unknown. He was late, and all the other members of the club table were
there, including the two dogs. A "Gray baiting" was going on. This sport
consisted in working up the poetic feelings of Ernest Gray, and then
ruthlessly harrowing the same. Gray was a fiery, imaginative little man,
whose soul compassed far more than his body. His impulsive nature drove
him constantly into the net spread by his friends, but he had become
used to the process, and perhaps it did him good. Whether or not he had
in him the stuff for a true poet, he was at least in no danger among
those men of becoming a false one. He was just then stirred to a fine
condition on the subject of Philistinism, was violently supporting the
famous professor of the Humanities, and had almost got to the point of
quoting poetry.
"It makes me laugh a low, sad laugh," remarked Stoughton, gloomily
buttering a muffin, "when I think what Gray will be doing thirty years
from now."
"We have arranged all that," said Burleigh. "Ernest is going to marry a
strong-minded woman four times as big as himself, who will take him out
shopping and make him carry the bundles and the twins."
"No, it will be a greater change than that," continued Dick. "At fifty
he will probably be a keen, representative business man. He will be
celebrated for being better able than any one in Wall Street to cheat
his neighbor, and he will be absorbed in the occupation. He will be a
man of strength and stamen, a man of industry, a plain, hard-working
man. He will publish Letters of a Parent, in bad English, about the
degeneracy of education at Harvard, and will refuse to send his sons
here for fear of their becoming dudes and loafers. He won't spoil good
paper then with odes and fantasies; he will devote it, instead, to
watering stock and foreclosing mortgages. Just see if he doesn't."
"Are you narrow enough to think," asked Gray, defiantly, "that a man
cannot work in this world, and work hard, without shutting his mind to
everything outside of his tool shop?"
"Perhaps he can," answered Stoughton, "but he never does in this
country; he hasn't time. Whatever we take up, we have got to keep at
fever heat or else go to the wall. It will be work, work, work until we
become utterly uninteresting machines. It can't be helped, we have got
to make up our minds to it some day and we had better do so now. We are
all wasting four valuable years in this anomalous spot of Cambridge,
when we ought to be learning bookkeeping. We are a nation of one-sided
workers, and we might just as well accept the situation philosophically.
I am sure I for one don't care a cent. Only I wish I had not fooled away
my time so long, with a set of men made up of dilettantes and bummers."
Dick emphasized the concluding word by handsomely scooping the last
sausage just ahead of Jack Randolph, who with a bow and wave of his hand
gracefully acknowledged the defeat. It was a strict rule of etiquette at
the club table to take the odd trick of any dish, whether you wanted it
or not.
"Hello," exclaimed Burleigh, with a happy light in his face, "Dick has
waked up to the seriousness of life again. That is the third time this
month." Stoughton's occasional pessimism was as fair game to his
friends, as Gray's poetry, so the victim for that day's lunch was
promptly changed.
"So he has," added Hudson. "He has a good, old-fashioned attack of
remorse. Where were you last night, Dick? Must have been an awful
spree."
"Is it a letter from your governor?" queried Rattleton, sympathetically.
"Perhaps it is the letter on your forensic," suggested Randolph. "Jack
Rat got an E. on his, but just see how sweetly _he_ takes it."
"A little serious reflection is undoubtedly a good thing for you, my
son," observed Hollis Holworthy. "But though I don't want to flatter
you, excuse my saying that you talk like an ass. Even if your premises
were true your conclusion is false. If we Americans are all such
narrow-minded money-makers, that is all the more reason for trying to be
something better. But it isn't so. I don't believe work has necessarily
any such effect. Gray is right."
"My conclusion is all right. The difference between us is that I am
perfectly contented to be as the rest of my countrymen are; you want to
be something different, _ergo_, you are a snob. Furthermore my premises
_are_ true, and you will find them so, my poor children. I am a few
years in advance of you, that's all. Just see how men change after they
leave college. Go over to the Law School and look at those grinds, each
one working night and day to get ahead of the rest. I met old Dane
Austin the other day crossing the Yard, three huge books under each arm,
and a pair of spectacles across his nose. He used to be the best built
man in the 'Varsity boat, but he doesn't touch an oar now, and won't try
for the crew, unless they absolutely need him at the last minute. He is
getting red-eyed and pale, and looks almost hollow-chested. A man can't
keep up with the law and pay any attention to his physique. He is losing
all his strength and good looks."
