REGAN WAS HIS ONE FRIEND
"REGAN WAS HIS ONE FRIEND"—Page 288.
It was a time of depression and bitter revolt at what he knew was the injustice of his ostracism, forgetting how much was of his own proud choosing.
He wandered from crowd to crowd, rather taciturn and restless, seeking diversion with a consuming nervousness. The new restlessness of spirit drove him away from the conferences in Regan's and Swazey's rooms to the company of idlers. For a period, in his pride and bitterness, he let go of himself, flung the reins to the wind, and started down hill with a gallop.
In pursuance of his policy of open defiance, he chose to appear at Mory's with the wildest element of the class. His companions were a little in awe of his grim,concentrated figure; when he sat into a game of poker or joined a table of revelers, he did it with no zest. He never joined in the chorus, and if he occasionally broke out into a boisterous laugh, there was always a jarring note to it, that caused his companions to glance at him uneasily. With the impetuousness of his nature, he outstripped his associates, plunging deeper and deeper, obstinately resolved, into the black gulf of his cynicism. In a week his excesses became college gossip, and, unknown to Stover, the subject of many long conferences among his friends.
One Friday night, as, straying aimlessly from room to room, he set out for Mory's in quest of Tom Kelly and a group of Sheff pagans, he was trudging along the hard ways in front of Welch Hall, fists sunk in his pockets, head down under a slouch hat, when he chanced on Tom Regan coming out of the Brick Row.
"Hello there, bantam," said Regan, with the prerogative of his size.
"Hello, Tom," he said, but without enthusiasm, for he had rather avoided him in company with the rest of his old friends.
"That's a deuced cordial greeting! Where are you bound, stranger?"
"Mory's."
"Mory's," said Regan, appearing to consider. "Good idea. I've got a hankering after a toby of musty ale and a rabbit myself. Wait till I stow these books and I'll join you."
Stover stood frowning, suspicious and rebelling, for at that age it is a point of honor, when a man of the world resolves to run his head against a stone wall, that any interference from a friend is regarded as an unwarranted insult.
"He thinks he'll try the big brother act on me," he said, scowling. He was not in a particularly good humor, nor was his head clear from several nights that had gone their reeling way.
When they entered Mory's, Tom Kelly, Dopey McNab, and Buck Waters were already grouped in the inner room.
"Well, old flinthead, how do you feel after last night?" said Kelly, making room for them.
"Fine," said Dink mendaciously, secretly pleased at the tribute to his sporting talents before Regan.
"More'n I can say," said Dopey, affectionately feeling of his head. "Curse the man who invented fish-house punch."
CURSE THE FELLOW WHO INVENTED FISH-HOUSE PUNCH
"'CURSE THE FELLOW WHO INVENTED FISH-HOUSE PUNCH'"—Page 290.
"Get home all right?" continued Kelly.
"Sure."
"I had a little tiff with a cop. If he'd been smaller, I'd have taken his shield away. He was most impudent. Never mind, I beat him in a foot race."
"Cocktails," said Stover, resolved that Regan should be well punished. "Make it two for me, Louis, I'll have to catch up."
"I'll stick to a toby and a rabbit," said Regan, without a change of expression.
"Cocktail, Dopey?" continued Stover, with a millionaire gesture.
"I never refuse," said Dopey, who planned to go through life on that virtuous method.
With such a beginning, matters progressed with remarkable facility. Stover, taciturn and in an ugly mood, constantly hurried the rounds, matching drink for drink, secretly resolved to prove his supremacy here as elsewhere. Regan, after two tobies, withdrew from thecontest, sitting silently puffing on his huge pipe, but without attempt at interference. Bob Story and Hungerford came in, and went away with a glance at Stover's clouded face and Regan's stolid, unfathomable expression. When midnight arrived, and Louis came in with apologies to announce the closing, there was quite a reckoning to be paid.
Stover was the best of the lot, doggedly resolved to show no effects of what he had taken. He felt a haziness in his vision, and words that were spoken seemed to be whirled away without record, but his legs stood firm, and his head was still under control. Buck Waters and a Sheff man took Tom Kelly home by a circuitous route to avoid either a wrestling match or a foot race with too zealous members of the New Haven police force; and Stover had the fierce pride of showing Regan that he could take charge of the hilarious but wabbly Dopey McNab, who, moved by the finest feelings of the brotherhood of man, was determined to scatter his superfluous change among his brother beings.
With great dignity and impressiveness, Stover, supporting one side, continued to give foggy directions to Regan on the other, until, come to McNab's quarters, they delivered that joyously exuberant person into his bed, propped up his head, opened the window, locked the door and left the key outside, to insure the termination of the night's adventure.
Stover went down the steep, endless stairs with great deliberation and minute pains.
"Dopey's got weak head—no good—stand nothing," he said seriously to Regan.
"Well, we've fixed him up for the night," said Regan cheerily. "You've got a wonderful top, old sport."
"I'm pretty good—Dopey's got the weak head," said Stover, taking his arm. "I'm good, I can put 'em under the table—all under the table."
"Good for you."
"Tom, you aren't—aren't in critical at-attochood, are you?" said Dink, with all feeling of resentment gone.
"Lord, no, boy."
"'Cause it does me good—this does me good. I feel bad—pretty bad, Tom, about some things. You don't know—can't tell—but I feel bad—this does me good—forget—you understand."
"I understand."
"You're a good friend, Tom. They don't understand—no one else understands. I'd like to shake hands. Thank you. Good night."
They had come opposite the Brick Row, and Regan, knowing the other's true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. But he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said:
"Feel all right, old bantam?"
"Fine." Stover took a step or two, and then returned. "I put 'em to bed, didn't I?"
"You certainly did."
"Never 'fects me."
"You're a wonder."
"I thank you for your company."
"Good night."
Stover, intent only on making his entry, a hundred yards away, felt a roaring in his ears, and sudden jumble and confusion before him.
"Must get there—self-control—that's it, self-control," he said to himself, and by a supreme effort he reached his entry, pushed open the door, and, stumbling in out of Regan's vision, sat heavily down on the steps.
Some indistinct time after he beheld before him a little spectacled figure in pink pajamas.
"Who are you?" he said.
