"When freshmen first we came to YaleFol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol.Examinations made us paleFol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol."
"When freshmen first we came to YaleFol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol.Examinations made us paleFol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol."
"When freshmen first we came to YaleFol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol.Examinations made us paleFol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol."
"When freshmen first we came to Yale
Fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol.
Examinations made us pale
Fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol."
"What do you know about the society system here?" said Le Baron abruptly.
"Why, I know—there are three senior societies: Skull and Bones, Keys, Wolf's-Head—but I guess that's all I do know."
"You'll hear a good deal of talk inside the college, and out of it, too, about the system. It has its faults. But it's the best system there is, and it makes Yale what it is to-day. It makes fellows get out and work; it gives them ambitions, stops loafing and going to seed, and keeps a pretty good, clean, temperate atmosphere about the place."
"I know nothing at all about it," said Stover, perplexed.
"The seniors have fifteen in each; they give out their elections end of junior year, end of May. That's what we're all working for."
"Already?" said Stover involuntarily.
"There are fellows in your class," said Le Baron, "who've been working all summer, so as to get ahead in the competition for theLitor theRecord, or to make the leader of the glee club—fellows, of course, who know."
"But that's three years off."
"Yes, it's three years off," said Le Baron quietly. "Then there are the junior fraternities; but they're large, and at present don't count much, except you have to make them. Then there are what are called sophomore societies." He hesitated a moment. "They are very important."
"Do you belong?" asked Stover innocently.
"Yes," said Le Baron, after another hesitation. "Of course, we don't discuss our societies here. Others will tell you about them. But here's where your first test will come in."
Then came another lull. Stover, troubled, frowning, sat staring at the brilliant windows across which passed, from time to time, a sudden shadow. The groups at the fence were singing a football song, with a marching swing to it, that had so often caught up his loyal soul as he had sat shivering in the grand-stand for the game to begin. It was not all so simple—no, not at all simple. It wasn't as he had thought. It was complex, a little disturbing.
"This college is made up of all sorts of elements," said Le Baron, at last. "And it is not easy to run it. Now, in every class there are just a small number of fellows who are able to do it and who will do it. They form the real crowd. All the rest don't count. Now, Stover, you're going to have a chance at something big on the football side; but that is not all. You might make captain of the eleven and miss out on a senior election. You're going to be judged by your friends, and it is just as easy to know the right crowd as the wrong."
"What do you mean by the right crowd?" said Stover, conscious of just a little antagonism.
"The right crowd?" said Le Baron, a little perplexedto define so simple a thing. "Why, the crowd that is doing things, working for Yale; the crowd—"
"That the class ahead picks out to lead us," said Stover abruptly.
"Yes," said Le Baron frankly; "and it won't be a bad judgment. Money alone won't land a man in it, and there'll be some in it who work their way through college. On the whole, it's about the crowd you'll want to know all through life."
"I see," said Stover. His clasp tightened over his knees, and he was conscious of a certain growing uncomfortable sensation. He liked Le Baron—he had looked up to him, in a way. Of course, it was all said in kindness, and yet—
"I'm frankly aristocratic in my point of view"—he heard the well-modulated voice continue—"and what I say others think. I'm older than most of my class, and I've seen a good deal of the world at home and abroad. You may think the world begins outside of college. It doesn't; it begins right here. You want to make the friends that will help you along, here and outside. Don't lose sight of your opportunities, and be careful how you choose.
"Now, by that I mean don't make your friends too quickly. Get to know the different crowds, but don't fasten to individuals until you see how things work out. This rather surprises you, doesn't it? Perhaps you don't like it."
"It does sort of surprise me," said Stover, who did not answer what he meant.
"Stover," said Le Baron, resting a hand on his knee, "I like you. I liked you from the first time we lined up in that Andover-Lawrenceville game. You've got the stuff in you to make the sort of leader we need at Yale.That's why I'm trying to make you see this thing as it is. You come from a school that doesn't send many fellows here. You haven't the fellows ahead pulling for you, the way the other crowds have. I don't want you to make any mistake. Remember, you're going to be watched from now on."
"Watched?" said Stover, frowning.
"Yes; everything you do, everything you say—that's how you'll be judged. That's why I'm telling you these things."
"I appreciate it," said Stover, but without enthusiasm.
"Now, you've got a chance to make good on the eleven this year. If you do, you stand in line for the captaincy senior year. It lies with you to be one of the big men in the class. And this is the way to do it: get to know every one in the class right off."
"What!" said Stover, genuinely surprised.
"I mean, bow to every one; call them by name: but hold yourself apart," said Le Baron. "Make fellows come to you. Don't talk too much. Hold yourself in. Keep out of the crowd that is out booze-fighting—or, when you're with them, keep your head. There are a lot of fellows here, with friends ahead of them, who can cut loose a certain amount; but it's dangerous. If you want to make what you ought to make of yourself, Stover, you've got to prove yourself; you've got to keep yourself well in hand."
