To make himself strong and free was Tom Whitelaw's ruling motive
through the winter which preceded his going to Harvard. He must be
a man, not merely in physical vigor, but in mental independence.
Convinced that he was in what he called a rotten world, a world of
rotten customs built on a rotten foundation, he saw it as a task to
learn to pick his way amid the rottenness. To rebel, but keep his
rebellion as steam with which to drive his engine, not as something to
let off in futile raging against established convictions, was a hint of
Honey's by which he profited.
"It don't do yer no good to kick so as they can ketch and jump on you.
I've tried that. And it ain't no good to jaw. Tried that too. If the
uninherited was anythink but a bunch o' simps you might be able to
rouse 'em. But they ain't. All yer can do is to shut yer mouth and
live. Yer'll live harder and surer with yer mouth shut. Yer'll live
truer too, just as yer'll shoot straighter when yer ain't talkin' and
fidgitin' about. Don't believe what no judge or gov'nor or bishop says
to yer just because he says it; but don't let 'em know as yer don't
believe it, because they'll hoodoo you with their whim-whams. Awful
glad they'll be, both Church and State, to ruin the man what don't
believe the way they tell him to."
On the eve of manhood Tom thought more highly of Honey than he had
when a few years younger. Having judged him drugged by work, he
found that he had ideas of his own, however mistaken they might be.
However mistaken they might be, they had at least produced one guiding
principle: to keep your mouth shut and live! Taking his notes about
life, as he did through the following winter, he made them according to
this counsel.
The outstanding feature of the season was the development of something
like a real friendship with Guy Ansley. Hitherto the two young men had
backed and filled; but in proportion as Tom grew more sure of himself
the weaker fellow clung to him. He clung in his own way; but he clung.
He was the patron. Tom was the fine young chap he had taken a fancy to
and was helping along.
"I'm awful democratic that way. Whole lot of fellows'll think they've
just got to go with their own gang. Doolittle and Pray's is full of
that sort of bunk. The Doolittle and Pray spirit they call it. I call
it fluff. If I like a fellow I stick by him, no matter what he is. I'd
just as soon go round with you as with the stylishest fellow on the
Back Bay. Social position don't mean anything to me. Of course I know
it's very nice to have it; but if a fellow hasn't got it, why, I don't
care, not so long as he's a sport."
"Keep your mouth shut and live," Tom reminded himself. He liked Guy
Ansley well enough. He was at least a fellow of his own age, with whom
he could be franker than had been possible with Maisie, and who would
understand him in ways in which Honey never could. With the difference
made by ten years in his point of view, he discussed with Guy the same
sort of subjects, sex, religion, profession, vices, politics, that he
had talked over with Bertie Tollivant. Merely to hear their own voices
on these themes eased the adolescent turmoil in their brains.
Hildred Ansley, having entered Miss Winslow's school as a boarder, was
immured as in a convent. Her absence made it the easier for Tom to run
in and out of the Ansley house on the missions, secret and important,
which boys create among themselves. Guy had a set of maps by which you
could follow the ebb and flow on the battlefront. Guy had a wireless
installation with which you could listen in on messages not meant for
you. Guy had skis, and bought another pair for Tom so that they could
tramp together on the Fenway. Guy had a runabout which Tom taught him
to drive. Guy had tickets for any play or concert he chose to attend,
and invited Tom to go along with him.
Doubtful at first, Mrs. Ansley came round to view the acquaintance
almost without misgiving.
"I think you're a steady boy, aren't you?" she asked of Tom one day,
when finding him alone.