"Wookey, sir."
"What's your class?"
"Freshman, sir."
"Very well. All right. You can help me—help me up. You know me?"
"Yes, sir."
The pink pajamas approached, and with an effort he rose, and, grasping the proffered shoulder, tumbled up the steps. When he reached his room his mind seemed to clear a moment, like the sudden drifting to and fro of a fog.
"Who are you?" he said, frowning.
"Wookey, sir."
"Where do you room?"
"On the first landing, sir."
"Why do you wear pink ones?"
The little freshman, hero-worshipper, face to face with his first great emotion, the conduct of an intoxicated man, blurted out:
"Don't you like 'em, sir?"
"Keep 'em on," said Stover magnanimously. "So you're a freshman."
"Yes, sir."
Suddenly he felt impressed with his duty, his obvious duty to one below him.
"Freshman," he said thickly, "I want you listen to me. Never drink to excess—understand. You beginning college—school of character—hold on yourself—lead a good life—self-control's the great thing—take it from me—understand?"
"Yes, sir," said Wookey, awed and a little frightenedat the service he was rendering to the great Dink Stover.
"That's all," said Stover benignly. "Is—is my bedroom still there?"
"Yes, sir."
"You may lead me to it."
When he had been brought to his bed he recalled the pink pajamas, and said:
"I thank you for your courtesy and your kindness." Then he said to himself: "It does me good—forget—happy now."
A moment later the fog closed over his consciousness again and he was asleep.
Night after night, Wookey, the little freshman from a mountain village of Maine, the shadow of a grind, whom no one knew in his class, and who would never know any one, waited over his books the hour of twelve and the arrival of the great man gone wrong, whose secret only he possessed. Sometimes at the clatter on the stairs, when he went out eagerly, the hero would be in control, and would say:
"Hello, Wookey, how are you to-night?"
"All right, sir," he would answer, shifting from foot to foot, afraid to volunteer assistance.
"All right myself," Stover would answer. "See you to-morrow. Good night."
Gradually, however, to his delight, Stover grew to like the strange meetings, and permitted him to accompany him to his room to open the window, draw off the boots and disappear with the promise to thunder on his door in time for chapel. In the daytime they never met.
Stover never failed to thank him with the utmost ceremony. Often the dialogue that ensued was farcically humorous, only little Wookey, solemn as an owl, never laughed.
One night Stover, draped in difficult equilibrium on the mantelpiece, suddenly, in his new parental solicitude for the freshman, bethought himself of the curriculum.
"Wookey."
"Yes, sir."
"One thing must speak about—meant speak about long time ago."
"What, sir?" said Wookey, looking up apprehensively over his spectacles.
"Study," said Stover, with terrific solemnity. "Want you be good scholar."
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Want you be validict—you understand what mean?"
"Yes, sir."
"Wookey, college life serious, finest thing in it's study, don't neglect study, you understand."
"Yes, sir; I do study pretty hard."
"Not enough," said Stover furiously. "Study all time! What 'cher do to-day? Recite in—in Greek, Latin, eh?"
"Yes, sir—all right."
"Good, very good—proud of you, Wookey," said Stover, satisfied. "Must be good influence—understand that, Wookey. Going to ask every night."
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Go an' study now. Study lot more."
This feeling of the influence he was exerting for Wookey's academic betterment was so strong in Dink when the hour of midnight had passed that shortly after he brought McNab home with him to witness his works.
When Wookey appeared, something displeased Stover. His protégé was not as he should be presented. Suddenly he remembered—Wookey was not in the pink pajamas!
"Wookey," he said sternly.
"Yes, sir."
"The pink ones," he said solemnly.
"Very well, sir."
"Hurry."
"Yes, sir."
"Study's better in pink," said Stover wisely to McNab, who was trying to exceed him in dignity. "Most becomin'."
"Aha!"
"Make him study, Dopey," continued Stover. "I make him study."
"Want hear'm reshite," said McNab, unconvinced.
When Wookey, in changed costume, came puffing upstairs, books under his arm, McNab, who had been exhorted by Stover, viewed the pink pajamas with deliberation, and said:
"Like you in pink, Wookey; always wear 'em. Want to hear you reshite."
"Reshite," said Stover.
"Hold up," said Dopey, scratching his head.
"What's matter?"
"Where going to sleep?"
"Wookey, suggestions?" said Stover, who added in a thundering whisper to McNab, "Always leave such things to Wookey."
The freshman busily took down the cushions from the window seat, piled up the pillows at one end before the fire, and brought up a rug.
"Thank Mr. Wookey," said Stover severely.
"Mr. Wookey, I thank you," said McNab, who sat down tailor fashion, and, staring at a book of geometry open on his lap, said: "I'm most—interested—most, very fond of Horace—reshite."
Wookey in the pink pajamas, seated in a sort of spinal bend, overwhelmed by the terrifying delight of being admitted to the company of Olympians, began directly to translate an ode of Horace.
McNab, staring at the geometry, turned a casual page, remarking from time to time severely:
"What's that!—oh, yes, h'm—quite right—free, rather free, Dink—not bad, not bad for freshman."
"Is it all right?" said Stover anxiously.
"All right."
"All my influence," said Stover.
"Wookey," said McNab, as a judge would say it, "very fortunate, sir, have such good infloonce. Con-grath-ulate you."
Wookey, whether deceived by their drunken assumption of sobriety, or to conciliate dangerous men, remained in his corner, his book closed, blinking out from his wide glasses.
McNab, remembering the beginning of a discussion in which he had engaged with serious purpose, suddenly began, shaking his head:
"Dink, you ought be better infloonce than y'are."
Stover chose to be offended.
"Why you say that?"
"'Cause 'm right; y'oughtn't drink, not a drop!"
"What right you got to say that?"
"Every right—every," said McNab, trying to remember what was the original destination of his argument. "I'm bad example 'n you're good infloonce, there's diff, see?"
"Ratsh!"
"I remember," said McNab all at once. "I know what I want say. I'm going to leave it to Wookey. Wookey'll be the judge—referee—y'willin'?"
"Willin'."
