SERVING TWO MASTERS
Although Deacon Young was trying so hard to do the "dead-game act," the
Freshman First Honor prize was still a matter of daily effort with him.
He was really working exceedingly hard for it. He pretended that he was
not working at all.
He was nearly always with the "crowd" in the evenings and was frequently
seen wandering around as aimlessly as the rest of them during the day.
That was the way he kept from being called a poler.
[Illustration: 2 A.M.
However, after saying good night ... he would sneak off to his room, tie
a wet towel around his head, and pole....]
However, after saying good-night yawningly to the other fellows, he
would sneak off to his room, tie a wet towel around his head, and pole
until 2 a.m. He utilized half-holidays when the others were reading or
were off running hare and hounds, or taking long rambles across country,
or canoeing up the Millstone, or shooting with the gun club, or paying
visits to the neighboring cities; also he had dropped out of literary
Hall work entirely, took little exercise, and devoted to his curriculum
studies even the spare time he had formerly put in at miscellaneous
reading. That was the way he kept up his high stand in class.
So, as the fellows would see him with the idlers until bedtime at night,
and then heard of his making recitations as good as "Poler" Barrows in
the morning, it was no wonder that some began to think him a
"phenomenon" like Todd. That was what Young wanted them to think. He
thought a great deal about what others thought about him--a great deal
too much, some of his more intimate associates decided one evening,
while waiting for him in Minerva Powelton's room.
"No, don't begin yet," Powelton was saying. "I promised the Deacon we'd
wait for him."
"I don't see why he is always so anxious to get in the game," said Billy
Drew, inhaling cigarette-smoke. "I don't believe he really enjoys it
very much."
"The trouble with the Deacon," said Todd, "is that he is too much afraid
of your opinion. If he hadn't got so bored when we called him dignified
he wouldn't have made the mistake in the first place of trying to be a
dead-game, you know. It isn't his style to be that, so he was guyed and
laughed at. But instead of bracing up and being like himself, he sticks
it on all the harder. He thinks to win favor that way. That's the plain
English of it."
"Aw, you make me tired!" said Lee, good-naturedly. "Somehow, lately,
you're always preaching. The Deacon wants a little recreation, like the
rest of us. That's all. He has plenty of good stuff in him."
"Plenty," said Todd. "Trouble is, he doesn't let it out."
The door opened.
"Yea! Deacon," said the others.
"Been doing the poler act on the sly again, have you?" asked Powelton,
throwing a sofa cushion at him.
"Naw. Hello there, Lucky! You here? Going to get in the little game this
evening, hey?" said Young, smiling. "Toddie, you are, aren't you?"
"No, thanks," said Todd, arising and stretching himself.
"'Fraid, are you?" asked Young.
Todd laughed contemptuously. "I'm not afraid to have you think I'm
afraid, if it gives you any pleasure; it doesn't hurt me. Lucky, are you
coming with me?"
"No," said Lee, looking at the Deacon, "I reckon I'll stay awhile."
"Come on, Lucky," Todd said.
Lee shook his head.
Todd turned, watched the others a moment, while they got out the cards
and chips, and drew up their chairs to the table; then, smiling
quizzically at Young, he took his hat and left the room.
Now Young may not have been poling just before he arrived, but together
with late hours and lack of exercise, he looked as pale and haggard as
the hardest poler in college. And by the strong light opposite him, as
he sat playing at the table, a fellow like Linton might have fancied he
saw other lines in his face--unpleasant lines that meant something
besides hard study and lack of exercise.
Somehow, at this game, he did not look like the same Deacon Young who
trotted home from football practice last fall, glowing and glad to be
alive.
The attitude of most of the club toward the class at large was very much
what Young's was toward Barrows and Wilson and those fellows. The
Invincibles had been frowned upon by the class for being "sporty";
consequently they hated the class. Instead of changing their conduct,
they became "sportier" than ever, and they were fast gaining a
reputation throughout the college world, and they considered themselves
very dangerous.
The poker game went on. It was getting late, but nobody noticed that.
"Whose deal is it?"
"Mine," said Lucky, picking up the cards with a nervous hand; he began
to shuffle them.
Powelton smiled in his superior way. "Look at Lucky's fingers twitch,"
he said. The others laughed, and Young added, indulgently, "The little
boy will get over that in time."
Lee was dealing, and he was too much excited to hear or reply to this
sally; it was 1 A.M. of the first night he had ever played cards for
money in his life, and with a beginner's luck he had been winning all
evening.
"Can you open it, Tommy?" asked Lee, the dealer.
"Nope," said Stevens.
"I can't," said Powelton.
"Can you, Deacon?"
"No, of course not."
"Can you, Billy?"