Stover suddenly comprehended that Le Baron was exposing his own theory, that he, prospective captain of the crew, was imposing on himself.
"Don't ticket yourself for drinking."
"I won't."
"Or get known for gambling—oh, I'm not preaching a moral lesson; only, what you do, do quietly."
"I understand."
"And another thing: no fooling around women; that isn't done here—that'll queer you absolutely."
"Of course."
"Now, you've got to do a certain amount of studying here. Better do it the first year and get in with the faculty."
"I will."
"There it is," said Le Baron, suddenly extending his hand toward the lighted college. "Isn't it worth working for—to win out in the end? And, Stover, it's easy enough when you know how. Play the game as others are playing it. It's a big game, and it'll follow you all through life. There it is; it's up to you. Keep your head clear and see straight."
The gesture of Le Baron, half seen in the darkness, brought a strange trouble to Stover. It was as if, at the height of the eager confidence of his youth, some one had whispered in his ear and a shadowy hand had held before his eyes a gigantic temptation.
"Are there any questions you want to ask me?" said Le Baron, with a new feeling of affection toward the unprotected freshman whom he had so generously advised.
"No."
They sat silently. And all at once, as Stover gazed, from the high, misty walls and the elm-tops confounded in the night, a monstrous hand seemed to stretch down, impending over him, and the care-free windows suddenly to be transformed into myriad eyes, set on him in inquisition—eyes that henceforth indefatigably, remorselessly would follow him.
And with it something snapped, something fragile—the unconscious, simple democracy of boyhood. And, as it went, it went forever. This was the world rushing in,dividing the hosts. This was the parting of the ways. The standards of judgment were the world's. It was not what he had thought. It was no longer the simple struggle. It was complex, disturbing, incomprehensible. To win he would have to change.
"It's been good of you to tell me all this," he said, giving his hand to Le Baron, and the words sounded hollow.
"Think over what I've said to you."
"I will."
"A man is known by his friends; remember that, Stover, if you don't anything else!"
"It's awfully good of you."
"I like you, Dink," said Le Baron, shaking hands warmly; "now you know the game, go in and win."
"It's awfully good of you," said Stover aimlessly. He stood watching Le Baron's strong, aristocratic figure go swinging across the dim campus in a straight, undeviating, well-calculated path.
"It's awfully good of him," he said mechanically, "awfully good. What a wonder he is!"
And yet, and yet, he could not define the new feeling—he was but barely conscious of it; was it rebellion or was it a lurking disappointment?
He stood alone, looking at the new world. It was no longer the world of the honest day. It was brilliant, fascinating, alluring, awakening strange, poignant emotions—but it was another world, and the way to it had just been shown him.
He turned abruptly and went toward his room, troubled, wondering why he was so troubled, vainly seeking the reason, knowing not that it lay in the destruction of a fragile thing—his first illusion.
Tough McCarthy was in the communal rooms, busily delving into the recesses of a circus trunk, from which, from time to time, he emerged with the loot of the combined McCarthy family.
"Dink, my boy, cast your eye over my burglaries. Look at them. Aren't they lovely, aren't they fluffy and sweet? I don't know what half of 'em are, but won't they decorate the room? And every one, 'pon my honor, the gift of a peach who loves me! The whole family was watching, but I got 'em out right under their noses. Well, why not cheer me!"
He deposited on the floor a fragrant pile of assorted embroideries, table-covers, lace pincushions, and filmy mysteries purloined from feminine dressing-tables, which he rapidly proceeded to distribute about the room according to his advanced theories on decoration, which consisted in crowding the corners, draping the gas-jets, and clothing the picture-frames.
Stover sat silently, out of the mood.
"Here's three new scalps," continued McCarthy, producing some cushions. "Had to vow eternal love, and keep the dear girls separated—a blonde and two brunettes—but I got the pillows, my boy, I got 'em. And now sit back and hold on."
He made a third trip to the trunk, unaware of Stover's distracted mood, and came back chuckling, his arms heaped with photographs to his chin.
"One thousand and one Caucasian beauties, the pride of every State, the only girls who ever loved me. Look at 'em!"
He distributed a score of photographs, mustering them on the mantelpiece, pinning them to the already suspended flags, massing them in circles, ranging them in crosses and ascending files, and announced:
"Finest I could gather in. Only know a third of 'em, but the sisters know the rest. Isn't it a beauty parlor? Why, it'll make that blond warbler Stone, downstairs, feel like an amateur canary." Suddenly aware of Stover's opposite mood, he stopped. "What the deuce is the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You look solemn as an owl."
"I didn't know it."
"Well, how did you like Le Baron?"