"'M going to give moral lecture," said McNab rapidly, then paused and considered a long while. "I'm fond of Stover, Wookey, very fond—very worried, too, wanthim to stop drinking—bad for him—bad for any one, but bad for him!"
Stover, who could still perceive the argument, laughed a disagreeable laugh.
"He's laughin' at me, Wookey," said McNab in a grieved voice. "He means by that insultin' laugh that I sometimes drink excess. I admit it; I'm not proud of it, but I admit it. But there's a difference, and here's where you ref'ree, judge. When I take 'n occasional glass, I drink to be happy, make others happy—y'understand, excesh of love for humanity, enjoy youth an' all that sort of thing, you know. That's the point—you're ref'ree. When Stover drinks he goes at in bad way, no love humanity, joy of youth. That's the point, y'understand. I want him to stop it, 'cause he's my friend, he's good infloonce—I'm bad example."
"You're my friend?" said Stover, overcome.
"You're besh friend."
"Shake hands."
"Shure."
"Dopey, I tell you truth—confide in you," said Stover, slipping down beside him. "Swear."
"Swear."
"Never tell."
"Never!"
"I'm unhappy."
"No!"
"Drink to forget, y'understand."
"Must stop it," said McNab, firmly closing one eye, and gazing fearfully at the yellow owls in front.
"Going to shtop it," said Stover, "soon—stop soon—promise."
"Promish?"
"Promise! Y'understand, want to forget."
"Must stop it," repeated McNab, turning from the yellow-eyed owls to Stover.
"Promish," repeated Stover solemnly. A moment later he said sleepily: "I shay."
"Shay it."
"What—what I going to stop?"
"What you, what—" McNab frowned terrifically at the owls. "Stop—must stop—promish—what—what stop?"
The question being transferred to Stover, he in turn scratched his head and sought to concentrate his memory.
"I promished," he said slowly, "remember that—stop—promish stop. Wookey!"
"Yes, sir."
The pink pajamas approached with reluctance, and waited at a safe distance.
"Wookey! What—what's this all about? What's it?"
Wookey, facing the crisis of his life, hesitated between two impulses; but at this moment the two took solemn hold of each other's hands, vacillated and rolled over on the cushions. Wookey, in the pink pajamas, covered them over with the rug, and stole out, like a thief, carrying away a secret.
But despite McNab's more sober remonstrances and his own proclamation, Stover did not cease his headlong gallop down the hill of Rake's Progress. He still avoided his old friends—he had not been to the Storys' home for weeks. Regan occasionally forced himself upon him, but never offered a suggestion. The truth was, Stover began to have a horror of his own society, of being left alone. What he did, he did without restraint. At the card tables to which he wandered he was always clamoring forthe raising of the limit; always ready to eat up the night. Even the most inveterate of the gamblers in his class perceived what McNab perceived, that there was no pleasure in what he did, but a sort of self-immolation. They were a little in awe of him, uneasy when he was around. He wandered over into Sheff, and among a group of hard livers in the Law School, getting deeper and deeper into the maelstrom. Several times, returning unsteadily late at night, he had met Le Baron, who stood aside, and watched him go with difficulty towards the haven of his own entry, for Stover always made it a point of pride to reach home and Wookey unaided. He never was offensive or quarrelsome. On the contrary, his struggle was always for self-control and an excess of politeness.
The climax arrived one Friday night when, having outlasted the party, he had put Tom Kelly to bed, and was returning from Sheff alone. He was very well pleased with himself. He had delivered Tom Kelly to his friends and gone away without assistance.
"Weak head, all weak head," he said to himself valiantly, "all but Stover, Dink Stover, old Rinky Dink. Self-control, great self-control. That's it, that's the point. Never taken home—walk myself—self-control." He began to laugh at the memory of Tom Kelly, who had insisted on going to bed with one boot under the pillow and his watch on the floor. The excruciating humor of it almost made him collapse. He clung to the nearest tree and wept for joy.
"Never hear end of it—Tom Kelly—boots—wonderful—poor old Tom—'n I walkin' home—alone."
Some one on the opposite sidewalk, seeing him clinging hilariously, stopped. Stover straightened up instantly, adjusted his hat and started off.
"Mustn't create false impression—all right! Streetcorner—careful of street corner." He crossed with a run and a leap, and continued more sedately. "Know just what 'm doin'.
"Oh, father's motherPays all the bills,'N I have all the fun."
"Oh, father's motherPays all the bills,'N I have all the fun."
"Oh, father's motherPays all the bills,'N I have all the fun."
"Oh, father's mother
Pays all the bills,
'N I have all the fun."
Suddenly he remembered he was passing Divinity Hall, and broke off abruptly, raising his hat in apology.
"'Scuse me, no offense."
Then he considered anxiously:
"Mishtake—nothin' hilar-ious—might be Sunday." He tried to remember the day and could not. He stopped a laborer returning home with his bundle, and said ceremoniously:
"Beg your pardon, don't mean insult you, can you tell me what day the week it is?"
"Sure, me b'y," said the Irishman. "It's to-morrow."
"Thanks—sorry trouble you," said Stover, bowing. Then, pondering over the information, he started hurriedly on his way. "Knew it was late—must hurry."
When he came to the corner of the campus he raised his hat again to the chapel.
"Battell—believe in compulsory chapel—Yale democracy." He passed along College Street, saluting the various buildings by name. "Great inshtoostion—campus—Brocky's right—bring life back into campus, bring it all back. Things wrong now—everything's wrong—must say so—must stop an' fight, good fight. Regan's right 'n Swazey's right—all right. Hello, Donnelly. Salute!"
The campus policeman, lolling in the shadow of Osborne Hall, said:
"So there you are again, Dink. A fine life you're leadin'."
Stover felt this was an unwarranted criticism.
"Never saw any one take me home," he said. "Always manage get home. That's the point, that's it—see?"
"Go on with you," said Donnelly. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself—you who ought to be captain of the team."
Stover approached him.
"Bill—captain?"
"What?"
"I'm goin' to stop. Solemn promish."
He went into the campus and steadied himself against an elm, gazing down the long dim way to where in the shadow of the chapel was his entry.