Drew shook his head.
"No," said Jones, without waiting to be asked.
"Sweeten it up, then," said Powelton.
"Wait a minute," said Lee. "I can. Who's coming in?" He giggled
excitedly.
Three of the six simply laid down their hands hopelessly. "I never saw
such luck," one of them said.
Young hesitated a moment "I guess I'll come in," he said finally. "Four
cards please." He puffed on an extinguished cigar-butt.
"Well, well! the Deacon's got nerve," said Drew.
"Oh! he's getting to be an old hand," said Minerva Powelton, winking.
"See how coolly he picks up his cards," remarked Billy Drew.
Young paid no attention to these remarks. He was cool outwardly, but it
was the coolness of desperation. He had been losing all the evening as
steadily as Lucky had been gaining. But you see he was not a beginner
now; he had played five or six times and felt himself, as they said, an
old hand at it, and he too had laughed at Lucky's greenness--early in
the evening. But now Lucky, who was never persuaded to play poker until
the Deacon played, was winning away all his money.
Young did not know how much he had lost; he would not let himself think.
But he knew it was more than he could afford, and he made up his mind
that if he lost this time he would not give himself a chance to lose
again. He picked up the four cards he had drawn in place of the
discarded ones, and looked at them. His heart gave a bound. He covered
the cards for a moment, and then looked at them again.
"Yes, it's really true," he said to himself. "Surely this hand can't be
beaten."
"Well, what do you do, Deacon?"
For answer Young simply laid down a large bet.
"Hully Gee!" whispered Powelton to Drew. "Big bluff the Deacon is
throwing, eh?"
Lee overheard it. He meant to show the Deacon that he could not be
bluffed out, even if he were a beginner. Besides, he had a hand he was
willing to stake a good deal upon. He put down twice the amount of
Young's bet.
"Hoho! the bluff didn't work," laughed Drew. "Now, then, Deacon, let's
see what you can do."
"Shut up!" said Young. "Don't bother us!" He puffed on his cold cigar a
moment, and then put down another large bet.
"I'm with you!" said Lucky Lee, and he increased the stake again. His
eyes were glistening.
For several minutes they kept on increasing the amount in the centre of
the table, one thoughtfully, the other excitedly. The older players now
left off making patronizing remarks, and became interested. Finally
Young said, "No, I won't make it any higher. What have you got?"
Lee slapped down his cards. His voice trembled a little as he asked,
confidently, "Can you beat that?"
"Yep," said Young, and he coolly laid down his victorious hand. The
others all looked at it. "It's about time I was winning," he said,
calmly enough; but his heart was thumping.
"Why didn't you keep on raising him?" asked Powelton, sneeringly.
"I wish I had," thought Young, as he gathered in what meant a large
winning for one swoop. Lee was laughing loudly to show he did not care.
He was excited, and would have gone on betting for a long time, Young
thought.
That was the turning-point. Had Young lost, he might have stopped; but
to stop now would look mean, he reflected.
"The luck has turned," he whispered to himself. "I'll play a few more
hands." And when the game broke up at dawn, he had lost his winnings,
and more.
That night he tossed in his bed, and said: "I must stop; that's all
there is about it; I _must_ stop."
The next time they met to play, Young said, "Go ahead without me; I
don't feel like it to-night."
"The Deacon hasn't any sporting blood. He's afraid of his own pupil,"
Powelton said, and the others laughed. Lucky laughed, too; he was the
pupil. Young played.
That night Young won handily. He felt especially pleased to win that
night. He thought, "I'll stop the minute I have won back what I lost."
But he did not win back what he had lost, and so played on the next
night, and on the next. And so it went until he was brought to a stop
with a jerk.
It came near the end of the term and of the year, shortly before the
final examinations. The crowd had been playing nearly every night, and
of late, somehow, Young had been losing nearly every time he played; but
he said: "I can't afford to stop now. Surely this bad luck can't
continue. I must win! I will win next time!" He could not stop. It is
called "gambler's fever."
He could not sleep; he was neglecting his studies. He had used up all
his allowance of "absences." He did not mind that, but he had within
these few weeks lost--he would not allow himself to reckon how much! He
had borrowed from the fellows, and he had been steadily drawing from the
bank the precious money for which he had worked so hard, and which meant
so much more to him than money meant to boys with monthly allowances
from home. One morning he made out another check to his own order. "This
is positively the last time," he said to himself. He had said that
before, but this time it was true.
That night he began to lose with the first hand. He laughed, he played
recklessly, he lost. He went home, and found a letter in his pocket
while undressing which he had forgotten to open, in hurrying to the
game. This letter said, "We beg leave to call your attention to the fact
that your account seems to be overdrawn to the amount of seventy-five
cents." It was from the Princeton Bank.