"You had better hit him once and find out," suggested Holworthy.
"Thanks; I don't care to put my theories to quite such a test,"
acknowledged Dick, with a grin. "But it is true just the same. It is
true of every other occupation. Go down to New York and stand on Wall
Street. You will see a dozen men you knew, at least by sight, in
college, men who used to be well-dressed and well-bred. Down there they
rush by you with a nod, in all sorts of costumes,--dirty, slovenly,
nervous. Sometimes they will stop for a moment to shake hands, and make
some impertinent remark on your clothes. I don't mind the prospect
myself, but I am only laying it fairly before you blissful, careless,
conceited youths."
"I rather think you will find that those fellows haven't forgotten how
to turn themselves out properly when there is any need for it," said
Holworthy. "You don't wear your town togs to recitations here."
"There is no doubt about it, this work and worry does spoil a man's
looks," said Burleigh. "Just look at that poor wreck over there,"
pointing to Rattleton.
That student had finished his lunch (or breakfast) and stretched his
legs as usual in the next chair. He was engaged in throwing crackers for
his dog Blathers to catch, and was rather out of the conversation. He
caught the last remark only.
"You have no idea what a handsome man I'd be if I didn't work so hard,"
he replied.
"It is all right for you, Jack," Stoughton went on. "A watchful
Providence has sent you an income. It is almost a pity, though, for you
would make a fascinating tramp. No amount of either starvation or public
opinion would ever make you change your calm, philosophical life. But
the rest of us must all get into the procession and keep up with the
brazen band. No wonder so many of our girls marry Englishmen. They are
dead right, too; they don't want to marry worn-out machines, they prefer
men."
"Hurray!" shouted Hudson. "The secret is out. Some Englishman has cut
him out with his best girl."
"I am not handicapped with any such nonsense, thank Heaven," growled
Dick. "But if I was, by Jove, I wouldn't be fool enough to do any work
for her sake, as so many misguided men do. No, sir, I'd take life easily
and keep my figure, as our trans-Atlantic cousins do. I'd spend my days
with the daughter and live on the old man. That is what girls like, and
they do have some sense."
"That is perfect rot," exclaimed the poetic Gray, expressing his roused
sentiment with more force than grace. "Life to-day is just what it was
in the days of chivalry. A true knight must prove his love with his
lance, and win his wife like a man."
"There you go, of course," answered Stoughton; "clap your leg over
Pegasus, and off across country, regardless of hedges and ditches, or
the narrow roads of commerce. Suppose his lance got busted, as was
frequently the case?"
"Sic 'im, sic 'im," chuckled Burleigh. "We have got the poet and the
cynic by the ears. Oh, this is lovely!"
"Both of 'em amateurs," added Holworthy, "and neither knowing what he is
talking about."
"Two to one on the poet, though," said Randolph. "He is always in
earnest, anyway."
"Shake hands, gents," said Rattleton, getting interested. "Time."
"Now just listen to me," said Dick, tilting back his chair and waving
his fork pedantically. "I'll give you a really accurate picture of your
dear days of chivalry, such as you never got out of a romance."
"Silence for Sir Walter Stoughton's account of a tourney," commanded
Burleigh. "Steve Hudson, pull that pup of yours off the table; she'll
upset the milk pitcher."
"I have just been reading all about that sort of game," interrupted
Rattleton. "Seems to me they were a most unsporting lot. They had no
classes or handicaps; just lumped 'em all in together, feather-weights
and heavy-weights. No idea of a fair thing."
"Shut up your childish prattle, Jack," commanded Burleigh. "If you will
push your researches far enough you will find that the little fellows
always won. The giants invariably got the heads smote off 'em. We are
not on the brutal subject of prize-fighting, we are on chivalry. You
know nothing about that, so keep quiet and let Dick go on."
"I suppose you have an idea," Stoughton went on, "that every interesting
young gentleman who entered the lists was a sure winner, and then all he
had to do was to crown the heroine as Queen of Love and Beauty and live
happily ever afterwards. Now of course that wasn't so. Some one had to
get thrashed, and most young knights probably occupied that position for
the first ten years or so of their career. Take an individual case; Sir
Ernest Gray, bent on winning glory for Dulcinea, looks over the sporting
calendar and enters himself for every big field-meeting during the
season. He bears himself right bravely in them all, but gets stood on
his head with great regularity; in fact Dulcinea gets a little tired of
watching his performance. Nevertheless she goes to the crack meeting of
Ashby de la Zouche, to see Gray try again.