"He's a corker!" said Stover militantly.
"I've been arranging about an eating-joint."
"You have?"
"We're in with a whole bunch of fellows. Gimbel, an Andover chap, is running it. Five dollars a week. We can see if we can stand it."
"Tough, go slow."
"Why so?"
Stover hesitated, looking at McCarthy's puzzled expression, and, looking, there seemed to be ten years' experience dividing them.
"Oh, I only mean we want to pick our friends carefully," he said at length.
"What difference does it make where we eat?"
"Well, it does."
"Oh, of course we want to enjoy ourselves."
Stover saw he did not understand and somehow,feeling all the exuberant enthusiasm that actuated him, he hesitated to continue the explanation.
"By George, Dink," continued McCarthy comically solicitous of his scheme of decoration, "is there anything like the air of this place? You can't resist it, can you? Every one's out working for something. By George, I hope I can make good!"
"You will," said Stover. And in his mind was already something of the paternal protection that he had surprised in Hunter, the big man of the Andover crowd.
"If I'm to do anything at football I've got to put on a deuce of a lot of weight," said McCarthy a little disconsolately. "Guess my best chance is at baseball."
"The main thing, Tough, is to get out and try for everything," said Stover wisely. "Show you're a worker and it's going to count."
"That's good advice—who put it into your head?"
"Le Baron talked over a good many things with me," said Stover slowly. "He gave me a great many pointers. That's why I said go slow—we want to get with the right crowd."
"The right crowd?" said McCarthy, wheeling about and staring at his room-mate. "What the deuce are you talking about, Dink? Do you mean to say any one cares who in the blankety-blank we eat with?"
"Yes."
"What! Who the deuce's business is it to meddle in my affairs? Right crowd and wrong crowd—there's only one crowd, and each man's as good as the other. That's the way I look at it." He stopped, amazed, looking over at Stover. "Why, Dink, I never expected you to stand for the right and wrong crowd idea."
"I don't mean it the way you do," said Stover lamely—for he was trying to argue with himself. "We're trying to do something here, aren't we—not just loaf through? Well, we want to be with the crowd that's doing things."
"Oh, if you mean it that way," said McCarthy dubiously, "that's different. I've been filled up for the last hour with nothing but society piffle by a measly-faced runt just out of the nursery called Schley. Skull and Bones—Locks and Keys—Wolf's-Head—gold bugs, hobgoblins, toe the line, heel the right crowd, mind yourp'sandq's, don't call your soul your own, don't look at a society house, don't for heaven's sake look at a pin in a necktie, never say 'bones' or 'fee-fie-fo-fum' out loud—never—oh, rats, what bosh!"
"Schley is an odious little toad," said Stover evasively. A little vain of his new knowledge and the destiny before him, he looked at the budding McCarthy with somewhat the anxiety of a mother hen, and said with great solemnity: "Don't go off half cock, old fellow."
"What! Have you fallen for the bugaboo?"
"My dear Tough," said Stover, with a little gorgeousness, "don't commit yourself until you know the whole business. You like the feeling here, don't you—the way every one is out working for something?"
"You bet I do."
"Well, it's the society system that does it."
"Come off."
"Wait and see."
"But what in the name of my aunt's cat's pants," said McCarthy, unwilling to relinquish the red rag, "what in the name of common sense is the holy sacred secret, that it can't be looked at, talked about, or touched?"
"Don't be a galoot, Tough," said Stover, in a superior way; "don't be a frantic ass. All that's exaggerated;only little jack-asses like Schley are frightened by it. The real side, the serious side, is that the system is built up for the fellows who are going to do something for Yale. Now, just wait until you get your eyes open before you go shooting up the place."
But, as he stood in his own bedroom, with no Tough McCarthy to instruct and patronize, alone at his window, looking out at the sputtering arc lights with their splotchy regions of light and the busy windows of Pierson Hall across the way, listening to the chapel sending forth its quarter hour over the half-divined campus—he was not quite so confident of all he had proclaimed.
"It's different—different from school," he said to himself half apologetically. "It can't be the same as school. It's got to be organized differently. It's the same everywhere."
He went to bed, to sleep badly, restless and unconvinced, a stranger in strange places, staring at the flickering glare of the arc light against the window-panes, that light as unreal in comparison with the frank sunlight as the sudden bewildering introduction to the new, complex life was different from the direct and rugged simplicity of the unconscious democracy of school that had gone.
He awoke with a start, to find McCarthy and Dopey McNab, in striped pajamas, solicitously occupied in applying a lather to his bare feet. He sprang up with all the old zest, and, a free scrimmage taking place, wreaked satisfactory vengeance on the intruders.
