Throughout the term Ramsey's calculation of probabilities against the
happening of another interview with Dora seemed to be well founded, but
at the beginning of the second “semester” he found her to be a fellow
member of a class in biology. More than that, this class had every week
a two-hour session in the botanical laboratory, where the structure of
plants was studied under microscopic dissection. The students worked in
pairs, a special family of plants being assigned to each couple; and the
instructor selected the couples with an eye to combinations of the quick
with the slow. D. Yocum and R. Milholland (the latter in a strange state
of mind and complexion) were given two chairs, but only one desk and one
microscope. Their conversation was strictly botanical.
Thenceforth it became the most pressing care of Ramsey's life to prevent
his roommate from learning that there was any conversation at all, even
botanical. Fortunately, Fred was not taking the biological courses,
though he appeared to be taking the sentimental ones with an astonishing
thoroughness; and sometimes, to Fred's hilarious delight, Ramsey
attempted to turn the tables and rally him upon whatever last affair
seemed to be engaging his fancy. The old Victorian and pre-Victorian
_blague_ word “petticoat” had been revived in Fred's vocabulary, and in
others, as “skirt.” The lightsome sprig was hourly to be seen, even
when university rulings forbade, dilly-dallying giddily along the campus
paths or the town sidewalks with some new and pretty Skirt. And when
Ramsey tried to fluster him about such a matter Fred would profess his
ardent love for the new lady in shouts and impromptu song. Nothing
could be done to him, and Ramsey, utterly unable to defend his own
sensibilities in like manner, had always to retire in bafflement.
Sometimes he would ponder upon the question thus suggested: Why couldn't
he do this sort of thing, since Fred could? But he never discovered a
satisfying answer.
Ramsey's watchfulness was so careful (lest he make some impulsive
admission in regard to the botanical laboratory, for instance) that
Mr. Mitchell's curiosity gradually became almost quiescent; but
there arrived a day in February when it was piqued into the liveliest
activity. It was Sunday, and Fred, dressing with a fastidiousness
ever his daily habit, noticed that Ramsey was exhibiting an unusual
perplexity about neckties.
“Keep the black one on,” Fred said, volunteering the suggestion, as
Ramsey muttered fiercely at a mirror. “It's in better taste for church,
anyhow. You're going to church, aren't you?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“No. I've got a luncheon engagement.”
“Well, you could go to church first, couldn't you? You better; you've
got a lot of church absences against you.”
“Then one more won't hurt. No church in mine this morning, thanks! G'by,
ole sox; see you at the 'frat house' for dinner.”
He went forth, whistling syncopations, and began a brisk trudge into the
open country. There was a professor's daughter who also was not going to
church that morning; and she lived a little more than three miles
beyond the outskirts of the town. Unfortunately, as the weather was
threatening, all others of her family abandoned the idea of church that
day, and Fred found her before a cozy fire, but surrounded by parents,
little brothers, and big sisters. The professor was talkative; Fred's
mind might have been greatly improved, but with a window in range he
preferred a melancholy contemplation of the snow, which had begun
to fall in quantity. The professor talked until luncheon, throughout
luncheon, and was well under way to fill the whole afternoon with talk,
when Fred, repenting all the errors of his life, got up to go.
Heartily urged to remain, for there was now something just under a
blizzard developing, he said No; he had a great deal of “cirriculum
work” to get done before the morrow, and passed from the sound of
the professor's hospitable voice and into the storm. He had a tedious
struggle against the wind and thickening snow, but finally came in
sight of the town, not long before dark. Here the road led down into a
depression, and, lifting his head as he began the slight ascent on the
other side, Fred was aware of two figures outlined upon the low ridge
before him. They were dimmed by the driving snow and their backs were
toward him, but he recognized them with perfect assurance. They were
Dora Yocum and Ramsey Milholland.