"This tourney is carried off with great ease by an old hand, Sir Thomas
de Mainfort, who, having been separated from his third wife on the
ground of brutal treatment, is not doing any love-proving with his
lance. He is simply a mug hunter; he is in for the white Barbary steed,
and the other fellows' armor."
"Gate money?" broke in Rattleton interrogatively.
"Same principle," answered Dick. "He wins the appointment of the Queen
of Love and Beauty, and takes d---- good care to choose the king's
elderly daughter; thereby putting in good work for a government office.
Of course, none of the fair damsels in the ladies' gallery are in the
slightest degree interested in _him_, that goes without saying; but do
you suppose that they are a bit more interested in the poor youngsters
whom he has been knocking about? Not much. The fellow who takes their
eyes is a chap in a white satin doublet, cut in the latest French
fashion, who has sent flowers to Dulcinea, and is hanging over the rail
of the ladies' gallery, talking to her. He is a delightful young man. He
can sing the songs of the Troubadours that he has heard in Provence. He
knows all the latest gossip about that delicious row between the Pope
and the German Emperor. He spends the proper season in each Continental
court. He is so different from the homely, insular youths who are
pummelling each other down below in the lists. They never can think or
talk anything but fight. He says funny things about those youths, and
criticizes their armor. Altogether he is charming. Handsome and well
preserved, too. Splendid figure, and could undoubtedly fight well if he
had to; but he doesn't have to, and isn't fool enough to do it. No
bruises on him.
"After the fight is over young Sir Ernest comes along, in a sheepish
sort of a way, to see what Dulcinea thinks of his day's work. Sir Ernest
was a pretty good-looking boy when he started on the career of arms.
Now, however, he is showing marks of wear. The saddle has made him
bow-legged, the helmet has worn off much of his hair, and the gauntlet
has raised corns on his knuckles. Some of his front teeth have been
knocked out. Besides the wear and tear in his personal appearance, his
mind runs largely on parries and thrusts, relative advantages of
chain-mail and Milan plate, and all that sort of shop talk. He can not
sing the new Romance songs, he knows only the old ones that his nurse
taught him. Dulcinea used to like him very much, and is still fond of
him in a way. If he had accomplished the marvel of winning the whole
tournament, of unhorsing the old veteran De Mainfort; if he had won the
crown of Love and Beauty, and brought it to her, giving that hideous
stuck-up old Princess the go-by, Dulcinea would have loved him fondly,
and been ready to marry him then and there. But he has not brought her
the crown of Love and Beauty; he has only brought a stove-in helmet and
a black eye. True, he has been fighting his level best, but how much
good has it done him? He has unhorsed two or three young men of his own
weight; he has even put up a stiff set-to against big De Thumper, who
won the Templar stakes; but Dulcinea did not see him then, she was
talking to the interesting foreigner. Then he ran up against Sir Thomas
de Mainfort, and got landed on his back; Dulcinea was looking right at
him that time. He got up like a little man, without claiming his ten
seconds, and went for the redoubtable Sir Thomas again. Thereupon the
big fellow smashed him on the jaw, and put him to sleep, so that it took
his squires half an hour to bring him round. Dulcinea took that in, too,
and the amusing foreigner remarked on what conceit a youngster must have
to go in for this sort of thing against men like De Mainfort. The
highest renown that the young knight has so far won may possibly be a
line next day in the Ashby _Herald_ and _Tournament Gazette_. It will
run something like this: 'Where are we to look for the De Mainforts and
Thumpers of the next generation? There is absolutely no new material
worth mentioning. Young Gray gives a little glimmer of promise in some
of his back-strokes, but his work is eminently crude and boyish.
However, if he gets over his swelled head, he may in twenty or thirty
years of hard work become a fair lance.' Do you think that helps his
chances with Dulcinea? D---- that dog of yours, Hudson, she has stolen
my muffin!"
"Are you all through?" demanded Gray, who had been restraining himself
with difficulty.
