"Nevertheless and notwithstanding," said McCarthy, indicating with his finger, "I'll take this one; it appeals to me."
"I'll worry this one," said Dink with equal astuteness.
They took several puffs, watched by the enthusiastic spectators.
"Well?" said McNab.
Stover looked wisely at McCarthy, flirting the cigar between his careless fingers.
"Not bad."
"Rather good bouquet," said McCarthy, who knew no more than Stover.
"Let's begin at eight dollars and stick at ten," said Dink.
At that latter price, despite the openly expressed scorn of the American allies of the struggle for Cuban independence, Stover received a box of one hundred finest Havana cigars—fit for a museum, as McNab repeated—and saw the advance guard of the liberators disappear.
"Dink, it's a shame," said McCarthy gleefully. "Finest cigars I ever smoked."
They shook hands and Stover, overcome by the look of pain he had seen in the eyes of the patriots on their final surrender at ten dollars, said, with a patriotic remorse:
"Poor devils! Think what they're fighting for! If I hadn't been so lavish to-day, I'd have given them the full price."
"I feel sort of bad about it myself."
About ten o'clock they rose by a common impulse and, seeking out the cigars with caressing fingers, indulged in another smoke.
"Dink, this is certainly living," said McCarthy, reclining in that position which his favorite magazine artist ascribed to men of the world when indulging in extravagant desires.
"Pretty high rolling, old geezer."
"I like this better than the first one."
"Of course with a well-seasoned rare old cigar you don't get all the beauty of it right at first."
"By George, if those chocolate patriots would come around again I'd give 'em the four plunks."
"I should feel like it," said Dink, who made a distinction.
The next morning being Sunday, they lolled deliciously in bed, and rose with difficulty at ten.
"Of course I don't believe in smoking before breakfast, as a general rule," said McCarthy in striped red and blue pajamas, "but I have such a fond feeling for Cuba."
"I can hardly believe it's true," said Dink, emerging from the covers like an impressionistic dawn. "Smoke up."
"How is it this morning?"
"Wonderful."
"Better and better."
"I could dream away my life on it."
"We ought to have bought more."
"Too bad."
After chapel, while pursuing their studies in comparative literature in the Sunday newspapers, they smoked again.
"Well?" said Stover anxiously.
"Well?"
"Marvellous, isn't it?"
"Exquisite."
"Only ten cents apiece!"
"It's the way to buy cigars."
"Trouble is, Dink, old highroller, it's going to be an awful wrench getting down to earth again. We'll hate anything ordinary, anything cheap."
"Yes, Tough, we are ruining our future happiness."
"And how good one of the little beauties will taste after that brutalizing Sunday dinner."
"I can hardly wait. By the way, I blew myself to a few glad rags," said Dink, bringing out his purchases, "I rather fancy them. How do they strike you?"
McCarthy emitted a languishing whistle and then his eyes fell on the cause of all the trouble.
"Keeroogalum! Where did you get the pea-soup?"
The expression did not please. However, Stover had still in the matter of his sentimental inclinations a certain bashfulness. So he said dishonestly:
"I had 'em throw it in for a lark."
"Why, the cows would leave the farm."
"Rats. Wait and see," said Dink, who seized the excuse to don the green shirt.
When Stover's blond locks were seen struggling through the collar McCarthy exploded:
"It looks like you were coming out of a tree. What the deuce has happened to you? Are you going out for class beauty? Holy cats! the socks, the socks!"
"The socks, you Reuben, should match the shirt," said Stover, completing his toilet under a diplomatic assumption of persiflage.
"Well, you are a lovely thing," said McCarthy, when the new collar and the selected necktie had transformedStover. "Lovely! lovely! you should go out and have the girls fondle you."
At this moment Bob Story arrived, as fate would have it, with an invitation to dinner at his home.
"Sis is back with a few charmers from Farmington and they're crazy to meet you."
"Oh, I say," said Stover in sudden alarm. "I'm the limit on the fussing question."
"Yes, he is," said McCarthy maliciously. "Why, they fall down before him and beg him to step on them."
"You shut up," said Stover, with wrath in his eye.
"Why, Bob, look at him, isn't he gotten up just to charm and delight? You'll have to put a fence around him to keep them off."
"In an hour," said Story, making for the door. "Hunter and Hungerford are coming."
"Hold up."
"Delighted you're coming."
"I say—"
"There's a Miss Sparkes—just crazy about you. You're in luck. Remember the name—Miss Sparkes."
"Story—Bob, come back here!"
"Au reservoir!"
"I can't go—I won't—" But here Dink, leaning over the banister, heard a gleeful laugh float up and the sudden banging of the door.
He rushed back frantically to the room and craned out the window, to see Bob Story sliding around the corner with his fingers spread in a gesture that is never anything but insulting. He closed the window violently and returned to the center of the room.
"Damn!"
"Pooh!" said McCarthy, chuckling with delight.
"Petticoats!"
"Alas!"
"A lot of silly, yapping, gushing, fluffy, giggling, tee-heeing, tittering, languishing, vapid, useless—"
"My boy, immense! Go on!"
"Confound Bob Story, why the deuce did he rope me into this? I loathe females."
"And one just dotes on you," said McCarthy, with the expression of a Cheshire cat.
"I won't go," said Stover loudly.
"Are you going in that green symphony?"
"Why not?"
In the midst of this quarrel, Joe Hungerford entered, with a solemn face.
"You're going to this massacre at Story's?"
"Don't I look like it?" said Dink crossly.
"We'll go over together then," said Hungerford, with a sigh of relief.
"I say, help yourself to a cigar, Joe," said McCarthy, with the air of a Maecenas.
"Cuba Libre?" said Hungerford, approaching the box.
"Andà basSpain!"
Hungerford examined the cigars with a certain amount of caution which was not lost on the room-mates.
"How many of these have you smoked?" he asked, turning to them with interest.
