THE FIRST MARSHAL
From his talk with David, Lester went away chastened yet light of
heart――more cheerful, indeed, than he had ever hoped to be again. He
had confessed, had been forgiven, and was secure in the knowledge that
now the episode was closed and that no one else would ever hear of
it. But he had gone through too much in the past few days to forgive
himself as readily as David had forgiven him; he was sincere in his
determination to court obscurity now rather than prominence and for the
rest of his college course to live the unassuming life of the student.
With that resolve in mind he immediately ascended from David’s room to
his own, and there he was engaged in study when Richard Bradley entered
half an hour later. Richard at once began to talk about the campaign
for the marshalship.
“The general opinion now seems to be that you’ve got a sure thing for
first place,” he said. “Farrar will get second and Colby third. I’ve
heard lots of fellows who don’t know you at all well say they were
going to vote for you because they think you ought to have been captain
of either the eleven or the nine and that the least the class can do is
to make it up to you.”
“It’s good of you to take such an interest, Dick,” said Lester. “But
I’ve got over my craving for honors and popularity――at least I think
I have. I honestly think that either Farrar or Colby deserves the job
more than I do.”
There was a knock at the door; then Harry Dawson, who was the editor
of the college literary periodical, entered. He was a pleasant-looking
fellow, lively in speech and manner, and with an engaging brightness in
his brown eyes. He began briskly:
“I came round, Wallace, to ask you if you wouldn’t let us print that
theme of yours that was read in class. It’s one of the best things I’ve
heard this year. I asked Professor Worthington afterwards who wrote it,
and he referred me to you.”
Lester, sitting at his desk, was drawing lines with his pencil on his
blotting-pad. “No, I guess not, Dawson,” he replied. “Thanks just the
same, but I don’t care to have it printed.”
“But why not?” Dawson urged. “As Mr. Worthington said, it’s a subject
that the whole college is interested in. And to have it treated by you,
with your record in athletics――”
“I don’t care to have it printed. I’m sorry.”
Dawson was disposed to argue. “Don’t you think you ought to subordinate
your own preference? A college publication has the right to expect the
support of the fellows. You oughtn’t to have any false modesty about
such a thing as this.”
“It isn’t false modesty. I simply――”
“Sure, it is,” interrupted Richard. “Give him the theme, Lester, don’t
be such a pig.”
“Keep out of this, will you, Dick?” Lester raised his head to glare
angrily at his roommate. He turned then to Dawson. “That theme isn’t
going to be printed; that’s all there is about it.”
“Oh, all right. Sorry to have bothered you.” Dawson, red and indignant,
rose and with a flashing glance at Lester, who had again relapsed over
his blotter, left the room.
“Now what did you want to talk to the fellow like that for?” said
Richard resentfully. “A perfectly good fellow who comes and pays you
the compliment of asking you for your theme, and you throw him down in
the most uncivil way! Besides trying to snap my head off! You’d better
get back to your old life if hard study makes you behave like this.”
“All through?” asked Lester grimly, looking up at his roommate.
“Yes.” Richard seized a book and dashed it open wrathfully.
For some minutes there was quiet in the room. Then Richard, who, in
spite of a certain rigidity that characterized him when any matters
of principle were involved, was of too accommodating and friendly a
disposition to remain at odds with any one for insufficient reasons,
began to make overtures.
“Lester,” he said, “why didn’t you tell a fellow you’d had your theme
read in class? You’re so secretive. When I have a little success I run
home and blab it all to you; but when you do anything I can’t dig it
out of you with a pickaxe.”
“It wasn’t anything,” said Lester, with his eyes on his book.
“Yes, it was, too, or Dawson would never have been so enthusiastic.
What was your theme about?”
“Oh, never mind! Can’t you see I want to study?”
“Well, it’s easy enough to answer a simple question, isn’t it? I
should think when a fellow shows some interest in what you’ve done you
might do something else than bark at him.”
“Oh, that’s all right. But I’ve got to study, and I don’t care to be
interrupted all the time.”
“Well, just tell me what your theme was about, and I’ll let you alone.”
Lester, enraged by this badgering, brought his fist down on the desk.
“No, I won’t tell you what it was about!” he cried. “I won’t tell you
anything about it! Mind your own affairs!”