"No; hold on. I haven't shown you half your trouble yet. At the banquet
in the evening, Gray sits on one side of Dulcinea and the handsome
stranger on the other. Gray is sore and tired and comes near falling
asleep at the table, while the other fellow discusses the Italian
painters, and tells anecdotes of the Dauphin of France. Gray used to be
able to play the harp well, and can still play sometimes in the
evenings, when his fingers are not too lame; but they generally are. He
can also get into his satin doublet on Sundays and great occasions, and
look almost as well as the other chap; but he does so _only_ on
occasions, whereas the stranger keeps himself up to the mark all the
time. Dulcinea cannot help thinking, therefore, that Gray is a boor and
a bore, even though he sometimes shows capabilities other than those of
getting his head smashed. On the other hand, Dulcinea's governor is a
stout baron of the old school. He looks upon Gray as a dude and aper of
foreign customs, for taking a bath after a hard day in the lists and
leaving off his breastplate at dinner. The old man's chief boast is that
with his own good sword he has carved out all his fat lands and broad
baronies, and he asks, as he proudly thumps his chest, how he could ever
have done all that if he had put on effeminate airs and fooled away ten
minutes every week in a bath-tub. Now I ask you to drop your poetry for
a minute, substitute reason for imagination, and confess that this is
really what a young knight had to take. Dixi, let's hear what you have
got to say."
"Just this," answered Gray, "that your Dulcinea is a fool. Any true
woman would appreciate a man's best efforts, even if unsuccessful. I
claim that such Dulcineas are the exception and not the rule. Point two.
Your young knight is also a fool if he allows himself to become nothing
but a mere bruiser and cut-throat. He ought not to forget that he is a
gentleman as well as a fighting man. He can pay some attention to the
graces of life and fight none the worse for it. You say he knows the old
songs,--those are the best always--and he can pick up the new ones in
spare moments. It makes no difference how he dresses, so long as he has
a good excuse for dressing badly, and doesn't forget how to dress well.
As for your point about his personal appearance, that doesn't amount to
a row of pins. It certainly can't trouble him, and it wouldn't trouble
Dulcinea if she had any sense. I don't believe any woman objects to
honorable scars in a man."
"Every woman doesn't throw poetry around them as you do. Honorable scars
received in commonplace everyday scrapping don't count."
"This has not been a fair fight," declared Holworthy. "I can see through
this man Stoughton, now, and understand it all. He has prepared all this
harangue, and is trying to pass it off here as impromptu. Now, I am
going to give him away. I was with him the other evening at a dinner.
There was a girl there who had been abroad for the first time. She had
spent the last season in London, for the expenses of which her governor
probably had to do double work at home. She had quite naturally, fallen
completely in love with all those great big, splendid-looking chaps who
float about London in long coats all day during the season. A handsome
leisure class. Some of the biggest and best dressed of them, by-the-way,
are quite apt to be her own humdrum countrymen on a vacation, but she
hadn't found that out yet, and it has nothing to do with the present
discussion, anyway. I heard her remark to Dick during dinner that
Englishmen were so much better looking and more agreeable than American
men. That is an undeniable fact, in daily life, but Dick was fool enough
to get a little mad over the observation. He couldn't think of any
brilliant repartee at the time, but came home and slept over it. Next
time he meets that girl, or one like her, he will be loaded for bear,
but he wants to rehearse a little, first, so he has brought his mediaeval
metaphor here to try it on the dog. He knew that our hair-trigger poet,
with a little joggling, would be morally certain to shoot off something
about love and lances; that was just the opening he wanted. Keep it for
your next dinner-party, Dick. It doesn't mean anything but it may make
you feel clever and entertaining. I hold that Brother Gray has thrown
you and your Dulcinea down hard."
"It is perfectly true to life, anyway," said Dick, with a conscious
grin; "but you are wrong in accusing me of worrying about it. I don't
mind the prospect in the least, as I said before, and am only warning
you snobs who think you are something pretty nice. You can't carry your
poetry out of college. Your 'graces of life' as you call 'em, either
mental or physical, won't raise your salary in an office, and your hard
work in the office won't help you to figure in a ballroom. If you get to
the top before you are thirty, Dulcinea may smile on you; but you are
not likely to do anything of the kind. You will probably spoil all your
other chances with her in the attempt."