"Oh, about three apiece."
"How do you like 'em?"
"Wonderful!" said Dink loudly.
"Wonderful!" said McCarthy.
The three lit up simultaneously.
"What did you pay for yours?" said Hungerford, with a sort of inward concentration on the flavor.
"Ten bright silver ones."
"I paid twenty-five for two. How do they taste?"
"Wonderful!"
"Troutman only paid seven-fifty for his box."
"What!"
"And Hunter only five."
"Five dollars?" said McCarthy, with a foreboding.
"But what I can't understand is this—"
"What?"
"Dopey McNab got a box at two-fifty."
A sudden silence fell on the room, while, reflectively, each puffed forth quick, questioning volumes of smoke.
"How do they smoke?" said Hungerford again.
"Wonderful!" said McCarthy, hoping against hope.
"They're not!" said Dink firmly.
He rose, went to the window, and cast forth the malodorous thing. Hungerford followed suit. McCarthy, proud as the Old Guard, sat smoking on; only one leg was drawn up under the other in a tense, convulsive way.
"They were wonderful last night," he said obstinately.
"They certainly were."
"And they were wonderful this morning."
"Not quite so wonderful."
"I like 'em still."
"And Dopey McNab bought a hundred at two-fifty."
This was too much for McCarthy. He surrendered.
Dopey McNab, at this favorable conjunction, sidled into the room with his box under his arm and the face of a boy soprano on duty.
"I say, fellows, I've got a little proposition to make."
A sort of dull, rolling murmur went around the room which he did not notice.
"I find I've been cracking my bank account—the fact is, I'm strapped as a mule and have got to raise enough to pay my wash bill."
"Wash bill, Dopey?" said McCarthy softly.
"We must wash," said Dopey firmly. "To resume. As I detest, abhor, and likewise shrink from borrowing from friends—"
"Repeat that," said Joe Hungerford.
"I will not. But for all of which reasons, I have a little bargain to propose. Here is a box of the finest cigars ever struck the place."
"A full box?"
"Only three cigars out."
"Three!" said Hungerford with a significant look at Stover.
"I could sell them on the campus for twenty, easy."
"But you love your friends," said Stover, moving a little, so as to shut off the retreat.
"Who will give me seven-fifty for it?" said McNab, with the air of one filling a beggar with ecstasy.
"Seven-fifty. You'll let it go at seven-fifty, Dopey?" said McCarthy faintly, paralyzed at such duplicity.
"I will."
"Dopey," said Dink, with a signal to the others, "what is the exact figure of that wash bill of yours?"
"Two dollars and sixty-two cents."
"Will you take two dollars and sixty-two cents for it?"
"You're fooling."
"I am very, very serious."
McNab struck a pose, while over his face was seen the conflict of duty and avarice.
"Take it," he said at last, in a glow of virtue.
"I didn't say I wanted it."
"You didn't!"
"I only wanted to know what you'd really take."
"What's this mean?" said McNab indignantly.
"Dopey, would you sacrifice it at just a little less?" said Hungerford.
But here McNab, suddenly smelling danger in the air, made a spring backwards. Hungerford, who was on guard, caught him.
"Put him in the chair and tie him," said Stover, savagely.
Which was done.
"I say, look here, what are you going to do with me?" said McNab, fiercely.
"You're going to sit there and smoke a couple of those museum cigars, for our delectation and amusement."
"Assassins!"
"Two cigars."
"Never! I'll starve to death first!"
"All right. Keep on sitting there."
"But this is a crime! Police!"
"There are other crimes, Dopey."
"Hold up," said McNab, frantically, as he perceived the cigar being prepared. "I've got to dine over at the Story's at one o'clock."
"So have we," said Hungerford, "but McCarthy will watch you for us."
"I will," said McCarthy, licking his chops.
"I've got to be there," said McNab, wriggling in a frenzy.
"Smoke right up, then. You can smoke them in twenty minutes."
"Police!"
"I say, Dink," said Hungerford, as McNab's head whipped from side to side like a recalcitrant child's. "Perhaps we'd better get in all the crowd who fell for the cigars—round 'em up."
"I'll smoke it," said McNab instantly.
"I thought you would."
They sat around, unfeelingly, grinning, while McNab, strapped in like a papoose, rebelliously, with much sputtering and coughing, smoked the cigar that Dink fed him like a trained nurse.
"Fellows, I've got to get to that dinner."
"We know that, Dopey—but there's one thing you won't do there—tell the story of theCuba librecigar."
"Say, let me off and I'll put you on to a great stunt."
"We can't be bought."
"I'll tell you, I'll trust you! We're going to have a cop-killing over in Freshman row. We've got a whole depot of Roman candles. Let me off this second cigar and I'll work you in."
"We'll be there!"
"You bandits, I'll get even with you."
"You probably will, Dopey, but you'll never rob us of this memory."
"Curse you, feed it to me quickly."
The cigar consumed to the last rebellious puff, McNab was released in a terrific humor, and departed hastily to dress, after remarking in a deadly manner:
"I'll get you yet—you brutal kidnappers."
"I think it's a rather low trick of Bob Story's," said Stover, considering surreptitiously in the mirror the effect of his new color scheme.
"Ditto here," said Hungerford.
Now Stover was in a quandary. He was divided between two emotions. He firmly thought that he had never looked so transcendingly the perfect man of fashion, but he had numerous busy doubts as to whether the exquisite costume was as appropriate at a quiet Sunday dinner as it undoubtedly would have been in a sporting audience. Still, to make a change now, under themalicious inspection of Tough McCarthy, would be to invite a storm of joyful ridicule, so he said hopefully.
"Think it all right to go in this?"
"Why not?"
As this put the burden of the proof on him, Stover remained silent, but compromised a little by exchanging a rather forward vest for one of calmer aspect.
"Well," he said, at last, with something between a gulp and a sigh, "I suppose we'd better push along."