“Oh, very well, then,” retorted Richard. “Since you’re so stuffy about
it, I’ll find out all about it. All I have to do is to ask Dawson.”
He felt even in his indignation that he was being childish, and he was
unprepared for the sharp, immediate change that his words produced in
Lester’s attitude and expression. Lester leaned back in his chair, and
the look of sullenness on his face gave way to one of resignation and
weariness.
“I’ll tell you all about it, Dick,” he said. “I was hoping I could keep
it from you; but it begins to look as if there were no use in trying to
keep it from any one. The theme that was read in class was Dave Ives’s,
not mine. I took it out of Dave’s room and handed it in as mine. I
changed the last page of it. That was how you happened to find that
page of Dave’s theme in my waste-basket.”
He realized already that Richard’s reaction to the confession was not
at all the same as David’s had been. There was no sign of compassion in
Richard’s face, only distress and even repugnance.
“David knows the whole story,” said Lester. “If you want to, you can
talk it over with him.”
“I don’t see how you came to do it.”
“Pressure of work that had to be made up――no time to write the theme
and it had to be a good one, or else I stayed on probation. I suppose
you’d call it just weak and dishonest――as it was.”
“Well,” said Richard slowly, after a pause, “I can understand why you
shouldn’t care to be elected marshal now.”
Lester made no response, and Richard did not inquire further into the
circumstances of the misdeed or comment on it. After a little time
Richard rose to leave the room.
Lester looked up at him imploringly. “There’s one thing, Dick, that I
wish you’d understand,” he said. “I’m not feeling callous about this.”
“No,” said Richard gravely, “I suppose not.”
He opened the door and went out. Lester sat gazing into space with
unhappy eyes. He had lost the respect of one whom he liked, of a
friend who had been even a hero worshiper. He deserved to lose it, he
knew, yet he could not help feeling that Richard might have been less
cruel. He wondered how they could go on living together now.
Then he reflected again that he was receiving no more punishment than
he deserved, and that, if he was to win back his own self-respect, it
could be only through hard and honest work. So he settled down to his
studying and put Richard resolutely out of his mind.
Meanwhile Richard had accepted Lester’s suggestion and had gone to hear
David’s version of the story. Yet, although David made all the excuses
for Lester’s action that were possible and enlarged upon his penitence,
Richard’s condemnation remained unqualified. There was in him an
inherited strain of inflexibility in judging deviations from standards
of integrity and truth.
“He simply did a thing that an honorable fellow wouldn’t have done,”
insisted Richard. “And then he lied about it. He didn’t own up to it
until he was cornered and couldn’t lie any longer. I don’t doubt that
he’s sorry and all that; but when you can’t respect a fellow any more,
what are you to do?”
“I don’t go so far as that,” said David. “He’s making a fight now to
win back his own self-respect and my respect and yours. Give the boy a
chance.”
“What chance has he? I don’t see any.”
“Well, if he keeps up the pace in studies that he’s been setting
for himself, cuts out for good the idleness and loafing that were
responsible for his getting into trouble, shows he isn’t seeking
popularity any more and doesn’t care anything about it――I should think
then you could begin to respect him again.”
“It would help,” admitted Richard. “Though hard work can’t exactly
cancel a dishonorable act.”
“Friendship might help it to,” said David.
Richard pondered, frowning. “I’m not sure that it isn’t my duty to do
everything I can to keep him from being elected marshal.”
“If you feel a real call to duty, go to it,” said David with mild
irony. “You’re a true son of the Puritans, Dick.”
“You can scoff if you want to. But here you and I have been doing all
that we could to get Lester elected first marshal, and now we find that
he’s unfit to have the honor. You’ll agree to that, I suppose?”
David hesitated. “I don’t know that I’d say he was unfit.”
“You don’t mean that you’ll still vote for him?”
“I’m not sure that I shan’t.”
“You mean to say you may vote to give the highest honor in the class to
the one man in the class who you know has done a dishonorable thing?”
“I haven’t fully decided. He’s the most brilliant athlete we’ve got,
he’s the most popular fellow generally, and he’s my oldest friend.”
“If he’s elected, an injustice is done to Farrar or Colby, either of
whom would be chosen in preference if the truth were known.”
“It won’t be a very serious injustice. Farrar’s had the captaincy of
the football team, Colby’s had the captaincy of the crew; Lester’s
never had anything, though he has contributed more to our athletic
success than any other fellow in college.”