"I see it—see it plainly—perfect self-control. What's that?" The trees seemed swollen to monstrous shapes, and the façades of the dormitories to be set on a slant, like the leaning tower of Pisa. He laughed cunningly: "Don't fool me—might fool Dopey—Tom Kelly—weak head—don't fool me—illushion, pure illushion—know all 'bout it. Worse comes worse, get down hands knees."
"Well, Dink, pickled again," said the voice of Le Baron from an outer world.
He straightened up, his mind coming back to his control, as it always did in the presence of others.
"All right," he said, leaning up against the cold, hard side of Phelp's, "bit of a party, that's all."
"Look here, Dink," said Le Baron, who was ignorant of the extent of the other's condition, "let's have a few plain words—man to man."
Stover heard him as from a distance, and nodded his head gravely.
"Good."
"We've had our break, but I've always respected you. You thought I was a snob then, and a damned aristocrat. Well, was I so far wrong? I believe in the best getting together and keeping together. You've chucked that and tried the other, haven't you? Now look where it's brought you."
Stover, his back to the wall, heard him with the clarity that sometimes comes. His head seemed to be among whirling mists, but every word came to him as though it alone were the only sound in a sleeping world. He wanted to answer, he rebelled at the logic, he knew it could be answered, but the words would not come.
"You're going to the devil, that's it in good English words," said Le Baron, not without kindness. "You ought to be the biggest thing in your class, and you're headed for the biggest failure. And it's all because you've cut loose from your crowd, Dink—from your own kind, because you've taken up with a bunch who don't count, who aren't working for anything here."
Suddenly Stover revolted, saying angrily:
"Hugh!"
"I don't want to hit you when you're down," said Le Baron quickly. "But, Dink, man alive, you're too good to go to the devil. Brace up—be a man. Get back to your own kind again."
"Hugh, that's enough!"
He said it sharply, and there was a finality about it.
"I say, Dink."
"Good night!"
He stood without moving until he had compelled Le Baron to leave, then he set out for his room. A greatanger swept over him—at himself, at the Dink Stover who had betrayed the cause, and given Le Baron the right to say what he did.
"It isn't that," he said furiously, "it's not for breaking 'way—democracy—standing on m' own feet, no! It's a lie, all a lie. It's m' own fault—damn you, Dink Stover, you're quitter!"
He marched into his entry, his head on fire, but clear with one last resolve, and thundered on Wookey's door.
"Come out!"
The pink pajamas flashed out as by magic. The little freshman, perceiving Stover's fierce expression, drew back in alarm.
"Go'n to helpyouup to-night—able to do it," said Dink, the idea of assistance to another mingling in some curious way with his great resolve.
He took Wookey firmly by the arm and assisted him up the stairs. Once in his room he motioned him to a chair.
"Sit down—somethin' to say to you!"
Wookey, frightened, calculating the chances to the door, huddled in the big arm-chair, his toes drawn up under him, his large eyes over the spectacles never daring to deviate from the imperious glance of Stover.
"Studied to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Wookey, listen to me. I'm a quitter, you understand. I've fought fight—good fight—big fight—real democracy—'n then I lost nerve. I'm wrong; I'm all wrong. I know it. Fault's with me, not what fought for. Wookey, listen to me. Le Baron's wrong, all wrong, you understand; doesn't know—realize—see."
"Yes, sir," said Wookey, in terror and complete incomprehension.
"I'm fool—big fool, but that's over, y'understand. Never give Le Baron chance say again what he did to-night. 'M going fight again—good fight. An' no one's ever going say saw me like this again, y'understand."
"Yes, sir," said the freshman weakly, terrified at the passion that showed in Stover, rocking before the mantelpiece.
"Last time they ever get me this way!"
The green shaded lamp was burning on the table before him.
"The last time—by God," he said, and lifting his fist he drove it through the shattering glass, reeled, and stretched insensible on the floor.
On the following night, a Saturday, Kelly, Buck Waters, and McNab at Mory's set up a shout of welcome as Stover came in quietly:
"Good old Dink!"
"Hard old head."
"What is it, old boy?—get in the game."
"A toby of musty, Louis," he said, quietly sitting down.
McNab glanced at him, aware of something new in the sharp, businesslike movements, and the old determined lines of the lips.
"My round," said Buck Waters presently.
"Another toby for me," said Stover.
A little later Kelly rang on the table:
"Bring 'em in all over again."
"Not for me," said Stover. "I guess two'll be my limit from now on."
There was no protest. McNab surreptitiously, while the others were in an argument, leaned over and patted him on the knee.
What Stover in his fuddled consciousness had said to little Wookey on that last wild night returned to him with doubled force in the white of the day. He had given his opponents the right to destroy all he had stood for by pointing to his own example. He had been a deserter from the cause, but the sound of the enemy's bugle had recalled him to the battle.
He took the first occasion to stop Le Baron, for he wanted the latter to make no mistake about him.
"Hugh, I was rude as the devil to you the other night," he said directly. "I was drunk—more than you had any idea. What I want you to know is this. You put the question right up to me. You've forced me to take my stand, and I've done it. You're all wrong on the argument, but I don't blame you. Only after this you'll never have the chance to fling that at me again. You and I'll never agree on things here, we're bound to be enemies, but I want to thank you for opening my eyes, putting it squarely up to me."
He left without waiting for an answer, having said what he wished to. For several days he kept by himself, taking long walks, disciplining the ship that had sailed so long in mutiny. Then he turned up in Regan's room, and holding out his hand, said:
"Well, Tom, it's over. How in blazes did you keep from telling me what you thought about me all this time?"
Regan, unruffled and undemonstrative, said through the cloud of his pipe:
"Well, I've seen men go through it before. You never were very bad."
"What?" said Stover, who felt rather annoyed at this tame estimate.
"It's not a bad thing when you've licked the devil four ways to election," said Regan. "You know what you can do, and that's something."
"Ever been through it?" said Stover, still a little piqued.
"Ye-es."
"Really, Tom?" said Dink amazed.
"Ran about six months," said Regan, crossing his legs and dreaming. "I wasn't nice and polite like you—used to clean up the place—rather ugly time, but I pulled out."
"You've never told me about yourself," said Stover tentatively.