"Hang you, Stover," said McNab weakly, "if you'd snored another minute I'd have won my dollar from McCarthy. If you want to be friends, nothing like being friendly, is there? Come on down to my rooms, we've got eggs and coffee right on tap. It's a bore going downto the joint. To-morrow we'll all be slaves of the alarm clock again. Hang compulsory chapel."
They breakfasted hilariously under McNab's irresistible good humor. When at last Stover sauntered out to reconnoiter in company with McCarthy, a great change had come. The emotions of the night, the restless rebelliousness, had lost all their acuteness and seemed only a blurred memory. The college of the day was a different thing.
The late arrivals were swarming in carriages, or on top of heaped express-wagons, just as the school used to surge hilariously back. The windows were open, crowded with eager heads; the street corners clustered with swiftly assembling groups, sophomores almost entirely, past whom isolated, self-conscious freshmen went with averted gaze, to the occasional accompaniment of a whistled freshman march. Despite himself, Stover began to feel a little tightening in the shoulders, a little uncertainty in the swing of his walk, and something in his back seemed uneasily conscious of the concentrated attack of superior eyes.
They entered the campus, now the campus of the busy day. Across by the chapel, the fence was hidden under continually arriving groups of upper classmen, streaming to it in threes and fours in muscular enthusiasm. There was no division there. Gradually the troubled perceptions of the night before faded from Stover's consciousness. The light he saw was the clear noon of the day, and the air that filled his lungs the atmosphere of life and ambition.
At every step, runners for eating-houses, steam laundries, and tailors thrust cards in their hands, coaxing for orders. Every tree seemed plastered with notices of the awakening year, summons to trials for the musicalorganizations and the glee club, offers to tutor, announcements of coming competitions, calls for candidates to a dozen activities.
"Hello, Dink, old boy!"
They looked up to behold Charley De Soto, junior over in the Sheffield Scientific School, bearing down upon them.
"Hello, Tough, glad to see you up here!"
De Soto had been at Lawrenceville with them, a comrade of the eleven, now prospective quarter-back for the coming season.
"You've put on weight, Dink," he said with critical approval. "You've got a bully chance this year. Are you reporting this afternoon?"
"Captain Dana asked me to come out for the varsity."
"I talked to him about you."
He asked a dozen questions, invited them over to see him, and was off.
They elbowed their way into the Coöp to make their purchases. The first issue of theNewswas already on sale, with its notices and its appeals.
They went out and past Vanderbilt toward their eating-joint. Off the campus, directly at the end of their path, a shape more like a monstrous shadow than a building rose up, solid, ivy-covered, blind, with great, prison-like doors, heavily padlocked.
"Fee-fi-fo-fum," said McCarthy.
"Which is it?" said Stover, in a different tone.
"Skull and Bones, of course," said McCarthy defiantly. "Look at it under your eyelids, quick; don't let any one see you."
Stover, without hearing him, gazed ahead, impressed despite himself. There it was, the symbol and the embodiment of all the subtle forces that had been disclosedto him, the force that had stood amid the passing classes, imposing its authority unquestioned, waiting at the end of the long journey to give or withhold the final coveted success.
"Will I make it—will I ever make it?" he said to himself, drawing a long breath. "To be one of fifteen—only fifteen!"
"It is a scary sort of looking old place," said McCarthy. "They certainly have dressed it up for the part."
Still Stover did not reply. The dark, weighty, massive silhouette had somehow entered his imagination, never to be shaken off, to range itself wherever he went in the shadowy background of his dreams.
"It stands for democracy, Tough," he said, as they turned toward Chapel Street, and there was in his voice a certain emotion he couldn't control. "And I guess the mistakes it makes are pretty honest ones."
"Perhaps," said McCarthy stubbornly. "But why all this mumbo-jumbo business?"
"It doesn't affect you, does it?"
"The trouble is, it does," said McCarthy, with a laugh. "Do you know what I ought to do?"
"What?"
"Go right up and sit on the steps of the bloomin' old thing and eat a bag of cream-puffs."
Stover exploded with laughter.
"What the deuce would be the sense in that, you old anarchist?"
"To prove to my own satisfaction that I'm a man."
"Do you mean it?" said Stover, half laughing.
McCarthy scratched his head with one of the old boyish, comical gestures Stover knew so well.
"Well, perhaps I mean more than I think," he said,grinning. "In another month I may get it as bad as that little uselessness Schley. By the way, he wants us over at his eating-joint."
"He does?"
"He's a horsefly sort of a cuss. You'll see, he'll fasten on to you just as soon as he thinks it worth while. Here we are."
They pressed their way, saluted with the imperious rattle of knives and plates, through three or four rooms, blue-gray with smoke, and found a vacant table in a far corner. A certain reserve was still prevalent in the noisy throng, which had not yet been welded together. Immediately a thin, wiry fellow, neatly dressed, hair plastered, affable and brimming over with energy, rose and pumped McCarthy's hand, slapping him effusively on the back.