“I don’t know whether you’re too lax in your ideas, or whether I’m too
stiff in mine,” said Richard after a moment, “but certainly one of us
must be wrong.”
“My idea simply is: he’s a friend, he feels badly, he’s filled with
remorse――treat him with consideration.”
“Mine is that friendship shouldn’t blind us to his acts or cause us to
inflict injustice upon another.”
“What would you do to prevent what you call injustice?” asked David.
“Would you go about telling everybody to vote for Farrar because you
had discovered something that, if it were generally known, would make
Lester ineligible?”
“That’s the trouble; I don’t know just what I ought to do. If anybody
asks me, I’ll say that I’m not supporting Lester, and that I can’t
advise any one else to. Then of course I’ll be asked why, and I shall
simply have to say that I can’t tell, but that I have good reasons.
Perhaps that isn’t going far enough. Perhaps I ought to go round and
see all the fellows that I’ve called on in Lester’s interest and tell
them that in my judgment it’s all off.”
“If you do either of those things,” declared David, “you’ll start a
lot of gossip. If you can’t conscientiously vote for Lester, don’t;
that’s all right. But don’t go round trying to influence people to vote
against him. You’ll only blow up a scandal that won’t do any one any
good.”
“I don’t see exactly how.”
“Why, some of Lester’s friends will be indignant and will demand
that you tell what you know or else keep quiet. You’ll be driven to
hinting and finally to telling. And I must say I think that it would
be a great misfortune, not only to Lester, but to the class, to have
publicity given to this matter.”
“Yes, but on the other hand is it fair to keep quiet and perhaps let
Lester have the honor that some one else deserves?”
“That seems to me of small importance. If it isn’t Lester, it will
be Farrar or Colby. They’ve had pretty much all the recognition they
need――captain of the eleven and captain of the crew; they’ll be second
and third marshals, anyway. I shouldn’t worry about them.”
“Lester can’t enjoy it very much if he’s elected.”
“He certainly can’t. He doesn’t want to be elected. But I don’t feel
called upon to protect him from it.”
“I still can’t see how or why he ever came to do it,” said Richard.
“No, but I feel sure he’ll never do anything crooked again. Don’t make
him feel he’s a leper, Dick. Give him another chance.”
“You mean treat him just as if nothing had happened? I can’t. Something
inside me won’t let me.”
“How are you going to treat him, then?”
“I don’t know, except that I can’t be on such easy terms with him any
more. This thing has spoiled him for me.”
“I don’t believe one act changes a fellow all over. You’ve known Lester
pretty intimately and have always liked him and even admired him. This
thing that he’s done isn’t characteristic of him, I feel sure.”
“Don’t you suppose there are lots of men in prison for doing things
that aren’t really characteristic of them? It’s the act itself――the
kind of act that it was――that a fellow can’t overlook.”
“I’m sorry you feel as you do.”
“So am I. But I can’t help it.”
When Richard returned to his room, Lester was writing and did not look
up. Richard settled himself in a chair and began to read. The silence
to which the two thus committed themselves became characteristic now of
their relations. They did not actually cease to be on speaking terms
with each other, but they addressed each other as seldom as possible.
Lester no longer availed himself of what had been a standing invitation
to dine on Sunday at Richard’s house in Boston. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley
and Marion asked Richard why Lester had dropped them, and Richard
replied that he guessed that wasn’t it, but that Lester had given up
going out anywhere to dine with people. The family looked mystified,
but for the time being did not pursue the inquiry.
On the day of the senior-class elections Lester was greeted with
friendly smiles from numerous classmates as he walked from his room to
the voting place.
“It’s a sure thing for you,” said one who came out of the building as
Lester entered.
“It shouldn’t be,” Lester answered. His friend laughed, not taking the
remark seriously.
The ballots were counted that evening. Lester and Richard were as usual
silently engaged with their books when there was a tumultuous rush up
the stairs and a banging on the door. Lester opened the door; instantly
half a dozen joyous youths seized upon him, grasped his hands, beat him
on the back and poured out the good news.
“You got it all right.”
“You beat Farrar by a hundred votes.”
“You beat Colby by a hundred and fifty.”
“Well, old top, how does it feel to be marshal?”