"I suppose so," said Hungerford, who brought a strangle hold to bear on his necktie and shot a last look down at the slightly wavering line of his trousers.
At the door, the vision of McNab, like a visiting English duke, bore down upon them.
"Where in the thunder did you get the boutonnière?" said Stover, examining him critically.
"Why, Dopey, you're a dude!" said Hungerford disapprovingly.
"Everything is correct—brilliant, but correct," said McNab with a flip of his fingers. "Come on now—we're late."
Half way there, when the conversation had completely fizzled out, McNab said cheerily:
"How d'ye feel? Getting a little nervous, eh? Getting cold feelings up and down your back? Fingers twitching—what?"
"Don't be an ass," said Hungerford huskily.
"Chump," said Stover, feeling all at once the tightness of his vest.
"'Course you know, boys, you're dressed all wrong—in shocking taste. You know that, don't you? Thought I'd better tell you before the girls begin giggling at you."
"Huh!"
"Joe's bad enough in a liver-colored sack, but Dink's unspeakable!"
"I am! What's wrong?"
"Fancy wearing a colored shirt—and such a color! You're gotten up for a boating party—not for a formal lunch. You're unspeakable, Dink, unspeakable! Look at me. I'm a delight—black and white, immaculate, impressive, and absolutely correct."
By this time they had reached the steps.
"Now, don't try to shine your shoes on your trousers. It always shows. Don't stumble or trip when you go in. Don't bump against the furniture. Don't stutter. Don't hold on to your hostess to keep from falling over. And don't,don'tshoot your cuffs."
McNab's malicious advice reduced Hungerford to a panic, while only the consciousness of his public importance prevented Stover from bolting as he saw McNab press the button.
"Stand up straight and keep your hands out of your pockets."
"Dopey, I'll wring your neck if you don't stop!"
"Ditto."
"Say something interesting to every girl," continued McNab, in a solemn whisper. "Talk about art or literature."
The door opened, and they stumbled into the ante-room, from which escape was impossible.
"Dink," said McNab in a last whisper.
"What?"
"Don't ask twice for soup, and stop shooting that cuff."
The next moment Stover, who had been thrust forward by the other two, found himself crossing the perilous track of slippery rugs on slippery floors, and suddenly the cynosure of at least a hundred eyes.
Judge Story had him by the hand, patting him on the back, smiling up at him with a smile he never forgot—a little lithe man bristling with good humor and the genius of good cheer.
"Stover, I'm glad to shake your hand. We did all we could for you in those last rushes. We rooted hard. My wife assaulted a clergyman in front of her, and my daughter was found afterward weeping with her arms around the man next to her. I certainly am proud to shake your hand. I won't shake it too long, because"—here he looked up in a confidential whisper—"because the girls have been fidgeting at the window for an hour. Look them over and tell me which one you want to sit next to you, and I'll fix it."
"Dad, aren't you awful?" said a voice in only laughing disapproval.
"My daughter," said the judge, passing joyfully on to Hungerford.
"Indeed, I'm very glad to meet you."
He shook hands, a trifle embarrassed, with a young lady of quiet self-possession, gentle in voice and action, with somewhat of the thoughtful reserve of her brother.
He followed her, only half conscious of a certain floating grace and the pleasure of following her movements, bowing with cataleptic bobs of his head as the introductions ran on:
"Miss Sparkes."
"Miss Green."
"Miss Woostelle."
"Miss Raymond."
Then he straightened and allowed his chin to right itself over the brink of his mounting collar, smiling, but without hearing the outburst that went up from the equally agitated sex:
"Isn't the Judge perfectly terrible!"
"You mustn't believe a word he says."
"Don't you think he's lovely, though?"
"We really were so excited at the game."
"Oh, dear, I almost cried my eyes out."
"We thought you were perfectly splendid."
"We did want you to score so."
"I just hated those Princeton men, they were so much bigger."
Hungerford and McNab coming up for presentation, he found himself a little to leeward, clinging to a chair, and, opening his eyes, perceived for the first time Hunter, with whom he shook hands with the convulsiveness of a death grip.
Miss Sparkes, a rather fluttering brunette with dimples and enthusiastic eyes, cut off his retreat and isolated him in a corner, where he was forced to listen to a disquisition on the theory of football, supremely conscious that the unforgiving McNab was making him a subject of conversation with the young lady to whom he was rapidly succumbing.
The entrance of Mrs. Story and Bob, and the welcome descent on the dining-room, for a moment made him forget the awful fact that he had perceived, on his entrance, that the green shirt was, in fact, nothing short of a social outrage.
"Every one sitting next to the person they want," said the Judge roguishly, his glance rolling around the table. "By George, if that body-snatcher of a Miss Sparkes hasn't bagged Stover—well, I never! Seems to me a certain party named Hungerford has done very well indeed. McNab, I perceive, is going to set the fashions for the class, but I certainly do like Stover's green shirt."
At this a shout went up, and Stover's ears began to boil.
"I don't see what you're ha-ha-ing about, Mr. McNab," continued the Judge, diverting the attack, "descending upon us, a quiet, respectable back-woods family, with a boutonnière! I think that's putting on a good deal of airs, don't you? Now, boys, don't let these young society ladies from Farmington pretend they're too delicate to eat. You ought to see the breakfast they devoured. Everybody happy all right."
In five minutes all were at ease, chattering away like so many magpies. Stover, finding that his breath came easier, recovered himself and listened with a tolerant sense of pleasure while Miss Sparkes rushed on.
"The girls up at Farmington will be so excited when they hear I've actually sat next to you at the table. You know, we're all just crazy about football. Oh, it gets me so excited! Dudley's the new captain, isn't he? I met him last summer at a dance down at Long Island. I admire him tremendously, don't you? He has such astrongcharacter."