"Bully! Glad to see you. This is Stover, of course. I'm Gimbel—Ray Gimbel; you don't know me, but I know you. Seen entirely too much of you on the wrong side of the field in the Andover-Lawrenceville game."
"How are you, Gimbel?" said Stover, not disliking the flattery, though perceiving it.
"We were greatly worried about you," said Gimbel directly, and with a sudden important seriousness. "There was a rumor around you had switched to Princeton."
"Oh, no."
"Well, we're certainly glad you didn't." Looking him straight in the face, he said with conviction: "You'll be captain here."
"I'm not worrying about that just at present," said Stover, amused.
"All right; that's my prophecy. I'll be back in a second."
He departed hastily, to welcome new arrivals with convulsive grip and rolling urbanity, passing like a doctor on his hospital rounds.
"Who's Gimbel?" said Stover, wondering, as he watched him, what new force he represented.
"Hurdler up at Andover, I believe."
In a moment Gimbel was back, engaging them in eager conclave.
"See here, there's a combination being gotten up," he said impersonally, "a sort of slate for our class football managers, and I want to get you fellows interested. Hotchkiss and St. Paul are going in together, and we want to organize the other schools. How many fellows are up from Lawrenceville?"
"About fifteen."
"We've got a corking good man from Andover not in any of the crowds up there, and a lot of us want to give him a good start. I'll have you meet him to-night at supper. If you fellows weren't out for football, we'd put one of you up for secretary and treasurer. You can name him if you want. I've got a hundred votes already, and we're putting through a deal with a Sheff crowd for vice-president that will give us thirty or forty more. Our man's Hicks—Frank Hicks—the best in the world. Say a good word for him, will you, wherever you can. See you to-night."
He was off to another table, where he was soon in animated conversation.
"Don't mix up in it," said Stover quietly.
"Why not?" said McCarthy. "A good old political shindig's lots of fun."
"Wait until we understand the game," said Stover, remembering Le Baron's advice not to commit himself to any crowd.
"But it would be such a lark."
Dink did not reply. Instead he was carefully studying the many types that crowded before his eyes. They ranged from the New Yorker, extra spick-and-span for his arrival, lost and ill at ease, speaking to no one; to older men in jerseys and sweaters, unshaven often, lolling back in their chairs, concerned with no one, talking with all.
The waiters were of his own class, who presently brought their plates to the tables they served and sat down without embarrassment. It was a heterogeneous assembly, with a preponderance of quiet, serious types, men to whom the financial problem was serious and college an opportunity to fit themselves for the grinding combat of life. Others were raw, decidedly without experience, opinionated, carrying on their shoulders a chip of somewhat bumptious pride. The talk was all of the doings of the night before, when several had fallen into the hands of mischief-bent sophomores.
"They caught Flanders down York Street and made him roll a peanut up to Billy's."
"Yes, and the darned fool hadn't sense enough to grin and bear it."
"So they gave him a beer shampoo."
"A what?"
"A beer shampoo."
"Did you hear about Regan?"
"Who's Regan?"
"He's a thundering big coal-heaver from out the woolly West."
"Oh, the fellow that started to scrap."
"That's the man."
"Give us the story, Buck."
"They had me up, doing some of my foolish stunts,"said a fellow with a great moon of a face, little twinkling eyes, and a grotesque nose that sprang forth like a jagged promontory, "when, all at once, this elephant of a Regan saunters in coolly to see what's doing."
"Didn't know any better, eh?"
"Didn't know a thing. Well, no sooner did the sophs spot him than they set up a yell:
"'Who are you?'
"'Tom Regan.'
"'What's your class?'
"'Freshman.'
"'What in the blankety-blank are you doing here?'
"'Lookin' on.'
"With that, of course, they began just leaping up and down for joy, hugging one another; and a couple of them started in to tackle the old locomotive. The fellow, who's as strong as an ox, just gives a cough and a sneeze, scatters a few little sophs on the floor, and in a twinkling is in the corner, barricaded behind a table, looking as big as a house.
"'Tom, look out; they're going to shampoo you,' says I.
"'Is it all right?' he says, with a grin.
"'It's etiquette,' says I.
"'Come on, then,' says he very affably, and he strips off his coat and tosses it across the room, saying, 'It's my only one; look out for it.'
"Well, when the sophs saw him standing there, licking his chops, arms as big as hams, they sort of stopped and scratched their heads."
"I bet they did!" cried a couple.
"They didn't particularly like the prospect; but they were game, especially a little bantam of a rooster called Waring, who'd been putting us through our stunts.
"'I'm going in after that bug myself,' said he, with a yelp. 'Come on!'"
"Well, what happened, Buck?"
"Did they give it to him?"