They were walking so slowly that their advance was almost imperceptible,
but it could be seen that Dora was talking with great animation; and
she was a graceful thing, thus gesticulating, in her long, slim fur coat
with the white snow frosting her brown fur cap. Ramsey had his hands
deep in his overcoat pockets and his manner was wholly that of an
audience.
Fred murmured to himself, “'What did you say to her?' 'Nothin'. I
started to, but'--” Then he put on a burst of speed and passed them,
sweeping off his hat with operatic deference, yet hurrying by as if
fearful of being thought a killjoy if he lingered. He went to the
“frat house,” found no one downstairs, and established himself in a red
leather chair to smoke and ruminate merrily by a great fire in the hall.
Half an hour later Ramsey entered, stamped off the snow, hung up his hat
and coat, and sat himself down defiantly in the red leather chair on the
other side of the fireplace.
“Well, go on,” he said. “Commence!”
“Not at all!” Fred returned, amiably. “Fine spring weather to-day.
Lovely to see all the flowers and the birds as we go a-strolling by. The
little bobolinks--”
“You look here! That's the only walk I ever took with her in my life. I
mean by--by asking her and her saying she would and so forth. That other
time just sort of happened, and you know it. Well, the weather wasn't
just the best in the world, maybe, but she's an awful conscientious girl
and once she makes an engagement--”
“Why, of course,” Fred finished for him, “She'd be too pious to break
it just on account of a mere little blizzard or anything. Wonder how the
weather will be next Sunday?”
“I don't know and I don't care,” said Ramsey. “You don't suppose I asked
her to go _again_, do you?”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you don't suppose I want her to think I'm a
perfect fool, do you?”
Fred mused a moment or two, looking at the fire. “What was the lecture?”
he asked, mildly.
“What lecture?”
“She seemed to me to be--”
“That wasn't lecturing; she was just--”
“Just what?”
“Well; she thinks war for the United States is coming closer and
closer--”
“But it isn't.”
“Well, she thinks so, anyhow,” said Ramsey, “and she's all broken up
about it. Of course she thinks we oughtn't to fight and she's trying to
get everybody else she can to keep working against it. She isn't goin'
home again next summer, she's goin' back to that settlement work in
Chicago and work there among those people against our goin' to war; and
here in college she wants to get everybody she can to talk against it,
and--”
“What did you say?” Fred asked, and himself supplied the reply:
“Nothin'. I started to, but--”
Ramsey got up. “Now look here! You know the 'frat' passed a rule that if
we broke any more furniture in this house with our scrappin' we'd both
be fined the cost of repairs and five dollars apiece. Well, I can afford
five dollars this month better than you can, and--”
“I take it back!” Fred interposed, hastily. “But you just listen to me;
you look out--letting her think you're on her side like that.”
“I don't--”
“You _don't?_”
Ramsey looked dogged. “I'm not goin' around always arguin' about
everything when arguin' would just hurt people's feelings about
something they're all excited about, and wouldn't do a bit o' good
in the world--and you know yourself just _talk_ hardly ever settles
anything--so I don't--”
“Aha!” Fred cried. “I thought so! Now you listen to me--”
“I won't. I--”
But at this moment they were interrupted. Someone slyly opened the door,
and a snowball deftly thrown from without caught Ramsey upon the back
of the neck and head, where it flattened and displayed itself as an
ornamental star. Shouting fiercely, both boys sprang up, ran to the
door, were caught there in a barrage of snowballs, ducked through it in
spite of all damage, charged upon a dozen besweatered figures awaiting
them and began a mad battle in the blizzard. Some of their opponents
treacherously joined them, and turned upon the ambushers.
In the dusk the merry conflict waged up and down the snow-covered
lawn, and the combatants threw and threw, or surged back and forth, or
clenched and toppled over into snow banks, yet all coming to chant an
extemporized battle-cry in chorus, even as they fought the most wildly.
“Who? Who? Who?” they chanted. “Who? Who? _Who_ says there ain't goin'
to be no war?”