He nodded from time to time, replied in dignified monosyllables, and became pleasurably aware that Miss Raymond, opposite, in disloyalty to her companion, had one ear trained to catch his slightest word, while Miss Green and Miss Woostelle, farther away, watched him covertly over the foliage of the celery. He was a lion among ladies for the first time—a sensation he had sworn to loathe and detest; and yet there was in him a sort of warm growing feeling that he could not explain but that was quite far from unpleasant.
"If Miss Sparkes, Mr. Stover, will stop whispering in your ear for just a moment," said the Judge, on mischief bent, "you can help Mrs. Story with the beef."
"You'll get accustomed to him soon," said his hostess, smiling. "There, if you'll steady the platter I think wetwo can manage it. I am so glad to have you here. Bob has spoken of you so often. I hope you'll be good friends."
There was something leonine and yet very feminine in her face, a quiet and restfulness that drew him irresistibly to her and gave him the secret of the reserve and charm that was in her children.
Of all the delegation from school, Jean Story alone had not seemed aware of his imposing stature. She was sitting between Hungerford and Hunter, whom she called by his first name, and her way of speaking, unlike the impulsiveness of her companions, was measured and thoughtful. She had a quantity of ash-colored hair which, like her dress, seemed to be floating about her. Her forehead was clear, a little serious, and her eyes, while devoid of coquetry, held him with their directness and simplicity.
He found himself only half hearing the conversation that Miss Sparkes rolled into his ear, watching the movements of other hands, feeling a little antagonism to Hunter and wondering how long they had known each other.
Dinner over, he forgot his shyness, and went up to her with the quick direction which was impulsive in him when he was strongly interested.
"I want to talk to you," he said.
"Yes?"
She looked at him, a little surprised at the bluntness of his introduction, but not displeased.
"You are very like your brother," he said. She seemed younger than he had thought.
"I am glad of that," she answered, with a genuine smile. "Bob and I are old friends."
"I hope you'll be my friend," he said.
She turned, and then, seeing in his face only sincerity, nodded her head slightly and said:
"Thank you."
He said very little more, ill at ease, a feeling that also seemed to have gained possession of her.
Miss Raymond and Miss Woostelle came up, and he found himself restored to the rôle of a hero, a little piqued at Miss Story's different attitude, always aware of her movements, hearing her low voice through all the chatter of the room.
He went home very thoughtful, keeping out of the laughing discussion that went on, watching from the corner of his eye Hunter, and wondering with a little unexplained resentment just how well he knew the Storys.
With Stover's return after the Christmas vacation the full significance of the society dominion burst over him. The night that the hold-offs were to be given, there was a little joking at the club table, but it was only lip-deep. The crisis was too vital. Chris Schley and Troutman, who were none too confident, were plainly nervous.
Stover and McCarthy walked home directly to their rooms, and took up the next day's lessons as a convenient method of killing time.
"You're not worrying?" said Stover suddenly.
McCarthy put down the penitential book, and, rising, stretched himself, nervously resorting to his pipe.
"Not for a hold-off—no. That ought to be all right."
"And afterward?"
"Don't speak about it."
"Rats! You'll be pledged about the eighth or tenth."
"What time is it?" said McCarthy shortly.
"Five minutes more."
This time each took up his book in order to be found in an inconsequential attitude, outwardly indifferent, as all Anglo-Saxons should be. From without, the hour rang its dull, leaden, measured tones. Almost immediately a knock sounded on the door, and Le Baron appeared, hurried, businesslike, mysterious, saying:
"Stover, want to see you in the other room a moment."
Dink retired with him into the bedroom, and received his hold-off in a few matter-of-fact sentences. A secondafter, Le Baron was out of the door, rushing down the steps.
"Your turn next," said Stover, with a wave of his hand to McCarthy.
"Yes."
The sound of hurrying feet and the shudder of hastily banged doors filled the house.
"My, they're having a busy time of it," said Stover.
"Yes."
Ten minutes passed. McCarthy, staring at his page, mechanically took up the dictionary, hiding the fear that started up. Stover rose, going to the window.
"They're running around Pierson Hall like a lot of ants," he said, drumming against the window.
"How far's this advance go?" said McCarthy in a matter-of-fact tone.
"End of page 152," said Stover. He came back frowning, glancing at the clock. It was seventeen minutes after the hour.
All at once, outside, came a clatter of feet, and the door opened on Waring, out of breath and flustered.
"McCarthy, like to see you a moment."
Stover returned to the window, gazing out. Presently behind his back he heard the two return, the door bang, and McCarthy's voice saying:
"It's all right, Dink."
"All right?" he said.
"Yes."
"Glad of it."
"He gave me a little scare, though."
"Your crowd lost a couple of men; besides, you give more hold-offs."
"That's it."
They abandoned the subject by mutual consent; onlyStover remembered for months after the tension he had felt and the tugging at the heart-strings. If he could feel that way for his friend, what would be his sensations when he faced his own crisis on Tap Day?
Fellows from other houses came thronging in with reports of how the class had divided up. Every one had his own list of the hold-offs, completing it according to the last returns, amid a bedlam of questions.
"How did Story go?"
"Did Schley get a hold-off?"
"Yes, but Troutman didn't."
"He did, too."
"When?"
"Half an hour late."
"Brockhurst got one."
"You don't say so!"
"Gimbel get anythin'?"
"No."
"Regan?"
"Don't know."
"Any one know about Regan?"
"No."
"How about Buck Waters?"
"I don't know. I think not."
"Damned shame."
"What, is Buck left out?"
"'Fraid so."
"What's wrong?"
"Too much sense of humor."
Stover, off at one side, watched the group, seeing the interested calculation as each scanned his own list, wondering who would have to be eliminated if he were to be chosen. Story, Tommy Bain, and Hunter were in his crowd, as he had foreseen.
He went out and across the campus to South Middle, where Regan was now rooming. By the Coöp he found Bob Story, and together they went up the creaky stairs. Regan was out—just where, the man who roomed on his entry did not know.