"About fifteen minutes after the bouncers had swept us into the street with the rest of thedébris, as the French say," said the speaker, with a far-off, reflective look, "one dozen of the happiest-looking sophs you ever saw went reeling back to the campus. They were torn and scratched, pummeled, bruised and bleeding, soaked from head to foot, shot to pieces, smeared with paint, not a button left or a necktie—but they were happy!"
"Why happy?"
"They had givenReganthe shampoo."
Stover and McCarthy rose and made their way out past the group where Buck Waters, enthroned already as a natural leader, was tuning up the crowd.
"I came up in the train with Regan," said Stover, thrilling a little at the recital. "Cracky! I wish I'd seen the scrap."
"We'll call him out to-night for the wrestling," said McCarthy.
"He's a queer, plunging sort of animal," said Stover reflectively. "I wonder if he'll ever do anything up here?"
Saunders, riding past on a bicycle, pad protruding from his pocket, slowed up with a cordial hail:
"Howdy! I'm heeling theNews. If you get any stories, pass them on to me. Thought you fellows were down at our joint. Where the deuce are you fellows grubbing?"
"We dropped into a place one of your Andover crowd's runnin'."
"Who's that?"
"Fellow called Gimbel."
Saunders rode on a bit, wheeled, came slowly back, resting his hand on Stover's shoulder.
"Look here," he said, frowning a little. "Gimbel's a good sort, clever and all that; but look here—you're not decided, are you?"
"No."
"Because we've been counting you fellows in with us. We've got a corking crowd, about twenty, and a nice, quiet place." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully: "I think you'll find the crowd congenial."
"When do you start in?" said Stover.
"To-morrow. Are you with us?"
"Glad to come."
"Bully!" He made a movement to start, and then added suddenly: "I say, fellows, of course you're not on to a good many games here, but don't get roped into any politics. It'll queer you quicker than anything else. You don't mind my giving you a tip?"
"Not at all," said Stover, smiling a little as he wondered what distinction Saunders made to himself between politics and politics.
"Ta-ta, then—perfectly bully you're with us. I'm off on this infernalNewsgame—half a year's grind from twelve to ten at night—lovely, eh, when the snow and slush come?"
He sped on, and they went up to the rooms.
"I thought we'd better change," said Stover.
"This place is loaded up with wires—live wires," said McCarthy, scratching his head. "Well, go ahead, if you want to."
"Well, you see—we're all in the same house; it's more sociable."
"Oh, of course."
"And then, it'll be quieter."
"Yes, it'll be quieter."
A little constraint came to them. They went to their rooms silently, each aware that something had come into their comradeship which sooner or later would have to be met with frankness.
Stover had never been on the Yale field except through the multitudinous paths of his imagination. Huddled in the car crowded with candidates, he waited the first glimpse as Columbus questioned the sky or De Soto sought the sea. Three cars, filled with veterans and upper classmen, were ahead of him. He was among a score of sophomores, members of third and fourth squads, and a few of his own class with prep school reputations who sat silently, nervously overhauling their suits, adjusting buckles and shoe-laces, swollen to grotesque proportions under knotted sweaters and padded jerseys.
The trolley swung over a short bridge, and, climbing a hill, came to a slow stop. In an instant he was out, sweeping on at a dog-trot in the midst of the undulating, brawny pack. In front—a thing of air and wood—rose the climbing network of empty stands. Then, as they swept underneath, the field lay waiting, and at the end two thin, straight lines and a cross-bar. No longer were the stands empty or the breeze devoid of song and cheers. The goal was his—the goal of Yale—and, underfoot at last, the field more real to him than Waterloo or Gettysburg!
He camped down, one among a hundred, oblivious of his companions, hands locked over his knees, his glance strained down the field to where, against the blue sweater of a veteran, a magic Y was shining white. For a moment he felt a plunging despair—he was but one among so many. The whole country seemed congregated therein competition. Others seemed to overtop him, to be built of bone and muscle beyond his strength. He felt a desire to shrink back and steal away unperceived, as he had that awful moment when, on his first test at school, he had been told that he must stand up and fill the place of a better man.
Then he was on his feet, in obedience to a shouted command, journeying up the field to where beyond the stands a tackling dummy on loose pulleys swung like a great scarecrow.
"Here, now, get some action into this," said a fiery little coach, Tompkins, quarter-back a dozen seasons before. "Line up. Get some snap to it. First man. Hard—hit it hard!"
The first three—heavy linesmen, still soft and short of breath—made lumbering, slipping attempts.
Tompkins was in a blaze of fury.
"Hold up! What do you think this is? I didn't ask you to hug your grandmother; I told you to tackle that dummy! Hit it hard—break it in two! If you can't tackle, we don't want you around. Tackle to throw your man back! Tackle as if the whole game depended on it. Come on, now. Next man. Jump at it! Rotten! Rotten! Oh, squeeze it. Don't try to butt it over—you're not a goat! Half the game's the tackling! Next man. Oh, girls—girls! What is this bunch, anyhow—a young ladies' seminary? Here! Stop—stop! You're up at Yale now. I'll show you how we tackle!"