"Listen to our man of the world, you fellows," said Burleigh. "Jack
Rattleton, stop playing with that ugly pup and improve your advantages.
Uncle Richard, here, aged two and twenty, has upon half a dozen
occasions made the exertion of going to a party in Boston, where he has
talked foot-ball with some _debutante_ and been floored on Esoteric
Buddhism by an elderly lady who had it. He has spent all the rest of his
time smoking a villanous pipe in Cambridge. He is now giving us, from
his wealth of experience, a few opinions and straight tips on the nature
of woman."
"I don't pretend to know anything about 'em," protested Dick, stoutly,
"and care less. But this I do know, that, among most men, success counts
for more than endeavor, and I am willing to bet that it is four times as
much so with women."
"And I know this," said Hudson, "that you, on your own confession, don't
know what you are talking about, and are in a beastly humor. You need
exercise; come on over to Fresh Pond and go skating."
"Yes, do take him off," sighed Rattleton; "when he and Hol and Gray get
theorizing it gives everybody a headache. They'll go around to the Pud.
and keep it up there if you don't take them skating."
Stoughton replied to this by kicking the hind legs of Rattleton's
carefully balanced chair, and upsetting him on top of the dog Blathers.
After which exchange of courtesies the party adjourned, arranging to
meet and go to Fresh Pond at three.
Holworthy did not join the skating party; he had promised to go for a
walk with his chum Rivers. Gray also had some engagement. As the others
were starting out with their skates, they met the latter little
gentleman arrayed in his best. He tried to pretend that he didn't see
them. They promptly set up a cheer and began ostentatiously making
snow-balls.
"Didn't you say something at lunch about men in New York who made
impertinent remarks about your clothes," demanded Gray of Stoughton.
"This isn't New York," answered Stoughton. "When a man puts on all his
feathers and paint on a week day in Cambridge, we know he is on the
war-path."
"Dog his trail, dog his trail," yelled Hudson. "Let's see what wigwam it
leads to."
"Doesn't he look pretty?" shouted Burleigh. "Only his coat doesn't fit
in the back."
"Look at that smooch on his collar," exclaimed Randolph.
"I hope you children will grow up sometime," grumbled Gray, as he
hurried on.
An hour or two afterwards Gray was walking into Boston in very good
company. The new Harvard Bridge was not then built, and the two (yes,
only one other) were passing through one of the more lonely streets of
Cambridgeport that lead to the Cottage Farms bridge. A hard-looking
citizen turned a corner ahead of them, and on catching sight of the pair
stopped with some insulting remark. Gray's blood boiled into his face,
but he had sense enough to cross to the other side of the street with
his convoy. The man, evidently in liquor, promptly did the same, and
showed that he meant to give trouble.
"Run back as fast as you can to Main Street," said Gray to his
companion, upon which advice she wisely and quickly acted.
The rough started forward, and Gray placed himself in the middle of the
path.
"Hold on," he commanded. "Don't come a step nearer."
"Get out of my way, you little dude, before I eat you up," answered the
other.
The little dude naturally did not get out of the way. He dropped his
stick and squared himself for the enemy. Then, contrary to the generally
accepted pleasant idea, the burly ruffian proceeded to "eat up" the
slender thoroughbred.
The light-weight met his adversary's rush handsomely, but utterly failed
to stop it. The tough closed, "back-heeling," and at the same time
landing his right with a door key in it, used as brass knuckles, thereby
cutting Gray's face open. As the latter tripped and went down under the
blow, the tough kicked him. Gray jumped to his feet again, however, and
managed to fasten on the rough's back as he went by. They went down
together, the rough on top with his knee on Gray's stomach. This knocked
the wind out of the little fellow terribly, still he clung to his
adversary. The latter struggled to free one of his hands, with the
amiable purpose of choking, or of gouging the eye of the youth under
him, when a shout made him look up. He managed to tear himself away, and
sprang to his feet. Holworthy and his chum, Charles Rivers, who was No.
4 in the 'Varsity crew, were tearing down the street.
The second battle was quite as unequal as the first, for there was as
much difference between the big college oarsman in the pink of
condition, and the rum-soaked Port tough, as there had been between the
latter and the plucky little stripling. It is only justice to the tough,
however, to say that no idea of flight entered his mind; he was quite as
ready to fight the big dude as the little one.