"How long has he been out?" said Story anxiously.
"Ever since supper."
"Didn't he come in at all?"
"No."
"Were they going to give him a hold-off?" said Stover, as they went down.
"Yes. They've been looking everywhere for him."
"I don't think the old boy would take it."
"Can't you make him see what it would mean to him?"
"I've tried."
"I'm afraid Regan's queered himself with a lot of our crowd," said Story thoughtfully. "They don't understand him and he doesn't want to understand them. Didn't he know this was the night?"
"Yes; I told him."
"Stayed away on purpose?"
"Probably."
"Too bad. He's just the sort of man we ought to have."
"How do you feel about the whole proposition?" said Stover curiously.
"The sophomore society question?" said Story frankly. "Why, I think there've got to be some reforms made; they ought to be kept more democratic."
"You think that?"
"Yes; I think we want to keep away a good deal from the social admiration game—be representative of the real things in Yale life; that's why we need a man like Regan. Course, I think this—that we've all got toomuch this society idea in our heads; but, since they exist it's better to do what we can to make them representative and not snobbish."
Stover was surprised at the maturity of judgment in the young fellow, as well as his simplicity of expression. He would have liked to talk to him further on deeper subjects, but, as always, the first steps were difficult and as yet he accepted things without a clear understanding of reasons.
He went up with Story for a little chat. There was about the room a tone of quiet good taste and thoughtfulness quite different from the boyish exuberance of other rooms. The pictures were Braunotypes of paintings he did not know, while bits of plaster casts mellowed with wax enlivened the serried contents of the book-shelves.
"You've got a lot of books," said Stover, feeling his way.
"Yes. Drop in and borrow them any time you want."
While Story flung a couple of cushions on the state arm-chair and brought out the tobacco, Dink examined the shelves respectfully, surprised and impressed by the quality of the titles, French, German, and Russian.
"Why do you room alone, Bob?" he said, with some curiosity, knowing Story's popularity.
"I wanted to." Story was opposite, his face blocked out in sudden shadows from the standing lamp, that accentuated a certain wistful, pensive quality it had. "I enjoy being by myself. It gives me time to think and look around me."
"Are you going out for anything?" said Stover, wondering a little at the impression Story had made already, through nothing but the charm and sincerity of his character.
"Yes, I'm going out for theNewsnext month, and besides I'm heeling theLit."
"Oh, you are?" said Stover, surprised.
"But it comes hard," said Story, with a grimace. "I have to work like sin over every line. It's all hammered out. Brockhurst is the fellow who can do the stuff."
"Do you know him at all?"
"He won't let any one know him. I've tried. I don't think he quite knows yet how to meet fellows. I'm sorry. He really interests me."
"That's a good photo of your sister," said Stover, who had held the question in leash ever since his entrance.
"So, so."
"How much longer has she at Farmington?"
"Last year."
"Going abroad afterwards?" said Stover carelessly.
"No, indeed. Stay right here."
"I like her," said Stover. "It's quite a privilege to know her."
Story looked up and a pleased smile came to him.
"Yes, it is," he said.
"Bob, what do you think about McCarthy's chances?"
Story considered a moment.
"Only fair," he said.
"Why, what's wrong with him?"
"He hasn't any one ahead pulling for him," said Story, "and most of the other fellows have. That's one fault we have."
"It would knock him out to miss."
"It is tough."
They spoke a little more in a desultory way, and Stover left. He was dissatisfied. He wanted Story to like him, conscious of a new longing in himself for the friendships that did not come, and yet somehow he could find nocommon ground of conversation. Moreover, and he rather resented it, there was not in Story the least trace of the admiration and reverence that he was accustomed to receive, as a leader should receive.
The following weeks were ones of intrigue and nervous speculation. Pledged among the first, he found himself with Hunter, Story, and Tommy Bain in the position of adviser as to the selection of the rest of his crowd. Hunter and Bain, each with an object in view, sought to enlist his aid. He perceived their intentions, not duped by the new cordiality, growing more and more antagonistic to their businesslike ambitions. With Joe Hungerford and Bob Story he found his real friends. And yet, what completely surprised him was the lack of careless, indolent camaraderie which he had known at school and had expected in larger scope at college. Every one was busy, working with a dogged persistence along some line of ambition. The long, lazy afternoons and pleasant evenings were not there. Instead was the grinding of the mills and the turning of the wheels. How it was with the rest he ignored; but with his own crowd—the chosen—life was earnest, disciplined in a set purpose. He felt it in the open afternoon, in the quiet passage of candidates for the baseball teams, the track, and the crew; in the evenings, in the strumming of instruments from Alumni Hall and the practising of musical organizations, and most of all in the flitting, breathless passage of theNewsheelers—in snow or sleet, running in and out of buildings, frantically chasing down a tip, haggard with the long-drawn-out struggle now ending the fourth month.
He himself had surrendered again to this compelling activity and gone over to the gymnasium, taking his place at the oars in the churning tanks, bending methodically as the bare torso of the man in front bent or shot back,concentrating all his faculties on the shouted words of advice from the pacing coach above him.
He was too light to win in the competition of unusual material—he could only hope for a second or third substitute at best; but that was what counted, he said to himself, what made competition in the class and brought others out, just as it did in football. And so he stuck to his grind, satisfied, on the whole, that his afternoons were mapped out for him.
Meanwhile the pledges to the sophomore societies continued and the field began to narrow. McCarthy's hold-off was renewed each time, but the election did not arrive.
In his own crowd Story, Hungerford, and himself found themselves in earnest alliance for the election of Regan and Brockhurst. Regan, however, had so antagonized certain members of their sophomore crowd that their task was well-nigh impossible. He had been pronounced "fresh," equivalent almost to a ban of excommunication, for his extraordinary lack of reverence to things that traditionally should be revered, and as he had a blunt, direct way of showing in his eyes what he liked and disliked, his sterling qualities were forgotten in the irritation he caused. Besides, as the opening narrowed to three or four vacancies, Hunter and Bain, in the service of their own friends, arrayed themselves in silent opposition to him and to Brockhurst.
