remember Sam Brandston, (he played right half for us in ’16)—Sam was the direct descendant of a line of Puritan ministers as long as your arm, but when Sam got started, he was the roughest man that ever dug a cleat into Soldiers’ Field.” “But—er—a bite, old stick,” interposed Partmour. “Oh, sure,” said Parker. “Pardon me for being so forgetful, but when old times come up—. But say, 1 leave for • Yucatan at three this afternoon to examine some mine claims. Let this be my treat.” “Really, I couldn’t—” “I insist—I’ll pay for the lunch, and you come to the dock and see me off.......Yes, table for two.” • ••••• “To be candid, Parker, I don’t like the looks of this,” remarked Partmour, as he and Parker alighted from their taxi and approached the dock. “No, it certainly doesn’t look as if we were especially welcome,” replied Parker. Then turning to a special, who

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FIGHT 'EM HARVARD 9 him? He’s building that suspension bridge over in the harbor at Shanghai—” J. Bentley sighed wearily. ‘‘Really, Parker,” he said, “it fatigues my mind even to hear of those fellows. Exertion—rush—fuss and foam”— he waved his hand dreamily. Imagine his long tapering fingers burnt by the sun and soiled! .“But you, Parker”, lie added, “must be taking it easy now. I believe I saw by the papers that your uncle had left you a fortune, a mere superfluity—since you had plenty already.” “Well,” answered Parker, “as to money 1 suppose I don’t need to worry. But it’s the old ‘Fight ’em, Harvard’ spirit that’s still got its grip on me. When 1 graduated I served as a mate on a boat that ran the submarine blockade, and when we got into the war, why I hooked up with that aviation unit—Gad, but we had battling there! And after it was all over, I trotted down to South Africa into the Kimberly, you know. Well, I got the fever there, and 1 had to leave, so I set out for Western Canada to cruise the lumber country—” “But I say,” broke in Partmour, “what’s the sense of all this hullabaloo? The war I understand. 1 went before the Board again and again but couldn’t get past it. But aside from defense of country, I think that life is the object of life. Why not play at something easy instead of going to these outlandish holes. I wouldn't give up a chair in this club for all the mines in Asia, or wherever the bally things are—” “Can’t you see,” said Parker, “that it’s not the mines and it’s not the money one makes, it’s the adventure, man— the thrill of combat with some other force, the joy of crashing the whole weight of your body and soul against some obstacle and MAKING it move for you! ! That’s why you saw fellows at Harvard sweating their hides out over a measly

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FIGHT ’EM HARVARD 11 was guarding the dock, “What is the matter here, anyhow? Why that bunch of men over there?” “Oh! them fellows? They’re stevedores — on strike — laying for any scabs that try to load up the boat,” calmly replied the special. “That’s nice,” grinned Parker, “I sail on that boat to-day, for Yucatan.” “Not to-day, I’m afraid. It’ll take ’em a day more to load her even after the cops come down an’ clear these here strikers off. You better wait till the boys from the station come before you try an’ cross this dock.” “Yes, that’s an excellent thought—one is liable to receive a stone in the head from one of those bruisers,” exclaimed Part mou r. “Oh, come on across ’ replied Parker, “what’s the difference ? ’ ’ Partmour never had an opportunity to explain to Parker just what the difference was, for scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when the mob, as if by common impulse, swept down upon them. Self-preservation was the first thought of the guard, and with one whoop he raced for his life. Parker, on the other hand, with the old football spirit surging in his veins, a broad grin on his face, quietly awaited the rush. Partmour was petrified—never in his eminently proper life had-he been face to face with a situation such as this. All the poise that he had acquired through numerous sieges at the tea-table, and the evolutions of dancing, and campaigns of flirtation, suddenly abandoned him. It was not physical fear that possessed him. It was the bad form of a street-row. J. Bentley Partmour mixed up with stevedores in a dock fight! How would that look in newspaper headlines? And even if it were kept out of the papers—for that could be accomplished—the very idea of a collar awry, a battered face,