Lester showed his embarrassment. “It’s mighty good of you fellows to
come and tell me,” he said. “But I don’t deserve to be marshal at all.”
“Oh, that’s the way they always talk,” replied Joe Bingham. “We know
better than you do whether you deserve it or not.”
“No, you don’t. You ask my roommate here; he knows me better than any
one else.”
Lester spoke on a sudden wild inspiration. If he were given a chance,
he would tell the crowd, resign, let Farrar have the place to which he
was entitled――
“No, he doesn’t deserve it,” said Richard quietly. “I didn’t vote for
him.”
The fellows laughed; they took Richard’s remark as a joke. They stayed
a few moments longer, holding a jubilation over their friend’s success,
and then clattered noisily down the stairs.
A few moments later another caller appeared to offer his
congratulations. It was Farrar, who had just been elected second
marshal. He was a square-set, stocky fellow, with a good deal of force
showing in his face; he was not handsome; he was blunt and downright of
manner. Although through their prominence in athletics he and Lester
had been brought into close association with each other throughout
their college course, they had never been particularly friendly or
sympathetic.
When Lester saw who his visitor was he stood up; he felt his face
growing hot. Richard swung round in his chair and looked on; the
realization that he was interested heightened Lester’s embarrassment.
“I want to congratulate you,” said Farrar, taking Lester’s hand. “I
want to be among the first.”
“Thank you,” said Lester. “It ought really to have been you, Jim.”
“No, it oughtn’t. I won’t say that I’m not disappointed; of course any
fellow who felt that he stood some show of winning such an honor can’t
help being disappointed a little. But the best man won.”
“No,” said Lester slowly, “that’s just what he didn’t do.”
“Oh, yes, he did. I mightn’t have admitted it a month or two ago; I’d
have been likely to say to myself then that you won by making up to
fellows for their votes. But you didn’t win that way; you won on your
record fair and square. And I don’t feel half so disappointed as I
would have felt if you’d got it by electioneering instead of by just
plugging away at your job and letting your record speak for you. That’s
why I say the best man won and the class is to be congratulated.”
He gave Lester’s hand another firm squeeze. After he had gone, Lester
sat down again at his desk.
“I suppose you find it very entertaining,” he said to his roommate.
“I find it painful,” Richard replied frankly. “The next person that
comes in――I’m going to get out.”
It was but a few moments before another congratulatory friend arrived,
and Richard, true to his word, took his departure. He stayed away from
the room all the rest of the evening; and meanwhile Lester received
a succession of visitors, among them Colby, the third marshal――all
generously come to express their satisfaction at his success.
At ten o’clock, in order to protect himself against a prolongation of
the ordeal, he turned out the light, undressed in the dark, and went to
bed. He lay awake for a long time; he heard Richard come in and go to
bed, and he wished that he had never seen Richard. At last an idea that
gave him some comfort came to him, and while he was turning it over in
his mind he fell asleep.
David had not been among those who had rushed to give Lester their
congratulations. He had felt that if Richard were in the room it would
be awkward for both Lester and himself. But the next morning he left
his door open while he dressed and so caught sight of Lester descending
the stairs. He hailed and halted him, and then he said: “Even though I
didn’t come to see you last night, Lester, I want you to know that I’m
glad you got it. I voted for you.”
Lester’s smile, even though forlorn, showed his gratitude. “I don’t
see how you can reconcile it with your conscience,” he said. “But I
shan’t worry about yours; I’m having trouble enough with my own. Do you
suppose if I went round to your house some time to-day I could see Mr.
Dean?”
David looked astonished. “Yes, I’m sure you could. Almost any time.
He’s always at home.”
“Then I’ll call on him some time this afternoon.”
“He’ll be glad to see you,” said David.
That afternoon, when Lester called and asked for Mr. Dean, he was shown
into the library.
Presently Mr. Dean appeared at the doorway, unpiloted. “Hello, Lester,”
he said, advancing slowly. “I know where everything is in this room
except you.”
“Right here,” said Lester, taking Mr. Dean’s hand.
“It’s very good of you to think of coming to see me. Have a chair.” Mr.
Dean seated himself on the sofa. “I understand that you have achieved
high honor. That’s fine――fine.”
“I don’t think it’s so fine,” said Lester. “It’s about that I wanted to
talk with you――if you’ll be good enough to let me.”
“Of course. What’s the trouble?”