Heedless of his street clothes, of the grotesqueness of the thing, of all else but the savage spark he was trying to communicate, he went rushing into the dummy with a headlong plunge that shook the ropes.
He was up in a moment, forgetting the dust that clung to him, shouting in his shrill voice:
"Come on, now, bang into it! Yes, but hold on to it! Squeeze it. Better—more snap there! Get out the way! Come on! Rotten! Take that again—on the jump!"
Stover suddenly felt the inflaming seriousness of Yale, the spirit that animated the field. Everything was in deadly earnest; the thing of rags swinging grotesquely was as important as the tackle that on a championship field stood between defeat and victory.
His turn came. He shot forward, left the turf in a clean dive, caught the dummy at the knees, and shook the ground with the savageness of his tackle.
"Out of the way, quick—next man!" cried the driving voice.
There was not a word of praise for what he knew had been a perfect tackle. A second and a third time he flung himself heedlessly at the swinging figure, in a desperate attempt to win the withheld word of approbation.
"He might at least have grunted," he said to himself, tumbling to his feet, "the little tyrant."
In a moment Tompkins, without relaxing a jot of his nervous driving, had them spread over the field, flinging themselves on a dozen elusive footballs, while always his voice, unsatisfied, propelling, drove them:
"Faster, faster! Get into it—let go yourselves. Throw yourself at it. Oh, hard, harder!"
Ten minutes of practise starts under his leash, and they ended, enveloped in steam, lungs shaken with quick, convulsive breaths.
"Enough for to-day. Back to the gymnasium on the trot; run off some of that fatty degeneration. Here, youngster, a word with you."
Stover stepped forward.
"What's your name?"
"Stover."
To his profound disappointment, Tompkins did not recognize that illustrious name.
"Where from?"
"Lawrenceville. Played end."
Tompkins looked him over, a little grimly. "Oh, yes; I've heard something about you. Look here, ever do any punting?"
"Some, but only because I had to. I'm no good at it."
"Let's see what you can do."
Stover caught the ball tossed and put all his strength into a kick that went high but short.
"Try another."
The second and third attempts were no better.
"Well, that's pretty punk," said Tompkins. "Dana wants to give you a try on the second. Run over now and report. Oh, Stover!"
Dink halted, to see Tompkins' caustic scrutiny fixed on him.
"Yes, sir."
"Stover, just one word for your good. You come up with a big prep school reputation. Don't make an ass of yourself. Understand; don't get a swelled head. That's all."
"Precious little danger of that here," said Dink a little rebelliously to himself, as he jogged over to the benches where the varsity subs were camped. Le Baron waved him a recognition, but no more. It was as if the gesture meant:
"I've started you. Now stand on your own feet. Don't look to me for help."
For the rest of the practise he sat huddled in his sweater, waiting expectantly as each time Captain Dana passed down the line, calling out the candidates for trialsin the brief scrimmages that took place. The afternoon ended without an opportunity coming to him, and he jogged home, in the midst of the puffing crowd, with a sudden feeling of his own unimportance.
He had barely time to get his shower, and run into the almost deserted eating club for a quick supper, when Gimbel appeared, crying:
"I say, Stover, bolt the grub and hoof it. We assemble over by Osborne."
"Where's the wrestling?"
"Don't know. Some vacant lot. Ever do any?"
"Don't know a thing about it."
"We're going to call out a chap called Robinson from St. Paul's, Garden City, for the lightweight, and Regan for the heavy," said Gimbel, who, of course, had been busy during the afternoon. "Thought of you for the middleweight."
"Lord! get some one who knows the game," said Stover, following him out.
"Have you thought of any one you'd like to run for secretary and treasurer?" said Gimbel, locking arms in a cordial way.
"No."
"I've got the whole thing organized sure as a steel trap."
"You haven't lost any time," said Stover, smiling.
"That's right—heaps of fun."
"What areyougoing to run for?" said Stover, looking at him.
"I? Nothing now. Fence orator, perhaps, later," said Gimbel frankly. "It's the fun of the game interests me—the organizing, pulling wires, all that sort of thing. I'm going to have a lot of fun here."
"Look here, Gimbel," said Stover, yielding to a suddenappreciation of the other's openness. "Isn't this sort of thing going to get a lot of fellows down on you?"
"Queer me?" said Gimbel, laughing.
The word was still new to Stover, who showed his perplexity.
