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Billy Huntington was the founder of an original secret organization
called the "Club for Undesirables." Being the founder he was privileged
to write the By-Laws, and these consisted of a single Article: "The
members of this Club shall be elected by the non-members." Exercising
his prerogative he had proposed, seconded and elected Cosden and others
of his acquaintance who failed to attain the standards he demanded of
those around him; and now he unanimously declared Mrs. Thatcher a member
in full standing.
These were not red-letter days for the boy. Ever since his visit to New
York at Easter the times had been out of joint, and he blamed Merry's
mother for it all. From his viewpoint the visit had been a "frost," and
he nursed his resentment so successfully that he came to look upon it as
a virtue. Uncle Monty noticed the change, but having no knowledge of the
cause gave Billy credit for at last showing symptoms of growing up.
Philip looked upon his tragedy as a huge joke, and made his friend's
life wholly unendurable by frequent veiled allusions to the "inflammable
age," rubbed in as only a college chum can do. The sympathy he craved
was sadly lacking, so he sought compensation by sympathizing with
himself.
Billy would have been better satisfied with the completeness of his
martyrdom had he been able to include Merry among those who abused him,
but he could discover no point where she had failed to preserve an
aggravatingly consistent neutrality. She was always friendly, accepting
his extravagant expressions of devotion with a good-natured indifference
which robbed them of all significance She had taken no exceptions to her
mother's humiliation of him, nor had she taken advantage of it;
everything progressed with a disgusting sameness, when he had
confidently expected that the result of his visit would be to acclaim
him Merry's accepted suitor, and thus raise him to the seventh heaven of
delight.
While Hamlen had been in Boston Billy found himself again side-tracked.
Not only was Uncle Monty engaged, but Philip devoted much of his time to
his new responsibility. Everything conspired to throw Billy back upon
his own resources, and here he developed a decided hiatus. The boy's
strongest point was his ability to fit in with some one else's plans,
and of all his friends Philip proved most fertile in his suggestions.
Now Class Day was at hand, and as it was not his Class Day he felt
himself eclipsed by the added glory which came to Philip and the other
Seniors. As an under-class man he counted for absolutely nothing. When
he was a freshman, the comparative size of the halos worn by his Class
and the graduating students was an open question of debate; from a
sophomore's standpoint, he was near enough the freshmen to be able to
look down upon them with a gratifying sense of superiority; but as a
Junior there was nothing to do but to wait for the coming year,--and
waiting was a game not included among Billy's favorite indoor or outdoor
sports. He had expected little from the visit of the New York friends,
owing to the presence of "the Gorgon" as he christened Mrs. Thatcher,
and in this expectation he was not disappointed. Merry herself was fully
occupied, and her mother took every opportunity to prevent diverting
influences from affecting what she considered a crucial moment. So
Billy, thoroughly disgruntled, drew himself up with a dignity which he
did not know he possessed, denied himself to the visiting friends, and
permitted the procession to move on without him.
Philip himself, being at New London with the crew, was prevented from
taking personal participation in the Class Day festivities, but the
classmate whom he delegated as substitute proved an ideal host. In
Philip's absence Huntington had no compunctions in joining with Hamlen
in the Thatchers' celebration; had the boy been there he would have felt
it an intrusion for any one outside the family to share with them the
triumph which comes but once in a college man's life. So they passed
together from spread to spread, in and out of the Yard, listening to the
music, admiring the attractive costumes and the still more attractive
girls, entering into everything with a spirit which even Hamlen felt,
and which took Huntington back to his own Class Day, so many years
before.
When the march to the Stadium was formed Huntington led Hamlen to that
portion of the line where their own classmates were assembled, and
presented him to each. Only a few remembered him, but all gave him a
welcome which confirmed Huntington's predictions. Hamlen noticed who the
men were standing side by side, and was impressed by the fact that while
in college the groups had been made up quite differently. He and
Huntington, then, did not form so grotesque a combination as he had
imagined. Other members of his Class, who knew each other but slightly
while in Cambridge, since then had discovered characteristics in each
other which drew them together. As Huntington said to him in Bermuda,
the ratio had become readjusted, the essentials only were remembered,
and the real bond was the fact of being members of the great fellowship.
Then the procession started, and he fell into step with the new life
which it had taken him so long to find.