About the latter, Stover found himself increasingly unable to make up his mind. He went to see him once or twice, but the visit was never returned. In his infallibility—for infallibility is a requisite of a leader—he decided that there was something queer about him. He rather shunned others, took long walks by himself, in a crowd always seemed removed, watching others with a distant eye which had in it a little mockery. His roomwas always in confusion, as was his tousled hair. In a word, he was a little of a barbarian, who did not speak the ready lip language that was current in social gatherings, and, unfortunately, did not show well his paces when confronted with inspection. So when the final vote came Stover, infallible judge of human nature, conscientiously decided that Brockhurst did not rank with the exceedingly choice crowd of which he was a leader.
With the arrival of the elections for the managerships of the four big athletic organizations, positions in the past disputed by the candidacies of the three sophomore societies, a revolution took place. The non-society element, organized by Gimbel and other insurgents ahead of him, put up a candidate for the football managership and elected him by an overwhelming majority, and repeated their success with the Navy.
The second victory was like the throwing down of a gauntlet. The class, which had been quietly dividing since the advent of the hold-offs, definitely split, and for the first time Stover became aware of the soundness of the opposition to the social system of which he was a prospective leader. Quite to his surprise, Jim Hunter appeared in his room one night.
"What the deuce does he want now?" he thought to himself, wondering if he were to be again solicited in favor of Stone, who was still short of election.
"I say, Dink, we're up against a serious row," said Hunter, making himself comfortable and speaking always in the same unvarying tone. "The class is split to pieces."
"It looks that way."
"It's all Gimbel and that crowd of soreheads he runs. We had trouble with him up at Andover."
"Well, Jim, what do you think about the wholeproposition?" said Stover. "The college seems pretty strong against us."
"It's just a couple of men who are cooking it up to work themselves into office," said Hunter, dismissing the idea lightly. "You'll see, that's all there is to it."
Somehow, Stover found that renewed contest with Hunter only increased the feeling of antagonism he had felt from the first. He was aware of a growing resistance to Hunter's point of view, guarded and deliberate as it was. So he said point blank:
"I'm not so sure there isn't some basis for the feeling. We ought to watch out and make ourselves as democratic as possible."
"My dear fellow," said Hunter, in the tone of amused worldliness, "these anti-society fights go on everywhere. There was a great hullabaloo six or seven years ago, and then it all died out. You'll see, that's what'll happen. Gimbel'll get what he wants, then he'll quiet down and hope to make a senior society. Don't get too excited over things that happen in freshman year."
"Have you talked with Story?" said Stover, resenting his tone.
"Bob's got a curious twist—he's a good deal of a dreamer."
"Then you wouldn't make any changes?"
"No, not in our crowd," said Hunter. "I think we do very well what we set out to get—the representative men of the class, to bring them together into close friendship, and make them understand one another's point of view and so work together for the best in the university."
"You think the outsiders don't count?"
"As a rule, no. Of course, there are one or two men who develop later, but if there's anything in them they'll really make good."
"Rather tough work, won't it be?"
"Yes; but every system has its faults."
"What did you come in to see me about?" said Stover abruptly.
"To talk the situation over," said Hunter, not seeming to perceive the hostility of the question. "I think all of us in the crowd ought to be very careful."
"About what?"
"About talking too much."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, if you have any criticism on the system, keep it to yourself. Gimbel is raising enough trouble; the only thing is for us to shut up and not encourage them by making the kickers think that any of us agree with them."
"So that's what you came in to say to me?"
"Yes."
"You're for no compromise."
"I am."
"Are there fellows in our crowd, or the classes ahead, who feel as Story does?"
"Yes; of course there are a few."
"And, Hunter, you see no faults in the system?"
"What other system would you suggest?"
Now, Stover had not yet come to a critical analysis of his own good fortune, nor had he any more than a personal antagonism for Hunter himself. He did not answer, unwilling to let this feeling color his views on what he began to perceive might some day shape itself as a test of his courage.
Hunter left presently, as he had come up, without enthusiasm, always cold, always deliberate. When he had gone, Stover became a little angry at the advice soopenly imposed on him, and as a result he decided on a sudden move.
If the split in the class was acute, something ought to be done. If Hunter, as a leader, was resolved on contemptuous isolation, he would do a bigger thing in a bigger way.
In pursuance of this idea, he suddenly set out to find Gimbel and provoke a frank discussion. If anything could be done to hold the class together and stop the rise of political dissension, it was his duty as a responsible leader to do what he could to prevent it.
When he reached the room, it was crowded, and an excited discussion was going on, which dropped suddenly on his entrance. What the subject of conversation was he had a shrewd suspicion, seeing several representatives from Sheff.
"Hello, Stover. Come right in. Glad to see you." Gimbel, a little puzzled at this first visit, came forward cordially. "You know every one here, don't you? Jackson, shake hands with Stover. What'll you have, pipe or cigarette?"
Stover nodded to the fellows whom he knew on slight acquaintance, settled in an arm-chair, brought forth his pipe, and said with assumed carelessness:
"What was all the pow-wow about when I arrived?"
A certain embarrassment stirred in the room, but Gimbel, smiling at the question, said frankly:
"We were fixing up a combination for the baseball managership. We are going to lick you fellows to a scramble. That's what you've come over to talk about, isn't it?"
"Yes."
The crowd, plainly disconcerted at this smiling passageof arms, began to melt away with hastily formed excuses.
"Quite a meeting-place, Gimbel, you have here," said Stover, nodding to the last disappearing group.
"Politicians should have," replied Gimbel, straddling a chair, and, leaning his arms on the back, he added, smiling: "Well, fire away."