"That's a great word," added his companion. "You'll hear a lot of it before you get through. It's a sort of college bug that multiplies rapidly. Will politics 'queer' me—keep me out of societies? Probably; but then, I couldn't make 'em anyway. So I'm going to have my fun. And I'll tell you now, Stover, I'm going to get a good deal more out of my college career than a lot of you fellows."
"Why include me?"
"Well, Stover, you're going to make a sophomore society, and go sailing along."
"Oh, I don't know."
"Yes, you do. We don't object to such men as you, who have the right. It's the lame ducks we object to."
"Lame ducks?" said Stover, puzzled as well as surprised at this spokesman of an unsuspected proletariat opposition.
"'Lame ducks' is the word: the fellows who would never make a society if it weren't for pulls, for the men ahead—the cripples that all you big men will be trying to bolster up and carry along with you into a senior society."
"I'm not on to a good deal of this," said Stover, puzzled.
"I know you're not. Look here." Gimbel, releasing his arm, faced him suddenly. "You think I'm a politician out to get something for myself."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, I am—I'm frank about it. There's a wholemass of us here who are going to fight the sophomore society system tooth and nail, and I'm with them. When you're in the soph crowd you mightn't like what I'm saying, and then again you may come around to our way of thinking. However, I want you to know that I'm hiding nothing—that I'm fighting in the open. We may be on opposite sides, but I guess we can shake hands. How about it?"
"I guess we can always do that," said Stover, giving his hand. The man puzzled him. Was his frankness deep or a diplomatic assumption?
"And now let's have no pretenses," continued Gimbel, on the same line, with a quick analytical glance. "You're going with your crowd; better join one of their eating-joints."
Stover was genuinely surprised.
"Have you already arranged it?" said Gimbel, laughing.
"Gimbel," said Stover directly, "I'm not quite sure about you."
"You don't know whether I'm a faker or not."
"Exactly."
"Stover, I'm a politician," said Gimbel frankly. "I'm out for a big fight. I know the game here. I wouldn't talk to every one as I talk to you. I want you to understand me—more, I want you to like me. And I feel with you that the only way is to be absolutely honest. You see, I'm a politician," he said, with a laugh. "I've learned how to meet different men. Sometime I'm going to talk over things with you—seriously. Here we are now. I've got a bunch of fellows to see. McCarthy's probably looking for you. Don't make up your mind in a hurry about me—or about a good many things here. Ta-ta!"
Stover watched him go gaily into the crowd, distributing bluff, vociferous welcomes, hilariously acclaimed. The man was new, represented a new element, a strange, dimly perceived, rebellious mass, with ideas that intruded themselves ungratefully on his waking vision.
"Is he sincere?" he said to himself—a question that he was to apply a hundred times in the life that was beginning.
"Hello, there, Stover!"
"Stover, over here!"
"Oh, Dink Stover, this way!"
Over the bared heads of the bobbing, shifting crowd he saw Hunter and McCarthy waving to him. He made his way through the strange assorted mass of freshmen to his friends, where already, instinctively, a certain picked element had coalesced. A dozen fellows, clean-cut, steady of head and eye, carrying a certain unmistakable, quiet assurance, came about him, gripping him warmly, welcoming him into the little knot with cordial acknowledgment. He felt the tribute, and he liked it. They were of his own kind, his friends to be, now and in the long reaches of life.
"Fall in, fall in!"
Ahead of them, the upper classes were already in rank. Behind, the freshmen, unorganized, distrustful, were being driven into lines of eight and ten by seniors, pipe in mouth, authoritative, quiet, fearfully enveloped in dignity. Cheers began to sound ahead, the familiarbrek-e-kek-kexwith the class numeral at the end. A cry went up:
"Here, we must have a cheer."
"Give us a cheer."
"Start her up."
"Lead a cheer, some one."
"Lead a cheer, Hunter."
"Lead the cheer, Gimbel."
"Lead the cheer, Stover."
"Come on, Stover!"
A dozen voices took up his name. He caught the infection. Without hesitating, he stepped by Hunter, who was hesitating, and cried:
"Now, fellows, all together—the first cheer for the class! Are you ready? Let her rip!"
The cheer, gathering momentum, went crashing above the noises of the street. The college burst into a mighty shout of acclaim—another class was born!
Suddenly ahead the dancing lights of the senior torches began to undulate. Through the mass a hoarse roar went rushing, and a sudden muscular tension.
"Grab hold of me."
"Catch my arm."
"Grip tight."
"Get in line."
"Move up."
"Get the swing."
Stover found himself, arms locked over one another's shoulders, between Schley, who had somehow kept persistently near him, and a powerful, smiling, blond-haired fellow who shouted to him:
"My name's Hungerford—Joe Hungerford. Glad to know you. Down from Groton."
It was a name known across the world for power in finance, and the arm about Stover's shoulder was taut with the same sentimental rush of emotion.
Down the moving line suddenly came surging the chant: