LIFE'S REAL TO THOSE FELLOWS; THEY'RE FIGHTING FOR SOMETHING
"'LIFE'S REAL TO THOSE FELLOWS; THEY'RE FIGHTING FOR SOMETHING'"—Page 254.
She had in her hand a piece of embroidery, but she did not embroider. Her eyes never left his face. For the first time, the rôles were reversed: it was he who talked and she who listened. From time to time she nodded, satisfied at the decision and direction in his character, which had answered the first awakening suggestion.
"Who is Pike?" she asked.
"Pike is a little fellow from a little life in some country town in Indiana; the only one in a family ofeight children that's amounted to anything—father's a pretty even sort, I guess; so are the rest of them. But this fellow has a dogged persistence—not so quick at thinking things out, but, Lord! how he listens; nothing gets away from him. I can see him growing right under my eyes. He's interested in politics, same as Regan; wants to go back and get a newspaper some day. He'll do it, too. Why, that fellow has been racing ahead ever since he came here, and I've been standing still. Ricketts is an odd character, a sort of Yankee genius, shrewd, and some of his observations are as sharp as a knife. Brockhurst has the brains of us all; he can out-think us every one. But he's a spectator; he's outside looking on. I can't quite get used to him. Regan's the fellow I want for a friend. He's like an old Roman. When he makes up his mind—it takes him a long while—when he does, he's right."
He recounted Regan's ideas on politics—his enthusiasm, and his ideal of a college life that would reflect the thought of the nation.
Then, talking to himself, he began to walk up and down, flinging out quick, stiff gestures:
"Brockhurst states a thing in such a slap-bang way—no compromise—that it hits you at first like a blow. But when you think it over he has generally got to the point. Where he's wrong is, he thinks the society system here keeps a man wrapped in cotton, smothering him and separating him from the class. Now, I'm an example to the contrary. It's all a question of the individual. I thought it wasn't at one moment, but now I know that it is. You can do just what you want—find what you want.
"But we do get so interested in outside things that we forget the real; that's true. Brockhurst says weought to bring the college back to the campus, and the more I think of it the more I see what he means. The best weeks, the biggest in my life, are those when I've realized I had an imagination and could use it." Suddenly he halted, gave a quick glance at her, and said:
"Here I'm talking like a runaway horse. I got started."
"Thank you for talking to me so," she said eagerly.
He had never seen in her eyes so much of genuine impulse toward him, and, suddenly recalled, in this moment of exhilaration, to the personal self, he was thrilled with a strange thrill at what he saw.
"You remember," he said, with a certain new boldness, "how impudent you used to be to me, and how furious I was when you told me I was not awake."
"I remember."
"Now I understand what you meant," he said, "but then I didn't."
She rose to order tea, and then turned impulsively, smiling up to him.
"I think—I'm sure I felt it would come to you; only I was a little impatient."
And with a happy look she offered him her hand.
"I'm very glad to be your friend," she said, to make amends; "and I hope you'll come and talk over with me all that you are thinking. Will you?"
He did not answer. At the touch of her hand, which he held in his, at the new sound in her voice, suddenly something surged up in him, something blinding, intoxicating, that left him hot and cold, rash and silent. She tried to release her hand, but his grip was not to be denied.
Then, seeing him standing head down boyishly unable to speak or act, she understood.
"Oh, please!" she said, with a sudden weakness, again trying to release her fingers.
"I can't help it," he said, blurting out the words. "Jean, you know as well as I what it is. I love you."
The moment the words were out, he had a cold horror of what had been said. He didn't love her, not as he had said it. Why had he said it?
She remained motionless a moment, gathering her strength against the shock.
"Please let go my hand," she said quietly.
This time he obeyed. His mind was a vacuum; every little sound came to him distinctly, with the terror of the blunder he had made.
She went to the window and stood, her face half turned from him, trying to think; and, misreading her thoughts, a little warm blood came back to him, and he tried to think what he would say if she came back with a light in her eyes.
"Mr. Stover."
He looked up abruptly—he had scarcely moved. She was before him, her large eyes seeming larger than ever, her face a little frightened, but serious with the seriousness of the woman looking out.
"You have done a very wrong thing," she said slowly, "and you have placed me in a very difficult position. I do not want to lose you as a friend." She made a rapid movement of her fingers to check his exclamation. "If what you said were true, and you are too young to have said such solemn words, may I ask what right you had to say them to me?"
"What right?" he said stupidly.
"Yes, what right," she repeated, looking at him steadily with a certain wistfulness. "Are you in a position to ask me to be your wife?"
"Let me think a moment," he said, drawing a breath.
He walked away to the table, leaning his weight on it, while, without moving, she followed with a steady gaze, in which was a little pity.
"Let me help you," she said at last.
He turned and looked up for the first time, a look of wretchedness.
"It would be too bad that one moment should spoil all our friendship," she said, "and because that would hurt me I don't want it so. You are a boy, and I am not yet a woman. I have always respected you, no more so than to-day, before—before you forgot your respect toward me. I want always to keep the respect I had for you."
"Don't say any more," he said suddenly, with a lump in his throat. "I don't know why—what—why I forgot myself. Please don't take away from me your friendship. I will keep it very precious."
"It is very hard to know what to do," she said. Then she added, with a little heightening of her color: "My friendship means a great deal."
He put out his hand and gently took the end of a scarf which she wore about her shoulders, and raised it to his lips. It was a boyish, impulsive fantasy, and he inclined his head before her. Then he went out hurriedly, without speaking or turning, while the girl, pale and without moving, continued to stare at the curtain which still moved with his passing.
Stover went rushing from the Storys' home, and away for a long feverish march along dusky avenues, where unseen leaves came whirling against him. He was humiliated, mortified beyond expression, in a panic of self-accusation and remorse.
"It's all over," he said, with a groan. "I've made a fool of myself. I can never square myself after that. What under the shining stars made me say that? What happened? I hadn't a thought, and then all at once—Oh, Lord!"
A couple of upper classmen returning nodded to him, and he flung back an abrupt "Hello," without distinguishing them.
"Why did I do it?—why—why!"
He went plunging along, through the dark regions that lay between the spotted arc lights that began to sputter along the avenue, his ears deafened by the rush and grind of blazing trolley cars. When he had gone breathlessly a good two miles, he stopped and wearily retraced his steps. The return no longer gave him the sensation of flight. He came back laggingly, with reluctance. Each time he thought of the scene which had passed he had a sensation of heat and cold, of anger and of cowardice. Never again he said to himself, would he be able to enter the Storys' home, to face her, Jean Story.
But after a time, from sheer exhaustion, he ceased to think about his all-important self. He remembered thedignity and gentleness with which the young girl had met the shock of his blunder, and he was overwhelmed with wonder. He saw again her large eyes, filled with pain, trouble, and yet a certain pity. He recalled her quiet voice, the direct meeting of the issue, and deep through all impressions was the memory of the woman, sweet, self-possessed, and gentle, that had been evoked from her eyes.
He forgot himself. He forgot all the wretchedness and hot misery. He remembered only this Jean Story, and the Jean Story that would be. And feeling the revealing acuteness of love for the first time, he said impulsively:
"Oh, yes, I love her. I have always loved her!" And silently, deep in his heart, a little frightened almost to set the thought to words, he made a vow that his life from now on should be earnest and inspired with but one purpose, to win her respect and to win the right to ask her for his wife.
With the resolve, all the fret and fever went from him. He felt a new confidence and a new maturity.
"When I speak again, I shall have the right," he said solemnly. "And she shall see that I am not a mere boy. That I will show her soon!"
When he came again into the domain of the college, he suddenly felt all the littleness of the ambitions that raged inside those self-sufficient walls.
"Lord, what have I been doing all this time—what does it count for? Brocky is right; it isn't what you do here, it's what you are ready to do when you go out. Thank Heaven, I can see it now." And secure in the knowledge that the honors he rated so lightly were his, he added: "There's only one thing that counts—that's your own self."
It was after the dinner hour, and he hesitated; a little tired of his own company, longing for the diversion another personality would bring, and seeking some one as far removed from his own point of view as possible, he halted before Durfee, and sent his call to the top stories:
"Oh, Ricky Ricketts, stick out your head."
Above a window went up, and a fuzzy head came curiously forth.
"Wot'ell, Bill?"
"It's Stover, Dink Stover. Come down."
"Somethin' doin'?"
"You bet."
Presently, Ricketts's bean-stalk figure came flopping out of the entry.
"What's up, Dink?"
"I'm back too late for supper. Come on down with me to Mory's and keep me company, and I'll buy you a drink."
"Did I hear the word 'buy'?" said Ricketts, in the manner then made popular by the lamented Pete Dailey.
"You did."
"Lead me to it."
At Mory's, two or three men whom he didn't know were at the senior table. Le Baron and Reynolds, prospective captain of the crew and chairman of the News, respectively, men of his own society, gave him a hearty, "Hello, Dink," and then stared curiously at Ricketts, whose general appearance neither conformed to any one fashion nor to any two. Gimbel, the politician, was in the off room with three of the more militant anti-sophomore society leaders. The two parties saluted in regulation style.
"Hello, you fellows."
"Howdy, there."
Stover, sitting down, saw Gimbel's perplexed glance at his companion, and thought to himself:
"I've got Gimbel way up a tree. I'll bet he thinks I'm trying to work out some society combine against him."
The thought recalled to him all the increasing bitterness of the anti-sophomore society fight which had swept the college. There was talk even of an open mass meeting. He remembered that Hunter had mentioned it, and for a moment he was inclined to put the question direct to Gimbel. But his mood was alien to controversy, and Louis, with sidelong, beady eyes, and a fragrant aroma, was waiting the order.
Ricketts had, among twenty Yankee devices for greasing his journey through college, a specialty of breaking in new pipes, one of which he now produced, with an apologetic:
"You don't mind, do you, if I crack my lungs on this appetizing little trifle?"
"I say, Ricketts," said Stover, trying to keep off his mind the one subject, "is that all a joke about your breaking in pipes?"
"Straightest thing in the world."
"What do you charge?"
"Thirty-five cents and the tobacco."
"You ought to charge fifty."
"I'm going to next year. You think I'm loony?" said Ricketts.
"I'm not sure."
"Dink, my boy, I'll be a millionaire in ten years. You know what I'm figuring out all this time? I'm going at this scientifically. I'm figuring out the number of fools there are on the top of this globe, classifying 'em, lookingout what they want to be fooled on. I'm making an exact science of it."
"Go on," said Dink, amused and perplexed, for he was trying to distinguish the serious and the humorous.
"What's the principle of a patent medicine?—advertise first, then concoct your medicine. All the science of Foolology is: first, find something all the fools love and enjoy, tell them it's wrong, hammer it into them, give them a substitute and sit back, chuckle, and shovel away the ducats. Bread's wrong, coffee's wrong, beer's wrong. Why, Dink, in the next twenty years all the fools will be feeding on substitutes for everything they want; no salt—denatured sugar—anti-tea—oiloline—peanut butter—whale's milk—et cetera, et ceteray, and blessing the name of the fool-master who fooled them."
"By Jingo," said Stover, listening to this jumble of words, entranced, "I believe you're right. And so you've reduced it to a science, eh—Foolology?"
Ricketts, half in earnest, never entirely in jest, abetted by newly arriving tobies, was off again on his pet theories of business imagination, disdaining the occasional gibes that were flung at him from Gimbel's table.
When Le Baron and Reynolds passed out, with curious glances, Stover was weak with laughter. Later arrivals dropping in joined them, egging on the inventor.
Stover, who had been busily consulting his watch, left at half-past eight on a sudden resolve. The farcical interruption that had temporarily drawn him out of himself, had cleared his head, and brought him a sudden authoritative decision.
He went directly to the Storys', and, entering the parlor, found a group of his crowd there, dinner finished, trying out the latest comic opera chorus.
He came in quite coldly self-possessed, shook hands, and immediately jumped into the conversation, which was all on the crisis in the sophomore societies. Jean Story was at the piano, a little more serious than usual. At his entrance, she looked up with sudden wonder and confusion. He came to her, and in taking her hand inclined his head in great respect, but did not speak to her. He had but one desire, to show her that he was not a boy but a man, and that he could rise to the crisis which he had brought on himself.
Hunter and Tommy Bain had been arguing for no compromise, Bob Story and Hungerford were of the opinion that the time had come to enlarge the membership of the societies, and to destroy their exclusiveness.
On the sofa, the little Judge, a spectator, never intimating his opinion, studying each man as he spoke, appealed to Stover:
"Well, now, Judge Dink, what is your learned opinion on this situation? Here is the dickens to pay; three-fourths the college lined up against you fellows, and a public mass meeting coming. Jim Hunter here believes in sitting back and letting the storm blow over; Bob, who of course can regulate it all, wants to double the membership and meet some objections. Now what do you say? Mr. Stover has the floor. My daughter will please come to order."
Jean Story abruptly turned from the piano, where her fingers had been absent-mindedly running over the keys.
"Frankly, I haven't made up my mind just yet," said Stover. "There are a great many sides to it. I've listened to a good many opinions, but haven't yet chosen mine. Every one is talking about the effect on the college, but what has impressed me most is the effect on thesophomore society men themselves. If the outsiders only knew the danger and handicap they are to us!"
"Hello," said the Judge, shifting with a little interest.
"What do you mean?" said Hunter aggressively.
"I mean we are the ones who are limited, who are liable to miss the big opportunities of college life. We have got into the habit, under the pretense of good fellowship, of herding together."
"Why shouldn't we?" persisted Hunter.
"Because we shut ourselves up, withdraw from the big life of the college, know only our own kind, the kind we'll know all our life; surrender our imagination. We represent only a social idea, a good time, good friends, good figure-heads on the different machines of the college. But we miss the big chance—to go out, to mingle with every one, to educate ourselves by knowing opposite lives, fellows who see things as we never have seen them, who are going back to a life a thousand miles away from what we will lead." He expressed himself badly, and, realizing it, said impatiently: "Here, what I mean is this. It's not my idea, it's Brockhurst's, it's Tom Regan's. The biggest thing we can do is to reflect the nation, to be the inspiration of the democracy of the country, to be alive to the fight among the people for real political independence. We ought to get a great vision when we come up here, as young men, of the bigness of our country, of the privilege of fighting out its political freedom, of what American manhood means in the towns of Georgia and Texas, in the little manufacturing cities of New England, in the great West, and in the small homes of the big cities. We ought to really know one another, meet, discuss, respect each other's point of view, independence—odd ways if you wish. We don't do it. We did once—we don't now.Princeton doesn't do it, Harvard doesn't do it. We're over-organized away from the vital thing—the knowledge of ourselves."
"Then you'd abolish the sophomore societies?" said Hunter, crowding him to the wall.
"I don't know. Sometimes I've felt it's the system that is wrong," said Stover frankly. "Lately, I've changed my mind. I think we can do what we want—at least I know I've gone out and met whom I wanted to without my being in a sophomore society making the slightest difference. I say I don't know where the trouble is; whether the whole social system here and elsewhere is the cause or the effect. It may be that it is the whole development of America that has changed our college life. I don't know; those questions are too big for me to work out. But I know one thing, that my own ideas of what I want here have taken a back somersault, and that I'm going out of here knowing everything I can of every man in the class." Suddenly he remembered Hunter's opposition, and turning, concluded: "One thing more; if ever I make up my mind that the sophomore society system or any other system ought to be abolished, I'll stand out and say so."
When he had finished, his classmates began talking all at once, Hunter and Bain in bitter opposition, Bob Story in warm defense, Hungerford, in his big-souled way, coming ponderously to his assistance.
Stover withdrew from the conversation. He glanced at Jean Story, wondering if she had understood the reason of his return, and that he had spoken for her ears alone. She was still at the piano, one hand resting on the keyboard, looking at him with the same serious, half-troubled expression in her large eyes. He made an excuse to leave, and for the second that he stood by her,he looked into her eyes boldly, with even a little bravado, as though to ask:
"Do you understand?"
But the young girl, without speaking, nodded her head slightly, continuing to look at him with her wistful, a little wounded glance.
It was only a little after nine. He had left in the company of Joe Hungerford, who had ostensibly taken the opportunity of going with him.
"I say, Dink," he began directly, in the blustering, full-mouthed way he had when excited, "I say bully for you. Lord, I liked to hear you talk out."
"It's all simple enough," said Stover, surprised at the other's enthusiasm. "I suppose I wouldn't have said all I did if it hadn't been for Hunter."
"Oh, Jim's a damned hard-shell from way back," said Hungerford good-humoredly, "never mind him. I say though, Dink, you really have been going round, haven't you, breaking through the lines?"
"Yes, I have."
"I wish you'd take me around with you some time," said Hungerford enviously.
"Why the deuce don't you break in yourself?"
"It doesn't come natural, Dink," said the inheritor of millions regretfully. "I never went through boarding-school like you fellows. By George, it's just what I want, what I hoped for here! and, damn it, what I'm not getting!"
"You know, Joe," said Dink suddenly, "there wouldn't be any society problem if fellows that felt the way you and I do would assert themselves. By George, there's nothing wrong with the soph societies, the trouble is with us."
"I'm not so sure," said Hungerford seriously.
"Rats!"
"You know, Dink," said Joe with a little hesitation, "it is not every one who understands you or what you're doing."
"I know," said Stover, laughing confidently. "Some have got an idea I've got some great political scheme, working in with the outsiders to run for the Junior Prom, or something like that."
"No, it's not all that. I don't think some of our crowd realize what you're doing—rather fancy you're cutting loose from them."
"Let them think," said Stover carelessly. Then he added with some curiosity: "Has there been much talk?"
"Yes, there has."
"Any one spoken to you?"
"Yes."
"I know—I know they've got an idea I'm queering myself—oh, that word 'queer'; it's the bogey of the whole place."
"You're right there! But, Dink, I might as well let you know the feeling; it isn't simply in our set, but some of the crowd ahead."
"Le Baron, Reynolds?"
"Yes. Haven't they ever—ever said anything to you?"
"Bless their simple hearts," said Stover, untroubled. "So they're worrying about me. It's rather humorous. It's their inherited point of view. Le Baron, Joe, could no more understand what we are thinking about—and yet he's a fine type. Sure, he's stopped me a couple of times and shaken his head in a worried, fatherly way. To him, you see, everything is selective; what he calls the fellow who doesn't count, the 'fruit,' is reallyoutside what he understands, the fellows who are in the current of what's being done here. I must talk it out with him sometime. We've come to absolutely opposite points of view. And yet the curious thing is, he's fond as the deuce of me."
"Yes, that's so," said Hungerford. He did not insist, seeing that Stover was insensible to the hints he had tried to convey. Not wishing to express openly a point of view which was personally unsympathetic, he hesitated and remained silent.
"Coming up for a chin?" said Dink, as they neared the campus.
"No, I've got a date at Heub's. I say, Dink, I'm serious in what I said. I want to wake up and get around. Work me in."
"You bet I will, and you'll meet a gang that really have some ideas."
"That's what I want. Well, so long."
"So long, Joe."
Dink, turning to the right, entered the campus past Battell. He had never before felt so master of himself, or surer of a clear vision. The thought of his instinctive return to the Storys', and the knowledge that he had distinguished himself before Jean Story, gave him a certain exhilaration. He began to feel the opportunity that was in his hands. He remembered with pleasure Hungerford's demand to follow where he had gone, and he said to himself:
"I can make this crowd of mine see what the real thing is—and, by George, I'm going to do it."
As he delayed in the campus, Le Baron and Reynolds passed him, going toward Durfee.
"Hello, Dink."
"Hello there."
He continued on to his entry, and, turning, saw the two juniors stop and watch him. Without heed he went up to his room, lit the dusty gas-jet, and went reverently to his bureau. He was in his bedroom, standing there in a sentimental mood, gazing at the one or two little kodaks he had displayed of Jean Story, when a knock sounded. He turned away abruptly, singing out:
"Let her come."
The door opened and some one entered, and, emerging from his bedroom, he beheld to his surprise Le Baron and Reynolds.
"Hello," he said, puzzled.
"Anything doing, Dink?" said Le Baron pleasantly.
"Not a thing. Make yourself at home," he said hastily. "Take a seat. Pipe tobacco in the jar—cigarettes on the table."
Each waved his hand in dissent. Reynolds seated himself in a quick, business-like way on the edge of his chair; Le Baron, more sociable, passed curiously about the room, examining the trophies with interest.
"I wonder what's up now," thought Dink, without uneasiness. He knew that it was the custom of men in the class above about to go into the senior societies to acquaint themselves with the tendencies of the next class. "That's it," he said to himself; "they want to know if I'm heeling Bones or Keys."
"You've got a great bunch of junk," said Le Baron, finishing his inspection.
"Yes, it's quite a mixture."
Le Baron, refusing a seat, stood before the fireplace, a pocket knife juggling in his hands, seeking an opening.
"Here, I'll have a cigarette," he said finally, with a frown.
Reynolds, more business-like, broke out:
"Dink, we've dropped in to have a little straight talk with you."
"All right."
He felt a premonition of what was coming, and the short note of authority in Reynolds's voice seemed to stiffen everything inside of him.
"We've dropped a few hints to you," continued Reynolds, in his staccato manner, "and you haven't chosen to understand them. Now we're going to put it right to you."
"Hold up, Benny," said Le Baron, who had lit his cigarette, "it's not necessary to talk that way. Let me explain."
"No, put it to me straight," said Stover, looking past Le Baron straight into Reynolds's eyes. An instinctive antagonism was in him, the revolt of the man of action, the leader in athletics, at being criticized by the man of the pen.
"Stover, we don't like what you've been doing lately."
"Why not?"
"You're shaking your own crowd, and you're identifying yourself with a crowd that doesn't count. What the deuce has got into you?"
"Just shut up for a moment, Benny," said Le Baron, giving him a look, "you're not putting the thing in the right way."
"I'm not jumping on any one," said Reynolds. "I'm giving him good advice."
Stover looked at him without speaking, then he turned to Le Baron.
"Well?"
"Look here, Dink," said Le Baron conciliatingly. "A lot of us fellows have spoken to you, but you didn't seemto understand. Now, what I'm saying is because I like you, and because you are making a mistake. We're interested personally, and for the society's sake, in seeing you make out of yourself what you ought to be, one of the big men of the class. Dink, what's happened? Have you lost your nerve about anything—anything wrong?"
"Wait a moment—let me understand the thing," said Stover, absolutely dumbfounded. Reynolds's purely unintentional false start had left him cold with anger. "Am I to understand that you have come here to inform me that you do not approve of the friends I've been making?"
"Hold up," said Le Baron.
"No, let's have it straight. That's what I want, too," he said quickly, facing Reynolds. "You criticize the crowd I'm going with, and you want me to chuck them. That's it in plain English, isn't it?"
A little flush showed on Reynolds's face. He, too, felt the physical superiority in Stover, and the antagonism thereof, and, being provoked, he answered more shortly than he meant to:
"Let it go at that."
"Is that right?" said Stover, turning to Le Baron.
"Now, look here, Dink, there's no use in getting hot about this," said Le Baron uneasily. "No one's forcing anything on you. We are here as your friends, telling you what we believe is for your own good."
"So you think if I go on identifying myself with the crowd I'm with that I may 'queer' myself?"
"That's rather strong."
"Why not have it out?"
"This is true," said Le Baron, "that the men in your own crowd don't understand your cutting loose fromthem, and that no one can make out why you've taken up with the crowd you have."
The explanation which might have cleared matters was forgotten by Stover in the wound to his vanity.
"You haven't answered my question."
"Well, Dink, to be honest," said Le Baron, "if you keep on deliberately, there is more than a chance of—"
"Of queering myself?"
"Yes."
"Being regarded as a sort of wild man, and missing out on a senior election."
"That's what we want to prevent," said Le Baron, believing he saw a reasonable excuse. "You've got everything in your hands, Stover, don't waste your time—"
"One moment."
Stover, putting out his hand, interrupted him. He locked his hands behind his back, twisting them in physical pain, staring out the window, unable to meet the suddenness of the situation.
"You've been quite frank," he said, when he was able to speak. "You have not come to me to dictate who should be my friends here, though that's perhaps a quibble, but as members of my sophomore society you have come to advise me against what might queer me. I understand. Well, gentlemen, you absolutely amaze me. I didn't believe it possible. I'll think it over."
He looked at them with a quick nod, intimating that there was nothing more to be discussed. Reynolds, saying something under his breath, sprang up. Le Baron, feeling that the interview had been a blunder from the first, said suddenly:
"Benny, see here; let me have a moment's talk with Dink."
"Quite useless, Hugh," said Stover, in the same controlled voice. "There's nothing more to be said. You have your point of view, I have mine. I understand. There's no pressure being put on me, only, if I am to go on choosing my friends as I have—I do it at my own risk. I've listened to you. I don't know what I shall answer. That's all. Good night."
Reynolds went out directly, Le Baron slowly, with much hesitation, seeking some opportunity to remain, with a last uneasy glance.
When Stover was left to himself, his first sensation was of absolute amazement. He, the big man of the class, confident in the security of his position, had suddenly tripped against an obstruction, and been made to feel his limitations.
"By Heavens! If any one would have told me, I wouldn't have believed it—the fools!"
The full realization of the pressure that had been exerted on him did not yet come to him. He was annoyed, as some wild animal at the first touch of a rope that seems only to check him.
He moved about the room, tossing back his hair impatiently.
"That's what Hungerford was trying to hint to me," he said. "So my conduct has been under fire. What I do is a subject of criticism because I've gone out of the beaten way, done something they don't understand—the precious idiots!" Then he remembered Reynolds, and his anger began to rise. "The little squirt, the impudent little scribbler, to come and tell me what I should or shouldn't do! How the devil did I ever keep my temper? Who is he anyhow? I'll give him an answer!"
All at once he perceived the full extent of the situation,and what a defiance would mean to those leaders in the class above, men marked for Skull and Bones, the society to which he aspired.
"No pressure!" he said aloud, with a grim laugh, "Oh, no! no pressure at all! Advice only—take it or leave it, but the consequences are on your head. By Heavens, I wouldn't have believed it." It hurt him, it hurt him acutely, that he, who had won his way to leadership, should have sat and listened to those who were the masters of his success.
"Hold up, hold up, Dink Stover," he said, all at once. "This is serious—a damn sight more serious than you thought. It's up to you. What are you going to do about it?"
All at once the temper that always lay close to his skin, uncontrollable and violent, broke out.
"By Heavens—and I stood for it—I stood there quietly and listened, and never said a word! But I didn't realize it—no, I didn't realize it. Yes, but he won't understand it, that damned little whipper-snapper of a Reynolds; he'll think I've kow-towed. He will, will he? We'll see! By Heavens, that's what their society game means, does it! Thank Heaven, I didn't argue with them. At least I didn't do that."
He strode over quickly, and seizing his cap clapped it on his head, and stopped.
"Now or never," he said, between his teeth.
He went out slamming the door; and as he went, furiously, all the anger and humiliation blazed up in a fierce revolt—he, Dink, Dink Stover, had stood tamely and listened while others had come and told him what to do, told him in so many words that he was "queering" himself. He went out of the entry almost at a run, with a sort of blind, unreasoning idea that he could overtakethem. By the fence he almost upset Dopey McNab, who called to him fruitlessly:
"Here—I say, Dink! What the devil!"
He reached the center of the campus before he stopped. He had quite lost control of himself; he knew what he would say, and he didn't care. Suddenly he recalled where Reynolds roomed, and went hot-foot for Vanderbilt, with a fierce physical longing to be provoked into a fight.
He arrived at the door breathlessly, a lump in his throat, never considering the chances of finding them out.
Le Baron and Reynolds were before the fireplace in a determined argument. He shut the door behind him, and leaned against it, digging his nails into his hands with the effort to master his voice.
The two juniors, struck by the violence of his entrance, turned abruptly, and Le Baron, a little pale, started forward, saying:
"I say, Dink—"
"Look here," he cried, flinging out a hand for silence, "I don't know why I didn't say it to you there—when you spoke to me. I don't know. I'm a low-livered coward and a skunk because I didn't! But I know now what I'm going to say, and I'll say it. You came to me, you dared to come to me and tell me what I was to do—to heel—that's what you meant; to cut out fellows I know and respect—oh, you didn't have the courage to say it out, but that's it. Well, now, I've just got one thing to say to you both. If this is what your society business means, if this is your idea of democracy—I'm through with you—"
"Hold up," said Le Baron, springing forward.
"I won't hold up," said Stover, beside himself, "for you or for any one else, or whatever you can do againstme! Here's my answer—I'm through! You and the whole society can go plumb to Hell!"
And suffocating, choking, blinded with his fury, he thrust his hand into his breast, and tore from his shirt the pin he had been given to wear, and flung it on the floor, stamped upon it, and bolted from the room.
For an hour, bareheaded, he went plunging into the darkness, a prey to a nervous crisis, that left him shaking in every muscle. He knew the extent of his passions, and the anger which had swept over him left him weak and frightened.
"It's lucky that runt of a Reynolds held his tongue," he said hotly. "By the Lord, I don't know what I would have done to him. Here, I must get hold of myself. This is terrible. Well, thank Heaven, it's over."
He controlled himself slowly, and came back, limp and weak; yet beyond the physical reaction was a liberated soaring of the spirit.
"I'm glad I did it! I never was gladder!" he said solemnly. "Good-by to the whole society game, Skull and Bones, and all the rest. But I take my stand from now on, and I stand on my own feet. I'm glad of it." Then he thought of Jean Story, and he was troubled. "I wonder if she'll understand? I can't help it. I couldn't do anything else. Now, I suppose the whole bunch will turn on me. So be it."
It was long after midnight when he came back gloomily to the light still staring from his window, and toiled up the heavy steps. When he entered the room, Le Baron, Bob Story, and Joe Hungerford were sitting silently, waiting for him, and in Story's hand was the pin bruised by his furious heel.
He saw at once the full strength of the appeal that was to be made to him, and he closed the door wearily.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said slowly. "The whole thing is done and buried."
Bob Story, agitated and solemn, came to him.
"Dink, this is awful—the whole thing is awful," he said earnestly. "You've got to talk it out with us."
"Do you understand, Bob," Stover said suddenly, "just what happened in this room?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"I don't believe it."
"Dink, I want you to listen to me a moment," said Le Baron. "It's been rotten business, the whole wretched thing. I can understand how you felt. Reynolds and you got on each other's nerves. You each said what you didn't mean. It was damned unfortunate. He put things to you like a fool, and I was telling him so when you broke into the room. He was all up on edge from something that had gone before."
"Oh, I lost my temper," said Stover. "I know it."
"I'd have done the same," said Hungerford openly.
"Now, Dink, there isn't one of us here that doesn't like you, and look up to you," said Story, with his irresistible charm. "We know you're every inch a man, and what you do you believe in. But, Dink, we're all friends together, and this is a terrible thing to us. We want you to take back your pin, and shut up this whole business. Will you?"
"I'd do a great deal for you, Bob Story," said Stover, looking him in the eyes, "more than for any one else, but I can't do this."
He said it calmly, with a little sadness. The three were impressed with the finality of the judgment. Story, standing with the cast-off pin in his hand, turning and twisting it, said slowly:
"Dink, do you really mean it?"
"I do."
"It's a serious thing you're doing, Stover," said Le Baron, with the first touch of formality, "and I don't think it should be done in anger."
"I'm not."
"Remember that you are judging a whole society—your own friends—by what one man happened to say to you in a moment of irritation."
"I don't want to talk of what's done," said Stover slowly, for his head was throbbing. "I know myself, and I know nothing is going to make me go back on what I've said. I'm only going to say a word, and then I'm going into my room and going to bed. Le Baron"—with a sudden rise of his voice he turned and faced the junior—"don't think I don't understand what it means that I'm giving up. I get what you mean when you start in calling me Stover. I know as well as I'm standing here that you and Reynolds will keep me out of Bones, whether I make captain or not. And that'll hurt me a good bit—I admit it. Now don't let's quibble. It isn't the way Reynolds said what he did—though that did rile me—it's what was told me, indirectly or directly—it's the same thing; you men in sophomore societies would limit my freedom of choice. There you are. I'm against you now, because for the first time I see how the thing works out, because you're wrong! You're a bad influence for those who are in, and a rotten influence for the whole college. Now I've made up my mind to just one thing. I'm going to finish up here at the head of my own business—my own master; and I'm not going to be in a position to be told by any one in your class or my class what I'm to do."
"One moment." Le Baron rose as Stover moved towards the bedroom. "There's another side to it."
"What other side?"
"Whatever you decide, and I won't take your answer until the morning," said Le Baron solemnly, "I want you to give me your word that what's happened to-night remains a secret."
"I won't give my word to that or anything else," said Dink defiantly. "I shall do exactly what I think is right to be done, and for that reason only. Now you'll have to excuse me. Good night."
He went to his bedroom, shut the door, and without undressing tumbled on the bed, and, still hearing in a confused jumble the murmur of voices, dropped off to sleep.
He was startled out of heavy dreams by a beating in his ears, and sprang up to find Bob Story thundering on his door. He looked at his watch. It was still an hour before chapel.
When he entered his dim study, Story was waiting, and Hungerford uncoiling from the couch where he had passed the night.
"Have you fellows been here all night?" said Stover, stopping short.
"Dink, we want a last chance to talk this over," said Story solemnly. "We've all had a chance to sleep it out. Le Baron isn't here, just Joe and myself—your friends."
"You make it hard for me, boys," said Dink, shaking his head.
Hungerford rose with the stiffness of the night, and coming to Stover, took him by the shoulders.
"Damn you, Dink," he said, "get this straight, we're not thinking about the society, we're thinking about you—about your future. And I want you to know this: whatever you decide, I'm your friend and proud to be it."
"What Joe says is what I feel," said Story, as Stover, much affected, stood looking at the ground. "We're sticking by you, Dink—that's why I'm going to try once more. Can't you go on in the society, make no open break, and still fight for what you believe in—what Joe and I believe in, too?"
"But, Bob, I think they're wrong through and through—you don't understand—I'm for wiping them out now."
"That whole question's coming up, and coming up soon," continued Story earnestly, "and a lot of our own crowd will line up for you. Work inside the crowd, if you can see it that way, Dink. There are only five of us know what's happened, and no one else need know."
"Wait a moment, Bob, old fellow," said Dink, stopping him. "You two have got down under my skin, and I won't forget it. Now I'm going to ask you fellows a couple of questions. First: you think if I stick to my determination that most of the crowd'll turn on me?"
"Yes."
"That I have as much chance of being tapped for Bones as Jackson, the sweep?"
"Yes, Dink."
"Now, boys, honest, if I took back my pin for any such reason as that, wouldn't I be a spineless, calculating little quitter?"
Neither answered.
"What would you think of me, Joe—Bob?"
"Damn the luck," said Hungerford. He did not attempt to answer the question. Neither did Bob Story. They shook hands with Stover, and went out defeated.
Just how big a change in his college career his renunciation would make, Stover had not understood until in the weeks that succeeded he came to feel the full effects of the resentment he had aroused in the society crowds, now at bay before a determined opposition.
The second morning, as he went down High Street to his eating-joint, Hungerford was loafing ahead of him, ostensibly conning a lesson. Stover joined him, unaware of the friendly intent of the action. They went inside, laughing together, to where a score of men were rubbing their eyes over hasty breakfasts. Four-fifths of them belonged to sophomore societies.
"Morning, everybody," said the new arrivals, in unison, and the answer came back:
"Hello, Joe."
"Hello, Dink."
"Shove in here."
At their arrival a little constrained silence was felt, for the news had somehow passed into rumor. Opposite Stover, Jim Hunter was sitting. He nodded to Hungerford, and then with deliberation continued a conversation with Tommy Bain, who sat next to him.
Stover perceived the cut instantly, as others had perceived it. He sat a moment quietly, his glance concentrated on Hunter.
"Oatmeal or hominy?" said the waiter at his back.