Regan rose, reaching for the tobacco. "No, I never have," he said. "My story is one of those stories that isn't told. Come on over to Brocky's; he's got a debating scheme you'll be interested in."
"You damned unemotional cuss," said Stover, looking at him a little defiantly.
"Are you coming with me this summer to see a little real life—get a little real education?" said Regan irrelevantly.
"If you'll take me."
"Good boy."
He rested his hand on Stover's shoulder a moment, and gave him a little tap, and the touch brought a genuine thrill of happiness to Dink.
"Lord, what a leader he'd make," he thought. "Why is it, and what's the story the old rhinoceros can't tell, I wonder?"
The old crowd was at Brocky's, the crowd which had first stirred his imagination. His return produced quite a sensation. Nothing was said, but the grip in the handshakes was different, and the diffident, hesitant little expressions of relieved good-will that came to him touched him more than he would have believed.
Brockhurst began to expound his scheme, speaking nervously, in compressed sentences, as he always did in the beginning of an argument.
"Here's what I'm trying to say. We've all been sitting round and criticizing—I mean I have—things up here. Now why not really suggest something—worth while?" He frowned, and becoming angry at his own difficulty in expressing himself, gradually became more fluent. "We all feel the need of getting together and having real discussions, and we all agree that debating here has died out, become merely perfunctory. The debates take place in a class-room, and everything is cold, stiff, mechanical. Now that all is unnecessary. What we want is something spontaneous, informal and with the incentive of a contest. This is my scheme. To take a certain number—say twenty—of the men in the class who really have ideas, and believe in expressing them; form a club to meet one night a week in some room over a restaurant where we can sit about tables, smoke, have beer and lemonade, a bit to eat if you want, everything natural, informal. Divide the club up equally into two camps, each camp to have a leader for each debate, who opens the discussion and sums it up—the only formal, perfunctory speeches. Every one else speaks ashe feels like it, right from his table. Have in an outside judge, and keep a record. At the end of the year the side that loses sets the other up to a banquet."
Stover was interested at once. He saw an instrument at hand for which he had been looking—something to bring the class together.
"Look here, it's bigger than that, Brocky," he said earnestly. "I'm not criticizing—I like the idea, the whole thing, you know. But here's what we can do. Make the club, say, forty, and get into it all the representative elements of the class—make it a real meeting place. Get the fellows who are going to be managers and captains. They've all got to speak—the fellows on papers, the real debaters—and you'll have something that'll bring the class together."
"What would you debate?" said Swazey, while the others considered Stover's suggestion.
"College subjects every one has an opinion about at first," said Regan. "And then get into red-hot politics."
"Of course Stover's idea is a social one—democratic if you will," said Brockhurst perplexed. "My idea was for a more intimate crowd, all alike, trying to discuss real things."
"Brocky, I don't believe you can do it," said Stover. "My experience is that the big discussions, the ones worth while, always are informal, just as they've been in this crowd, and the crowd mustn't be too large." Several nodded assent. "The other thing is something we need in the class. We've been torn to pieces, all at loggerheads, and I believe, outside of the debating, this is the first step to getting together. Moreover, I think you'll find all crowds will jump at the chance. Let me talk it around."
"I think Dink's got the practical idea, Brocky," said Regan. "And, moreover, he's the man to work it."
As they went out together they were met with the sensation of the campus—the sophomore societies had been abolished!
Stover stopped McNab, who was hurrying past.
"I say, Dopey, is it true?"
"Sure thing."
"How'd it happen?"
"Don't know."
Gimbel came up with the full news.
"The President gave them a certain time, you remember, to submit a plan of reform. They reported they couldn't agree, so he called the committee together and said:
"'Well, gentlemen, I gave you the opportunity to conform to public sentiment, you haven't been able to do it, you are now abolished.'"
"Who'd have thought it!"
"You don't say so!"
"Abolished!"
"I know you're glad, Dink, old man," said Gimbel, shaking his hand with a confidential look. "We all know how you stood."
"It's for the best," said Stover slowly; then he added: "But Gimbel, the fight's over; the big thing now is for the class to get together—be careful how you fellows take it."
Strangely enough, in the hour of defeat the instinct of caste came back to him—he was again the sophomore society man. He walked over to his rooms with a curious feeling of resentment at the rejoicing on the campus, where the news was being shouted from window towindow. Bob Story, leaving the fence, came over and took him by the arm.
"Dink, old fellow, I've been waiting to see you."
"I've just heard the news," said Stover, when they reached his room.
"That's not what I came about," said Story, "though it fits in all the better. Dink, you won't mind our clearing up a little past history?"
"I wish you would, Bob," said Stover earnestly. "I know you never saw things my way."
"No, I didn't. I don't say you were wrong. It was a question of different temperaments. You did a braver thing than I would have done—"
"Oh, I say—"
"Yes, I mean it. Of course I think it was all a rotten mistake, and that if you'd talked the matter out as you've done with me, Le Baron and Reynolds would have seen your side."
"Perhaps so."
"I felt that Reynolds had acted like an ass, and you very naturally had lost your temper—the result being to put the society in the position as a society of dictating a man's friendships. I don't believe that was justified."
"Indirectly, Bob, it worked out that way."
"There I believe you're right, Dink," said Story openly. "I've come to see it, and I admit it now. I'm glad the system has gone. I'm for the best here. Now, Dink,"—he hesitated a moment—"I know you've been through a rotten time; you've felt every one was against you unjustly. I know all that, and I know you've got hold of yourself again."
"That's true."
"What I want to talk over with you now is this.Don't let what has passed keep you away from any one in the class."
"But, Bob," said Dink, amazed, "how can I help it? The soph crowd must be down on me—particularly now."
"Rats, they all know pretty well the circumstances, and they all respect your nerve, that's honest. We like a good fighter up here. Now, Dink, more than ever, we need a real leader here to bring us together again. Don't leave the field to Bain and Hunter—they're all right in their way, but they can't see things in a big way. Go right out where you've always gone, twice the man you used to be, and make us all follow you. Don't make apologies for what you did—go out as though you were proud of it, and the whole bunch will rise up and follow you."
"I get what you mean," said Stover solemnly. "That's horse sense, Bob—you've always got that. I wish you'd said it before."
"I wish I had."