This meant that William Young owned not a cent in the world, and was a
debtor even to the bank besides owing various sums to his companions. He
was bankrupt. It was pretty bad. But that was not the worst of it. That
was not the reason he stood by the table letting his lamp smoke while he
kept staring at the letter in his hand.
He had kept with his personal account the fund of his class, and every
cent of it was gone with the rest. He had held it in trust as treasurer.
It had amounted to something over one hundred dollars.
But he had drawn it out unconsciously? No; he knew he had used all his
own money long ago.
But surely he had meant to return what he had borrowed from the class
fund? Oh, yes; but this kind of "borrowing" is called embezzlement--an
ugly word. It really means theft and breach of trust combined.
Young could not take it all in at first. For awhile he stood there,
saying to himself, "Isn't it funny this letter was in my pocket all the
evening while I was playing--isn't it funny?"
Then he looked up, sniffed, and said, "That lamp is smoking." He turned
it down, and stared at the flame for nearly a minute. Then suddenly he
blew it out, and was alone in the darkness.
Oh, yes, it was all true. There was no way of getting out of it. He
realized it all now vividly. He, William Young, a member of the church,
son of honest old Farmer Young, was a gambler and--yes, he might just as
well call it by its right name--a thief!
He was the one of whom the others at home used to stand in awe because
he was going East for a higher education. He was the one for whom the
minister predicted such great things. He was the one who had his
tuition remitted in consideration of "high moral character." He was the
one whose letters from college were read aloud at the sewing society by
a proud little mother, who thought he was the best son in the world.
Why hadn't he stayed at home and remained an honest man, working hard in
the bank or as a plain farmer, like good little Charlie? Oh, how did he
ever sink so low? If he only had a chance to do it all over again--if he
could only wake up and find it all a dream--if he could only wipe it all
out of existence, how joyous and sunny would be life and duty and hard
work again!
But it wasn't a dream! It was all very real, indeed. None of it could be
wiped out. It was all there and staring him in the face, real, horribly
real. And that was not all; matters could not remain only as bad as
_this_. He was an out-and-out embezzler, liable to be found out and
exposed as such at any moment--and then what?
Leave college with a disgraced name--but that would not be all. The
news would go home; it would get there before he did. Everyone in the
county would hear it, and talk about him. Some of them would laugh and
sneer, and say, "Too bad!" and really be secretly glad.
Perhaps the authorities would send and--it made him weak and sick to
think of it--have him arrested--by an officer of the law--and put in
jail. This would kill his honest, old gray-bearded father. And as for
his mother--but that hurt too much! He shut his eyes; he simply would
not let himself think of that.
But what could he do? Time was flying. Just now he had heard Old North
strike four in the dark, silent distance--good Old North, on whose steps
he had hoped to sing as a Senior some day. Every moment brought him
nearer to ruin. Something must be done.
He took hold of his head to quiet its buzzing. "It will do no good to
think about it any more," he said aloud. "Act, act, act--you must!"
First, he spent a few bitter moments on his knees by the bed It is no
one's concern what he said to God. Then he arose, quite calmly struck a
match, and with an almost steady hand lighted the lamp. Then very
deliberately, in a matter-of-fact way, he drew up the rocking-chair so
that the light would come over his left shoulder. He dragged over
another chair to put his feet upon. He sat down. He did a little
figuring at first on the envelope in his hand. Then he opened his
trigonometry and studied furiously until chapel-time. There was, you
see, good stuff in Will Young yet.
It would do no good to tell himself any longer how low he had fallen;
but it would do a great deal of good to win the Freshman First Honor
prize; and he had no time to lose.
To win was not a mere ambition now--it was a grim necessity. It was the
one way of keeping from being disgraced in the eyes of the world as
deeply as he was in his own and God's.
The prize would not come until commencement. Before that time the class
might vote to use its money. They might instruct their "honorable
treasurer" to expend the funds on decorations and a brass band, as was
sometimes done at the close of examinations to celebrate their
Sophomorehood; and what would he do then! He decided that he must not
let himself think about that now. It made his heart stop so short it
fairly hurt; besides, it interrupted his work.
He had figured it all out in his neat businesslike hand on the envelope.
On one side, under assets, he wrote, "Freshman prize, if won, $200;" on
the other side the following list:
The Princeton Bank overdraw $0.75
Henry Powelton, borrowed 10.00
Carey H. Lee, borrowed 25.00
William Sinclair Drew 23.35
The class of Ninety-blank debt 117.20
-------
Total $176.30
Two hundred dollars would "square" him, and just leave enough to buy a
ticket back to the old farm--that is, if he wanted to go there.