After the exercises at the Stadium, Cosden, at Huntington's suggestion,
took Hamlen with him to the Varsity Club, where the athletic heroes of
past and present congregated. There was a motive back of the suggestion,
and the effect on Hamlen of seeing these men, whose importance college
ideals had magnified, in their present relation to the world and to
their fellow-men, justified the experiment. Some of the old captains or
record-holders showed unmistakably their continued pre-eminence; others
had fallen back into the ranks after their temporary standard-bearing.
Hamlen could understand it now: what they did in college was of
importance only to the extent that it fitted them for what was to
follow; it was the use they made of this fitting in the after-life which
produced the permanent effect. This was the difference between the means
and the end which Marian tried to explain to him in Bermuda.
Then came Commencement as a crescendo. It would have meant little to
Hamlen had it preceded Class Day, but each new experience gave him
fuller understanding and richer enjoyment. He saw again the same members
of his Class and felt now that he knew them; he met others, and was able
to mingle freely as a fellow-classmate. On Class Day the alumni came as
a unit, on Commencement they separated into Class groups, each with its
own spread and reunion, offering greater opportunity for intimate
exchanges of personal experience and mutual confidence.
The climax came the following day with the boat-race at New London. The
Thatchers had returned home immediately after Class Day with plans of
their own still to be carried out, so Huntington and Cosden formed the
body-guard which convoyed Hamlen to the great event. Huntington knew
that he could not credit his friend's feverish anticipation wholly to
the dawning interest in Harvard events, but was equally content to see
how personal a triumph Philip's seat in the boat had become to him. Had
Hamlen's nervousness been shared by his namesake and the other oarsmen
the result of the race might have been foreshadowed! He changed his mind
about going so many times that Huntington finally insisted upon a
definite decision.
"Of course I want to go," he explained; "but I never saw a Harvard crew
win and I can't believe I'm going to now."
"Perhaps you won't," was the frank disavowal of responsibility. "The
worm must turn again some time, and it may be that this is the year, but
Harvard has the habit of winning now, and that goes a long way."
"It would kill me to see Phil lose!" Harden said with deep feeling.
"Tell me," Huntington said,--"tell me frankly for my gratification, is
your eagerness to see Harvard win to-morrow wholly on Phil's account, or
have these days brought your crimson blood near enough to the surface to
make you keen for the crew to win because it's a Harvard crew? Don't
deceive yourself or me. I really want to know."
Hamlen hesitated before making reply, then he returned Huntington's look
with a frankness which conveyed much. His eye was clear and responsive
now; the haunting terror had left it. He met the question squarely.
"Until this moment," he said, "I supposed myself sincere in believing
that my interest lay wholly in having that boy come through victorious,
but as you put it to me now I know there is a reason which lies deeper
still. Thanks to you, dear friend, notes in my life which have always
before been mute have now been struck, and I am finding a wonderful joy
in the melody produced. I have awakened to my heritage, and I realize
what I have missed in denying myself its privileges. I want Harvard to
win, Huntington, because it's Harvard. I shall always want Harvard to
win for the same reason. It may be better for the sport to have the
victories alternate, it may be impossible to defend anything so selfish
as a desire for an unbroken line of victories for years to come; but
still I want it. There is no occasion to argue it, there is no logic to
support it; I just simply want it!"
Huntington regarded him with a satisfaction too deep for outward
exuberance. "I knew the spirit was too strong to accept limitations!" he
exclaimed quietly but with an exultant ring in his voice. "I knew that
no man could once place himself within the influence of college ideals
and not recognize their existence. You have tested my convictions,
Hamlen, but my faith has remained 'calm rising through change and
through storm.'"
The strength of Huntington's emotion impressed Hamlen deeply. His own
dawning was so recent that at first he could not believe it possible for
his friend to be so affected by the subject under discussion.
"Do other Harvard men feel as strongly as you do?" he demanded
questioningly.
"Of course," Huntington replied; "but it isn't a question of Harvard any
more than of other colleges. We shout for our Alma Mater, but no more
lustily than the Yale or the Princeton man or the men of the smaller
colleges shout for theirs. It is merely the expression of the spirit of
loyalty and the sense of obligation, Hamlen. Not to express it is
unnatural, not to feel gratified when another laurel wreath is placed
upon the brow of our Dear Mother is a lack of filial devotion which I
refuse to believe exists."