Stover looked at him wondering, but not daring to ask if some one else had prompted him to the act.
"It's strange you came just now, Bob," he said. "You've put words in my mouth that were already there. I've just been talking over a scheme that I think's a big idea. It's Brockhurst's."
He detailed the plan and his own suggestion. Story was enthusiastic. They talked at length, drawing up a list of possible members, with the enthusiasm of pioneers.
"I say, Dink, there's one thing more," said Bob, as he started to go. "I've been thinking a lot lately about things here, and what I want for the next two years—this is about ended. I'd like to propose something to you."
"Propose it."
"What do you say to you and me, Joe Hungerford, and Tom Regan, all rooming together another year?"
"Tom?" said Stover, surprised a moment. "The very thing if he'd do it."
"The four of us are all different enough to make just the combination we need. I'm tired of bunking alone. I want to rub up against some one else."
"There's nothing I could have thought of better, Bob. You're right, we four ought to be friends—real friends—and stand together. Here's my hand on it."
"Bully. I've spoken to Joe, and he's going to see Regan. I say, Dink, drop in soon."
"Sure thing."
"I mean at the house."
"Oh, yes." A little constraint came to him, and then a flush of boyish hope. "I'm coming round."
"Because—the family have been wondering."
When Bob had gone, Stover stood a long while gazing at the excited groups about the fence, retailing the all-important news.
"By George, I'll do it," he said at last. "I'll not leave it to Tommy Bain or Jim Hunter. It may be a fight, but I'm going out to lead because I can do it, and because I believe in the right things." Then he thought over all the incidents of Bob's visit, and he fell into a musing state with sudden wild jumps of the imagination. "I wonder—did he come of his own accord—I wonder if she knew!"
With one of his old-time sudden resolves, he went that very night to the Storys'. The struggle he had come through in victory showed in a new, abrupt self-confidence. He felt older by a year than at his last visit.
Jean Story was at the piano, Jim Hunter on the wideseat beside her, turning over the leaves of her music. He saw it from the hall in the first glance.
The Judge, surprised, came to him, delighted.
"Well, if here isn't Dink in the flesh. How are you? Thought you'd eloped somewhere. Glad to see you; tarnation if I'm not glad to shake your hand."
Hungerford, Bain, Bob Story, and Stone were present; a little difference in their several greetings.
"Well, we're holding a sort of wake here," said the Judge cheerily. "Bain seems the most afflicted."
"It's a hard moment," said Stover calmly, knowing that any expression of opinion from him would be resisted in certain quarters. "I felt quite upset myself to-day when I heard the news, despite the stand I've taken."
Hunter looked up and then down, but said nothing.
"It's for the best," said Hungerford, not wishing him to stand alone. "Best for the college as a whole."
"That remains to be seen," said Bain. "I passed Gimbel coming over, and his crowd. It wasn't very pleasant."
"Well, it's over," said Dink in a matter-of-fact tone. "No post-mortem! The great thing now is to recognize what exists. The class to-day is shot to pieces. We want to get together again. One half our time's up, and, wherever the fault, we've done nothing but scrap and get apart."
"I've been telling them a little about your scheme, yours and Brockhurst's," said Story.
Stover launched into an enthusiastic argument in its support. Bain and Hunter followed, instinctive in their opposition, each perceiving all the superiority that would derive to Stover from its success.
"May I ask," said Hunter finally, in a tone of icycriticism, "What is the difference between knocking down the sophomore society and putting up this organization?"
"Very glad to tell you, Jim," said Stover, assuming an attitude of careful good-will. "The difference is that this is an open organization, drawing from every element of the class, to meet for the sole purpose of doing a little thinking and getting to know other crowds. The sophomore society was an organization drawn from one element of the class, consciously or unconsciously for the purpose of advancing the social ambitions of its members at the expense of others. One is natural and democratic, and the other's founded on selfishness and exclusiveness."
The Judge, fearing the results of a controversy, broke in, switching the conversation to safer channels.
"By the way, Jim," said Stover, in an interlude, "we're counting on you and Tommy Bain to go into this thing and make it a success. Is that right?"
Despite their reluctance at so prompt an espousal, Hunter and Bain were too far-seeing to set themselves in opposition. But the acceptance was given without enthusiasm, and, not relishing this sudden renewal of authority in one whom they naturally held at fault, they soon broke up the party.
Hungerford and Bob went into the billiard room for a game, and presently the Judge disappeared upstairs to run over some routine work.
Stover took the seat vacated by Hunter, with perhaps a little malicious pleasure, saying:
"Aren't you going on playing?"
The young girl hesitated a moment, turning the leaves aimlessly.
"I don't know," she said. "Do you want me to very much?"
"I'd much rather talk."
She closed the music, turning to him with a little reproachful seriousness.
"You've been away a long while."
"Yes." He admitted the implied accusation with a moment's silence. "A crazy spell of mine. Bob was over this afternoon and we had a long talk." He said it point blank, watching her face for some indication he hoped to find there of her complicity. "Did he tell you?"
"He was speaking of it at the dinner table," she said quietly.
"Did you blame me," he said impulsively, "for what I did about getting out of my society?"
"No."
"Bob did, at least for a while," he said, looking eagerly into her eyes.
"I did not agree with him there."
She rose.
"If we are going to talk, let's find more comfortable chairs."
He followed her, a little irritated at the sudden closing on this delightful prospect. They took chairs by the window. Through the vista of open rooms could be seen the glare of the brilliant lights, and the figures of the two young fellows moving at their game.
Suddenly, with a return of the old-time feeling of camaraderie between them, he burst out:
"You know I've got into such a serious point of view! I don't quite know how it happened. Sometimes it seems to me I'm missing all the fun of college life."He made a gesture toward the billiard room. "Even fellows like McNab, good for nothing, jovial little loafers, according to Yale standards, do seem to be getting something wonderful out of these years. I don't. It's been all work or fighting."
"That's because they are going different ways in life than you are," she said quickly. "Tell me more about this new organization. It seems a big idea. Whom will you take in?" She added suddenly: "Take charge yourself, do it all yourself. It's just what you should do."
He was too much interested in the expounding of the idea to notice the solicitude she showed him. After a while the conversation drifted to other topics. He spoke of the summer.