Each had grown in authority since their first meeting on the opening of college, nor was the question of war or peace yet decided between them.
"Gimbel, I hope we can talk this thing over openly."
"I think we can."
"I'm doing an unusual thing in coming to you. You're a power in this class."
"And you represent the other side," said Gimbel. "Go on."
"You're going to run a candidate for the baseball managership."
"I'm not running him, but I'm making the combination for this class."
"Same thing."
"Just about."
"Are you fellows going to shut out every society man that goes up for a class election?"
"You're putting a pretty direct question."
"Answer it if you want to."
"Yes, I'll answer it." Gimbel looked at him, plainly concerned in emulating his frankness, and continued: "Stover, this anti-sophomore society fight is a fight to the finish. We are going to put up an outsider, as you call it, for every election, and we're going to elect him."
"Why?"
"Because we are serving notice that we are against a system that is political and undemocratic."
"What good'll it do?"
"We'll abolish the whole system."
"Do you really believe that?" said Stover, strangely enough, adopting Hunter's attitude.
"I do; I may know the feeling in the upper classes better than you do."
"Gimbel, how much of this is real opposition and how much is worked up by you and others?"
"My dear Stover, why ask who is responsible? Ask if the opposition is genuine and whether it's going to stick."
"I don't believe it is."
"That's not it. What you want to know is how much is conviction in me, and how much is just the fun of running things and stirring up mischief."
"That does puzzle me—yes. But what I wantyouto see is, you're splitting up the class."
"I'm not doing it, and you're not doing it. It's the class ahead that's interfering and doing it. Now, Stover, I've answered your questions. Will you answer mine?"
"That's fair."
"If you put up a candidate, why shouldn't we?"
"But you make politics out of it."
"Do you ever support the candidate of another crowd?"
Stover was silent.
"Stover, do you know that for years these elections have gone on with just three candidates offered, one each from your three sophomore societies? And how have they been run? By putting up your lame ducks."
"Oh, come."
"Not always. But if you think you can elect a weak member instead of a strong one, you trot out the lame duck. Why? Because at the bottom you are not reallysocial, but political; because your main object is to get as many of your men into senior societies as you can."
"Well, why not?"
"Because you're doing it at the expense of the class—by making us bolster up the weak ones with an office."
"I don't think that's entirely fair."
"You'll see. Look at the last candidates the sophomores put up. You haven't answered my questions. Why shouldn't we non-society men, six-sevenths of the class, have the right to put up our candidates and elect them?"
"You have," said Stover; "but, Gimbel, you're not doing it for that. You're doing it to knock us out."
"Quite true."
"That means the whole class goes to smash—that we're going to have nothing but fights and hard feelings from now on. Is that what you want?"
"Stover, it's a bigger thing than just the peace of mind of our class."
"But what is your objection to us?" said Stover.
"My objection is that just that class feeling and harmony you spoke of your societies have already destroyed."
"In what way?"
"Because you break in and take little groups out of the body of the class and herd together."
"You exaggerate."
"Oh, no, I don't; and you'll see it more next year. You've formed your crowd, and you'll stick together and you'll all do everything you can to help each other along. That's natural. But don't come and say to me that we fellows are dividing the class."
"Rats, Gimbel! Just because I'm in a soph isn't going to make any difference with the men I see."
"You think so?" said Gimbel, looking at him with real curiosity.
"You bet it won't."
"Wait and see."
"That's too ridiculous!"
Stover, feeling his anger gaining possession of him, rose abruptly.
"How can it be otherwise?" said Gimbel, persisting.
"Next year the only outsiders you'll see will be a few bootlickers who'll attach themselves to you to get pulled into a junior society. The real men won't go with you, because they don't want to kowtow and heel."
"We'll see."
"I say, Stover," said Gimbel abruptly, as Dink, for fear of losing his temper, was leaving. "Now, be square. You've come to me frankly—I won't say impertinently—and I've answered your questions and told you openly what we're going to do. Give me credit for that, will you?"
"I don't believe in you," said Stover, facing him.
"I know you don't," said Gimbel, flushing a little, "but you will before you get through."
"I doubt it."
"And I'll tell you another thing you'll do before this sophomore society fight is ended," said Gimbel, with a sudden heat.
"What?"
"You'll stand on the right side—where we stand."
"You think so?"
"I know it!"
When a freshman has been invited to dinner and in a rash moment accepted the invitation and lived through the agony, he usually pays his party call (always supposing that he has imbibed a certain amount of home etiquette) sometime before graduation. In the balance of freshman year the obligation possesses him like a specter of remorse; in sophomore year he remembers it by fits and starts, always in the middle of the week, in time to forget it by Sunday; in junior year he is tempted once or twice to use it as an excuse for sporting his newly won high hat and frock-coat, but fears he has offended too deeply; and in senior year he watches the local society columns for departures, and rushes around to deposit his cards, with an expression of surprise and regret when informed at the door that the family is away.
Dink Stover temporized, confronted with the awful ordeal of arraying himself in his Sunday prison garb and stiffly traversing the long, tricky, rug-strewn hall of the Story's, with the chance of suddenly showing his whole person to a dozen inquisitive eyes. He let the first Sunday pass without a qualm, as being too unnecessarily close and familiar. On the second Sunday he decided to wait until he had received the suit made of goods purchased at a miraculous bargain from the unsuspecting Yankee drummer. The third Sunday he completely forgot his duties as a man of fashion. On the fourth Sunday, in a panic, he bound his neck in a shackling high collar,donned his new suit, which looked as lovely as everything that is new and untried can look, and went post-haste in search of Hungerford as a companion in misery and a post to which to cling. To his horror, Hungerford had paid his visit, and felt very doubtful as to the propriety of repeating it before having been again fed.