They elected to see the race from the observation-train, that they
might watch the positions of the crews from beginning to end rather than
at any fixed point. There was no novelty in the experience for
Huntington or Cosden except the ever-present uncertainty of the outcome,
but to Hamlen even the crowds which he had previously avoided added to
his excitement by imparting to him the thrill of their repressed
expectancy. He resented the calmness of his companions as they perused
their morning papers on the train. He tried to follow their example, but
found himself mechanically reading over and over again the statistics of
the two crews. Harvard was the favorite, but that he took as a bad omen
for he still remembered the Harvard teams which had gone into their
contests with the odds on their side, and had failed to win the expected
victories. Harvard overconfidence was a byword when he was in college,
and it was overconfidence which he feared now.
They took their places on the improvised seats of the platform
freight-cars, ready to be hauled to the point of vantage at the start,
but the train seemed frightfully deliberate in getting under way. Hamlen
glanced at his watch nervously and was surprised that so little time had
elapsed since his last observation. Finally they found themselves
opposite the judge's boat. Harvard was already nearing the mark and the
Yale crew followed only a few lengths in her wake. Hamlen watched the
manoeuvers, disturbed by the conflicting cheers coming in sharp
staccato from every direction. At last the boats lined up in position.
Hamlen fancied that he could hear the referee's challenge: "Ready,
Harvard? Ready, Yale?" Then the pistol cracked out with reverberating
echoes, the oars gripped the water, the shells shot forward, and the
race was on!
Hamlen's face set grimly and he sat bolt upright, taking no part in the
mad cheering or the boisterous excitement. His eyes followed every
stroke of the oars, and he suffered keenly as the Yale boat took a lead
of half-a-length at the quarter-mile. Then he saw Harvard settle down to
her work with a stroke quickened enough to enable her to take the
advantage. The same stroke kept the crimson boat forging steadily ahead.
At the half-mile the positions were reversed, at the mile clear water
showed between the shells, another mile added two lengths more, in spite
of Yale's plucky efforts to close in on the gaping space. At three miles
Harvard had five lengths to the good, and for the first time Hamlen
relaxed his tense attitude.
"If it would not be a case of overconfidence," he said quietly to his
companions, "I should say that Harvard was going to win!"
"Nothing but an act of God can save Eli now!" Cosden replied between his
cheers. "Why don't you yell?"
"I can't," Hamlen said; "I feel it too much!"
Still the crimson boat gained, and the contest had changed into a
procession.
"Do they ever lose with a lead like that?" he asked Huntington
anxiously.
"Lose!" his friend shouted,--"lose! They're gaining every stroke! Rah!
rah! rah! Harvard! Harvard! Harvard! There they go across the line!"
He threw his arms deliriously around Cosden and Hamlen and they
performed a war-dance on the unsubstantial seats. Every Harvard
sympathizer on the train had gone mad, and the Yale streamers were
buried in the avalanche of crimson flags.
"Another one!" Huntington shouted; "another wreath for the Alma Mater,
Hamlen! Rah, rah, rah! Harvard!"
Hamlen had caught the contagion and was as affected with delirium as
those around him. He shouted his college yell over and over again,
unconscious that it was the first time in his life he had ever done so.
Huntington, the sedate Huntington, was cavorting like a two-year-old,
yet Hamlen saw nothing incongruous in his conduct. Cosden was so hoarse
that his cries resembled a wheezy calliope, yet they were sweet music in
Hamlen's ears. Harvard had won, Philip had won, he had won!
At the station a crowd of undergraduates were singing hilariously:
"_Bring the bacon home, John,
We cannot eat it all.
We sometimes got a taste of it
When you and I were small.
But now you bring it home, John,
In springtime and in fall.
It seems an awful waste of it,
We cannot eat it all._"
There was the hectic scramble for seats on the special train. Snatches
of other songs came from here and there, and spasmodic cheering; but
gradually the excitement settled down into the quieter calm of satisfied
accomplishment. It was an orderly crowd which deserted the train at
Back Bay, but the men bunched on the platform, before they separated,
and again burst into song. The jibes were forgotten, the boastings
hushed. These had their place only in the first expressions of exultant
victory. A deeper sentiment seized the celebrating host, which was
expressed with uncovered heads:
"_Fair Harvard! thy sons to thy jubilee throng,
And with blessings surrender thee o'er,
By these festival rites, from the age which is past
To the age which is waiting before._"
Hamlen watched them in silence, touched with a new emotion by the sound
of the words, familiar enough, but which now took on a different
meaning. Huntington was right: it was not a boat-race he had just
witnessed, it was not the celebration of a victory over Yale, it was a
"festival rite," consecrating anew to its Alma Mater that brotherhood to
which he belonged, in grateful acknowledgment of the character and power
developed beneath her beneficent influence which placed within its reach
"the Earth and all that's in it."
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