"Joe wants me to go on a cruise, and Bob wants me to run up to your camp for a visit, but I've about decided to do neither."
She looked up.
"Why not?"
"I am going with Regan for the summer—slumming it, I suppose some would call it; Tom calls it getting real education. We're going down to work among men who work, to know something of what they think and want—and what they think of us. It appeals to me tremendously. I want to have an all-around point of view. There are so many opportunities coming now, and I want to grasp them all—learn all I can. What do you think?"
"It is a splendid idea, just the thing for you now. It will broaden you," she said, with a determined bob of her head. "Why doesn't Bob ever bring Regan around? He sounds interesting."
"Don't know—he sticks by himself. You can'tmove him. Bob's told you about the four of us rooming together?"
"Yes."
"I wonder—"
"What?" she asked as he stopped.
"Did you suggest to Bob what he said to me this afternoon?" he said point blank.
She looked at him troubled and undecided, and he suddenly guessed the reason.
"Oh, won't you trust me enough to tell me," he said boyishly, "if you did?"
She looked into his eyes a moment longer.
"He was afraid you wouldn't like it," she said simply. "Yes, I told him to go."
A dozen things rushed to his lips, and he said nothing. Perhaps she liked his silence better than anything he could have said, for she added:
"You will do the big things now, won't you? You see, I want to see you at your biggest."
When he went home that night, he seemed to walk on air. He had taken no advantage of her friendship, tempted almost beyond his powers as he had been by the kindness in her voice and her direct appeal. He had to tell some one, not of the interest he felt she had shown him, but of his own complete adoration and supreme consecration. So he hauled Hungerford up to his room, who received the information as to Stover's state of mind with gratifying surprise, as though it were the most incredible, mystifying, and incomprehensible bit of news.
When Stover returned to college as a junior, he showed the results of his summer with Regan. He had gone into construction gangs, and learned to obey and to command. He had had a glimpse of what the struggle for existence meant in the stirring masses; and he had known the keenness of a little joy and the reality of sorrow to those for whom everything in life was real.
He had long ago surrendered the idea of entering Skull and Bones over the enmity of Reynolds and Le Baron, and this relinquishing somehow robbed him of all the awe that he had once felt. He had returned a man, tempered by knowledge of the world, distinguishing between the incidental in college life and the vital opportunity within his grasp.
The new debating club, launched in the previous spring, had been an instant success, and its composition, carefully representative, had become the nucleus of a new comradeship in the class. With the one idea of proving his fitness to lead in this new harmonizing development, Stover made his room a true meeting-place of the class, and, loyally aided by Hungerford and Story, sought to restore all the old-time zest and good-will to the gatherings about the sophomore fence. His efforts were met by a latent opposition from Hunter and Bain, on one side, who never outgrew their wounded resentment, and from Gimbel on the other, who, though enthusiastically seconding him in the open, felt secretly that he was being supplanted.
But, as Story had foreseen, Stover had the magnetism and the energy to carry through what no other leader would have accomplished. Once resolved on the accomplishment, upheld by a strong sentimental devotion, Stover went at his task with a blunt directness that disdains all objections.
Each Saturday night was given over to a rally of the classen masseat the Tontine. Certain groups held off at first, but soon came into the fold when Stover, who was no respecter of persons, would find occasion to say publicly:
"Hello there, what happened to you last night? Get out of that silk-lined atmosphere of yours! Wake up! You're not too good for us, are you?"
"Well, why weren't you there? It's no orgy—you can get lemonade or milk if you want. There are bad men present, but we keep 'em from biting."
"I say, forget your poker game for one night. We all know you're dead game sports. That's why we want you—to give us an atmosphere of real life."
The remarks were made half in jest, half in earnest, but they seldom failed of their object. At the Saturday night rallies it was the same. Stover was everywhere, saying with his good-humored, impudent smile what no one else dared to say, sometimes startling them with his boldness:
"Here now, fellows, no grouping around here. We want to see a sport and a gospel shark sitting arm in arm. Come on, Schley, your social position's all right—there's only one crowd here to-night. No one here is going to boost you into a senior society. Percolate, fellows, percolate. We've scrapped like Sam Hill, now we're tired of it. No more biting, scratching, or gouging. Don't forget this is a love feast, and they're goingto be lovelier. Now let's try over that song for the Princeton game. Bob Story perpetrated it—pretty rotten, I think, but let's hit it up all the same."
The rallies jumped into popularity. The class gasped, then laughed at Stover's abrupt reference to the late unpleasantness, and with the laugh all constraint went. The class found itself, as a regiment returns to its pride again. It went to the games in a body, it healed its differences, and packed the long room at the Tontine each Saturday night, shouting out the chorus which Buck Waters, McNab, Stone, and the talent led.
Many, undoubtedly, marvelling at the ease with which Stover had inspired the gathering, admired him for what they believed was a clever bid for society honors. But the truth was that he succeeded because he had no underlying motive, because he had achieved in himself absolute independence and fearlessness of any outer criticism, and his strength with the crowd was just the consciousness of his own liberty.
By the fall of junior year, he was the undisputed leader of the class, a force that had brought to it a community of interest and friendly understanding. Unknown to him, his classmates began to regard him, despite his old defiance, as one whom a senior society could not overlook. Stover had no such feeling. He believed that the hatred in what remained of the sophomore society organization was, and would continue, unrelenting, and this conviction had determined him in a course of action to which he was impelled by other reasons.
He went through the football season as he had gone through the previous season, with a record for distinguished brilliancy, acclaimed by all as the best end in years, the probable captain of the next year. He wantedthe position, as he had desired it on his first arrival at Yale, and yet he surrendered it. Hunter had developed into a tackle and made the team. In the class below were two men of the defunct sophomore societies. Stover had vividly before him the record of Dana, his captain of freshman year, and the memory of the ordeal after the game, when he had stood up and acknowledged his lack of leadership.
That this still resentful society element in the eleven would follow him with distaste and reluctance, despite all traditional loyalty, he knew too well. Moreover, sure that he was destined to be passed over on Tap Day, he felt perhaps too keenly the handicap of such a rejection. Then, at the bottom, reluctantly, he knew in his heart that Regan was the born leader of men, and what once he had rebelled against he finally acknowledged.