"One moment." He raised his hand, and the gesture concentrated the attention of the table on him. "Why, how doyoudo, Jim Hunter?" he said, with every word cut sharp.
There was a breathless moment, and a nervous stirring under foot, as Hunter turned and looked at Stover. Their glances matched one another a long moment, and then Hunter, with an excess of politeness, said:
"Oh, hello—Stover."
Instantly there was a relieved hum of voices, and a clatter of cutlery.
"I'll take oatmeal now," said Stover calmly. Story, glancing over, saw two spots of scarlet standing out on his cheeks, and realized how near the moment had come to a violent scene.
"Dink, old gazabo," said Hungerford, as they walked over to chapel, "what are you going to do? You can't go about the whole time with a chip on your shoulder."
"Oh, yes, I can," said Dink between his teeth. "I'll stick right where I am. And I'd like to see Jim Hunter or any one else try that again on me!"
Hungerford shook his head.
"You know, Dink, you must see both sides. Now from Hunter's side, you've smashed all traditions, and given us a blow that may be a knockout, considering the state of feeling in the college. Hunter's a society man, believes in them heart and soul."
"Then let him come to me and say what he thinks."
"Are you quite sure, Dink," said Joe, with a glance, "that there isn't some other reason for the way you two feel about each other?"
"You mean jealousy?" said Dink, flushing a little. "Bob's sister? Yes, there's that. But from the first we've been on opposite sides." He hesitated a moment, and then asked: "I say, Joe, what does Bob think about what I've done? Tell me straight."
"Of course he respects you," said Hungerford carefully, "more now than I think he did last year, but—Bob's a society man—all these Andover fellows are brought up in the idea, you know—and I think it's kind of a jolt."
"I suppose it is," said Stover, with a little depression.
He would like to have asked Hungerford to state his case to Jean Story, but he lacked the courage of his boyish impulse. The thought of Jean Story, as he sat in chapel, came to him like a temptation. The Judge was of the Skull and Bones alumni, Bob was sure to go; all the influences about her were of belief in the finality of that judgment.
"Yes, and Hunter will go in with sailing colors; he'll never risk anything," he said bitterly, "and I'll stand up and take my medicine, for doing what? For showing I had a backbone. But no one will ever know it outside. They'll think it's something wrong in my character—they always do. Stover, Yale's star end, misses out for Bones! That's the slogan. Cheating at cards or bumming. I wonder what she'll think? Lord, that's the hard part!"
For a week, proud as Lucifer, on edge for an opportunity, he stuck it out at the eating-joint, knowing the hopelessness of it all—that what he wanted had gone, and no amount of bravado could make him wink the fact, that in the midst of his own crowd, where he had stood as a leader, he was now regarded as an outsider.
In the second week he gave up the useless fight, and went to Commons, to the table where Regan, Gimbel, and Brockhurst ate. They forebore to ask him the reasons of the change, and he gave no explanation. That something had happened which had caused him to break away from his society was soon a matter of common rumor, and several incorrect versions circulated, all vastly to his credit. His influence in the body of the class was correspondingly increased, and Gimbel once or twice approached him with offers to run him for manager of the crew or the Junior Prom.
One day, about a month after his withdrawal, when,bundled up in his dressing-gown, he went shuffling into the basement for a cold tub, he had quite a shock, that brought home visually to him the realization of the price he had paid.
It had been the practise from long custom to inscribe on the walls tentative lists of the probable selections from the class for the three senior societies. On this particular list his name had stood at the head from the beginning, and the constant familiar sight of it had always brought him a warm, secure pleasure.
All at once, as he looked at it, he perceived a leaden blur where his name had stood, and the names of Bain and Hunter heading the list.
"I suppose they've got me down among the last now," he said, with a long breath. He searched the list, his name was not even on it. This popular estimation of what he himself believed had nevertheless power to wound him deeply.
"Well, it's so—I knew it," he said; but it was said in bitterness, with a newer and keener realization.
He began indeed to feel like an outsider, and, rebelling against the injustice of it all, to set his heart in bitterness. Hungerford and Bob Story, Dopey McNab often, tried to keep up with him, but, understanding their motives, he was proudly sensitive, and sought rather to avoid them.
Meanwhile the opposition to the sophomore societies reached the point of open revolt, and a mass meeting was held, which, as had been planned, caused a stir throughout the press of the country, and brought in from the alumni a storm of protest.
Stover, himself, despite his inclination to come forward in direct opposition, after a long debate, remained silent, feeling bound by the oath he had given at his initiation.
Shortly after the news spread like wildfire that the President, taking cognizance of the intolerable state of affairs, had summoned representatives of the three sophomore societies before him, and given them a month to deliberate and decide on some scheme of reform that would be comprehensive and adequate.
Rightly or wrongly, Stover felt that these developments intensified the feeling of the society element against him. A few weeks outside the boundaries, despite all his bravado, had brought home to him how much he cared for the companionship of those from whom he had separated.
Regan was his one friend; Brockhurst stimulated him; and in the intercourse with Swazey, Pike, Lake, Ricketts, and others he had found a certain inspiration. But after all, the men of his own kind—Story, Hungerford, and others, whom from pride he now avoided—were largely the men of the society crowd. They spoke a language he understood, they came from a home that was like his home, and their judgment of him would go with him out into the new relations in life.