“I feel especially ashamed to come to you about it, and yet in another
way it seems as if for that reason I should――you have more knowledge
of what I’m like, and I think you’ll understand better,” Lester said
awkwardly; he found it hard to make a beginning. The dark glasses gave
to Mr. Dean’s face an inscrutable expression that was not helpful.
“That mean and dishonest thing I did to you at St. Timothy’s――cribbing
my Latin every day in class when you weren’t able to see.”
Mr. Dean made a gesture, impatient, deprecating. “That’s all forgotten,
Lester,” he said gravely.
“But something’s happened that makes it necessary to recall it.” Lester
leaned forward and twined his fingers together and looked at the floor;
he was as uncomfortable as if the eyes that seemed to be gazing at him
could really see. “I’ve done the same kind of thing again――only worse,
much worse.”
Then awkwardly, haltingly, he told the story.
“Of course I see now what I should have done,” he said in conclusion.
“I ought to have insisted that my name shouldn’t be voted on――I ought
to have withdrawn it――even if it meant telling people why. David’s
almost too good a friend; he’s so kind and sympathetic; he didn’t want
me to do that. And I was too willing to see things as he saw them.”
“Perhaps,” assented Mr. Dean, “and perhaps David gave you wrong advice.
But somehow I should have been sorry if David had talked or acted in
any other way. If I had been in David’s place, I hope that I should
have done as he did.”
“But I can’t bear it now,” cried Lester. “Farrar’s coming to
congratulate me because the best man won――and his admitting he was
disappointed because he didn’t win! I tried to cheat you in that Latin
class, I cheated David out of his theme, and I cheated the professor
I handed the theme to, I’ve cheated Farrar out of the honor he
deserved――but I’m not going to――I’m not going to! I want you to stiffen
my backbone for me, Mr. Dean!”
“Why, my boy,” said Mr. Dean, much affected by the emotion in Lester’s
voice, “I don’t believe it needs any stiffening from me.”
“Oh, it does. I’m weak, but I am going to try never to be so weak
again. And I want to make things right with Farrar. Don’t you think I
ought to? Don’t you think I ought to resign and make the class have a
new election in which my name shouldn’t be considered?”
“I think,” said Mr. Dean, “that you ought to do the thing that
will best satisfy your own conscience. Yes, I think that in the
circumstances you ought to resign.”
“That, I know, is the way my roommate feels about it. Do you think that
in resigning I ought to tell why?”
“I should think that might not be necessary; it may be enough if you
merely say that for certain definite reasons you are not entitled to
the honor and that you wish to resign in favor of a man who is entitled
to it. Of course you may be pressed to give the reasons. If you are,
you will have to decide, I think, whether to tell the whole story or
not.”
“I know I’m a coward; I hope it won’t be necessary.”
“I hope it won’t be,” replied Mr. Dean gravely. Then after a moment
he said: “Do you feel under any obligation to say anything about the
matter to Professor Worthington?”
“Oh!” said Lester. “To tell the truth, I hadn’t once thought about
that.”
“Of course, as things stand, you’re receiving credit for work that you
didn’t do, and David is not receiving credit for work that he did. Not
that David cares, I imagine. To make a clean breast of the affair to a
member of the faculty might result in your being severely disciplined;
it might have serious consequences for you.”
“Yes,” Lester said; “I suppose that at the least I should be put on
probation.”
“To avoid which you did the thing that caused all the trouble.”
Lester hesitated a moment; then he said: “I guess I’d better take my
medicine. I’ll go and see Professor Worthington.” He rose. “You’ve been
a great help to me, Mr. Dean. You’ve helped me to see things straight.
I think it must be fine for David――having you at hand to turn to. Not
that he needs such help as I do.”
“We can all of us help somebody else at some time or other,” replied
Mr. Dean. “Do you ever go up to St. Timothy’s, Lester?”
“I haven’t been there for some time.”
“Take a Sunday off and run up there. It does every one good to revisit
old scenes and see old friends.”
“I should like to go after I’ve squared accounts with myself. Nothing
will do me good until then.”
Mr. Dean stood up; his groping hands found Lester’s shoulders. “Not
until we find out how weak we are do we know what we must do to become
strong,” he said. “You’ve found out; you’ve begun to build yourself up.
I’d trust you anywhere now, Lester, at any time.”