Dink returned for McNab or Hunter as the lesser of two evils. They were both out. Being in stiff and circumstantial attire, the afternoon was manifestly lost. With a sort of desperate hope for some miraculous evasion, he set out laggingly for the Story mansion, revolving different plans.
"I might leave a card at the door," he thought to himself, "and tell the girl that my room-mate was desperately ill—that I had just run in for a moment because I wanted them to know, to know—to know what?"
The idea expired noiselessly. He likewise rejected the idea of stalking the door Indian fashion, and slipping the card under the crack as if he had rung and not been heard.
"After all, they might be out," he thought at last, hopefully. "I'll just go by quietly and see if I can hear anything."
But at the moment when he came abreast the steps a carriage drove up, the door opened, and Judge Story and his wife came down. Stover came to a balky stop, hastily snatching away his derby.
"Why, bless me if it isn't Mr. Stover," said the Judge instantly. "Dressed to kill, too. Never expected to see you until I went around myself, with an injunction. How did you screw up your courage?"
Mrs. Story came to his rescue, smiling a little at his tell-tale face.
"Don't stop on my account," said Stover, very much embarrassed. "It's a beautiful day for a ride, beautiful."
"Oh, you are not going to get off as easily as that," said the Judge, delighted. "My daughter Jean is inside watching you from behind the curtains. Go right up and entertain her with some side-splitting stories. Besides, Miss Kelly is there with some important top-heavy junior who thinks he's making an awful hit with her. Go in and steal her right away from him."
The maid stood at the open door. There was nothing to do but to toil up the penal steps, heart in mouth.
"Is Miss Story in?" he said in a lugubrious voice. "Will you present her with this card?"
"Step right into the parlor, sah. You'll find Miss Jean there," said the colored maid, with no feeling at all for his suffering.
He caught a fleeting, unreassuring glimpse of himself in a dark mirror, successfully negotiated the sliding rugs, and all at once found himself somehow in the cheery parlor alone with Miss Story, shaking hands.
"Miss Kelly is here?" he said, perfunctorily stalking to a chair.
"No, indeed."
"Why your father said—"
"That was only his way—he's a dreadful tease."
Stover drew a more quiet breath, and even relaxed into a smile.
"He had me all primed up for a junior, at least."
"Isn't Dad dreadful! That's why you came in with such overpowering dignity?"
Stover laughed, a little pleased that his entrance could be so described, and, shifting to a less painfullycontracted position, sought anxiously for some brilliant opening that would make the conversation a distinguished success.
Now, although he still retained his invincible determination to keep his faith from women, he had during certain pleasant episodes of the last vacation condescended to listen politely to the not disagreeable adoration of a score of hero-worshiping young ladies still languishing in boarding-schools. He had learned the trick of such conversations, exchanged photographs with the laudable intention of making his rooms more like an art gallery than ever, and carried off as mementos such articles as fans, handkerchiefs, flowers, etc.
But, somehow, the stock phrases were out of place here. He tried one or two openings, and then relapsed, watching her as she took up the conversation easily and ran on. Ever since their first meeting the charming silhouette of the young girl had been in his mind. He watched her as she rose once or twice to cross the room, and her movements had the same gentle rhythm that mystified him in her voice. Yet he was conscious of a certain antagonism. His vanity, perhaps, was a little stirred. She was not flattered in the least by his attentions, which in itself was an incredible thing. There was about her not the slightest suggestion of coquetry—in fact, not more than a polite uninterested attitude toward a guest. And, perceiving this all at once, a desire came to him to force from her some recognition.
"You are very much like Bob," he said abruptly, "you are very hard to know."
"Really?"
"I really want to know your brother, but I can't. I don't think he likes me," he said.
"I don't think Bob knows you," she said carefully, raising her eyes in a little surprise. "You're right; we both take a long time to make up our minds."
"Then what I said is true?" he persisted.
She looked at him a moment, as if wondering how frank she might be, and said after a little deliberation:
"I think he's in a little doubt about you."
"In doubt," said the prospective captain of a Yale eleven, vastly amazed. "How?"
"You will succeed; I am sure of that."
"Well, what then?" he said, wondering what other standard could be applied.
"I wonder howrealyou will be in your success," she said, looking at him steadily.
"You think I am calculating and cold about it," he said, insisting.
She nodded her head, and then corrected herself.
"I think you are in danger of it—being entirely absorbed in yourself—not much to give to others—that's what I mean."
"By George," said Dink, open-mouthed, "you are the strangest person I ever met in my life!"
She colored a little at this, and said hastily:
"I beg your pardon; I didn't realize what I was saying."
"You may be right, too." He rose and walked a little, thinking it over. He stopped suddenly and turned to her. "Why do you think I'm not 'real'?"
"I don't believe you have begun to think yet."
"Why not?"
"Because—well, because you are too popular, too successful. It's all come too easily. You've had nothing to test you. There's nothing so much alike as the successful men here."
"You are very old for your years," he said, plainly annoyed.
"No; I listen. Bob and Dad say the same thing."
"You know, I wanted you to be my friend," he said, suddenly brushing aside the conversation. "You remember?"
"I should like to be your friend," she said quietly.
"If I turn out as you want."
"Certainly."
He seized an early opportunity to leave, furious at what (not understanding that the instincts of a first antagonism in a young girl are sometimes evidence of a growing interest) he felt was her indifference. He did not go directly to his rooms, but struck out for a brisk walk up the avenue.
"What the deuce does she think I'm going to turn out?" he said to himself, with some irritation. "Turn out? Absurd! Haven't I done everything I should do? I've only been here a year, and I stand for something. By George, I'd like to know how many men get where I've gotten the first year." Looking back over the year, he was quickly reassured on this vital point. "If she thinks I'm calculating, how about Hunter? He's the original cold fish," he said. "Yes, what about him? Absurd. She just said that to provoke me." He sought in his mind some epithet adequate to such impertinence, and declared: "She's young—that's it; she'squiteyoung."