So when at the end of a victorious season the members of the eleven gathered for the election of the next year's captain, he stood up immediately and stated his views. It was a difficult announcement to make, both on the score of seeming sentimentality, and from the danger of seeming to refuse what might not be offered him.
But during the tests of the last year the self-consciousness which would have prevented Brockhurst's expressing himself had completely gone. Determined on one course of action, to be his own master, to do what he wanted to do, and to say what he wanted to say, in absolute fearlessness, he spoke with a frankness that amazed his comrades, still under the fetish of upper-class supremacy.
"Before we begin," he said, "I've a few words I want to say. I suppose I am a candidate here. I don't say I shouldn't be crazy to have the captaincy. I would—any one would. What I say is that I have thought itover and I withdraw my name. Even if you hadn't in Tom Regan here the best type of leader you could get, it would be very unfortunate for our chances next year if I were chosen. I'm quite aware that in a certain element of the team, due to the open stand I felt forced to take in the question of the sophomore society, there is a great deal of resentment against me. I can understand that; it is natural. But there should be no such division in a Yale team. We've got a tough fight next year, and we need a captain about whom are no enmities, who'll command every bit of the loyalty of the team"—he paused a moment—"and every bit of help he can get from the college. I move that Tom Regan be unanimously elected captain."
There was quite an outcry at the end of his declaration, especially from Regan, who was utterly surprised. But Stover held firm, and perceived, not without a little secret resentment, that the outcome came with relief not only to the team but to the coaches.
When they returned, and Regan was still protesting, Stover said frankly:
"Look here, Tom, we don't split hairs with one another. If I had thought it was right for me to stand for it I would have. I wanted it—like hell. You remember Dana? I do. It's an awful thing to lead a team into defeat, and say I was responsible. I don't care to do it. Besides, you are the better man—and I'm of such a low, skulking nature I hate to admit it. So shut up and buy me a rabbit at Mory's. I'm hungry as a pirate."
He had said nothing of his determination to any one. He had been tempted to talk it over with Jean Story, but he had refrained, feeling instinctively that in her ambition for him, and in her inability to judge the depthof certain antagonisms towards him, she would oppose his determination.
The four friends had gone to Lyceum together—Swazey and Pike were in the same building. There was a certain flavor of the simplicity and ruggedness of old Yale in the building that gave to the meetings in their rooms a character of old-time spontaneity.
By the opening of the winter term, Stover, the enthusiast, had begun to see the weakness of movements that must depend on organization. The debating club, which had started with a zest, soon showed its limitations. Once the edge of novelty had worn off, there were too many diverting interests to throng in and deplete the ranks.
When, following Regan's suggestion, they had attempted a new division on the lines of the political parties, the result was decidedly disappointing. There was no natural interest to draw upon, and the political discussions, instead of fanning the club into a storm of partizanship, lapsed into the hands of perfunctory debaters.
Regan himself took his disillusionment much to heart. They discussed the reasons of the failure one stormy afternoon at one of their informal discussions, to which they had returned with longing.
"What the devil is the matter?" said the big fellow savagely. "Why, where I come from, the people I see, every mother's son of them, feed on politics, talk nothing else—they love it! And here if you ask a man if he's a Republican or a Democrat, he writes home and asks his father. A condition like this doesn't exist anywhere else on the face of the globe. And this is America. Why?"
When he had propounded the question, there was a busy, unresponsive puffing of pipes, and then Pike added:
"That's what hits me, too. Just look at the questions that are coming up; popular election of senators, income tax, direct primaries; it's like building over the government again, and no one here cares or knows what's doing. I say, why?"
"There may be fifty-two reasons for it," said Brockhurst, in his staccato, biting way. "One is, our colleges are all turning into social clearing houses, and every one is too absorbed in that engrossing process to know what happens outside; second is the fact that our universities are admirably organized instruments for the prevention of learning!"
"Good old Brocky," said Swazey with a chuckle. "Just what I like; stormy outside, warm inside, and Brocky at the bat. Serve 'em up."
Brockhurst, who was used to this reception of his pointed generalizations, paid no heed. He, too, had grown in mental stature and in control. A certain diffidence was over him, and always would be; but when a subject came up that interested him, he forgot himself, and rushed into the argument with a zeal that never failed to arouse his listeners.
Brockhurst turned on Swazey with the license that was always permissible.
"Well, what do you know? You've been here going on three years. You are supposed to be more than half educated. And you're not a fair example either, because you really are seeking to know something."
"Well, go on," said Swazey, thoroughly aroused.
"What do you know about the Barbizon school, and the logical reasons for the revolt of the impressionists?"
Instantly there was an outcry:
"Not fair."
"Oh, I say."
"That's no test."
"Finishing your third year, gentlemen," said Brockhurst triumphantly, "age over twenty; the art of painting is of course known to the aborigines only in its cruder forms. Well, does any one know at least who Manet is, or what he's painted?"
There was an accusing silence.
"Of course you've an idea of the Barbizon school—one or two of you. You remember something about a Man with a Hoe or the Angelus—that's Sunday supplement education. Now let me try you. Please raise hands, little boys, when you know the answer to these questions, but don't bluff teacher. I'm not contending you should have a detailed knowledge of the world in your eager, studious minds. I am saying that you haven't the slightest general information. I'll make my questions fair.
"First, music: I won't ask you the tendencies and theories of the modern schools—you won't know that such a thing as a theory in music exists. You know the opera of Carmen—good old Toreadore song. Do you know the name of the composer? One hand—Bob Story. Do you know the history of its reception? Do you know the sources of it? Do you know what Bach's influence was in the development of music? Did you ever hear of Leoncavallo, Verdi, or that there is such a thing as a Russian composer? Absolute silence. You have a hazy knowledge of Wagner, and you know that Chopin wrote a funeral march. That is your foothold in music; there you balance, surrounded by howling waters of ignorance.
"Take up architecture. Do you know who built the Vatican? Do you know the great buildings of the world—or a single thing about Greek, Roman and Renaissance architecture? Do you know what the modern French movement is based upon? Nothing.