"Oh, this way?" said Stacy. He was led to a large open book with names
written on it.
"Will you give us your distinguished signature?" said Stehman, dipping
the pen in ink and handing it to him.
"Where shall I write--oh, yes, of course." Stacy wondered how many
people would read Horatio B. Stacy, introduced by John Carter Stehman.
Though he had made up his mind to have confidence he felt a little
flustered. Perhaps the voices of many diners and the sight of many
rooms and various passage-ways and the negro buttons were a little too
much for him. Besides his glasses were blurred at coming in from the
cold and that always rattled him.
Possibly his host noticed this, for he said, "Boo, I'm cold. Let's
warm up before grubbing," and led him to the fire and pushed him into
a chair big enough to hold two Horatio B. Stacys.
He was perspiring now, but he held out his hand to the cheerful blaze
as if to get all he could of it. He looked at the andirons and the
crackling wood and glanced up at the etchings. He thought, "It must be
very fine to have all this every day."
"Well, do you feel as though you could eat something?" Stehman lifted
him by the coat-collar.
Stacy made answer, in a familiar tone, "I'm ready any time you are,
Jack," and then to himself, "Keep cool now."
Stehman, with his hands in his pockets, led the way with his slouching
football walk which the freshmen studied on the way to recitations.
Stacy followed. He slouched pretty well, but his pockets were at the
very top of his trousers, so that his little coat turned up behind.
They entered the bright, noisy dining-room. "Jack, why so late?" some
one was calling out, when suddenly there came, "Hello, Stace." "Hello,
Kay." "Hello there, Stace." "How do do, Stace." Most all of them
seemed glad to see him, and he was quite overcome with answering them
all. Jack showed him where to sit.
After the waiter had pushed the chair under him and he had unfolded
the napkin there came in a solemn voice from the end of the table,
"Horatio, how do you do this evening?"
"Why, Lint, old man, how are you?" he returned quickly in a strong
tone. Then he smiled a little because Linton might be guying him. But
he was not.
It seemed that many eyes were upon him and he felt embarrassed and
strangely lonely because his host had turned to speak about something
to someone on the other side. So he gave his glasses an unnecessary
rub and took three sips of water in quick succession.
The waiter placed the soup before him, and while he was occupied with
it he had time to gather himself together. Some of the fellows, he
noticed over his glasses, leaned over or else slipped way down in
their chairs in the same purposely reckless manner of under-classmen
days. But he held his little shoulders back and used his spoon very
daintily. He would show them that he had good table manners.
Stehman now began to chat with him in his easy familiar way. But the
big fellow's manner always seemed to indicate that he was mindful of
how much higher was Stacy's class rank than his own.
He was more at ease now, only whenever the conversation flagged he
could never think up anything to renew it with. He suspected that he
was blushing, and there really was no reason for blushing. These were
all his own dear classmates, some of whom he knew quite well, and they
all seemed kindly disposed toward him and included him in their
general remarks and even addressed him sometimes in particular. He
made up his mind that he must say something to Dougal Davis across the
table.
He took a drink of water and wiped his lips and cleared his throat and
spoke. "Dougal, have you poled up Billy's history for the written
recitation?" Which was the very sort of thing he meant to avoid. But
it was too late now.
"No, but I expect to put a wet towel around my head and hit it up
until three o'clock to-night," Dougal answered, sincerely.
And Stacy thought he was joking. He therefore laughed, saying, "Like
fun you are."
He never could tell when some of these fellows were in earnest, and
Dougal Davis was something awful to him anyway because he stood higher
in the class than Stacy himself, and yet had time to be mixed up with
half a dozen outside interests of college life and did a comfortable
amount of loafing besides.
"I suppose you have it all down fine, Stace?" asked Timberly,
agreeably, "and will pound out a first group as usual."
"Naw," boldly replied Stacy, "I've barely looked at it. Don't intend
to bother with it." That was the way to talk.
But it was all wasted, for just then Lamason came in with a suit-case
in his hand and his town clothes on, and everybody was crying "Yea-a"
in loud, shrill tones, and some one began singing "Oh, to-day is the
day that he comes from the city," and all joined in, even little
Stacy, though he did not know the words and blushed and closed his
mouth again when any one looked in his direction.
Meanwhile Lamason, without smiling, or seeming to be aware of the
noise, said, "Bring me some dinner, Henry, please," and taking a
_Princetonian_ from his pocket began to read an editorial on the lack
of lamp-posts on the south campus, and paid no more attention to the
remarks about his good-looking clothes than to Timberly, who was
painstakingly mussing up his nicely brushed hair. It impressed Stacy.
Except that they no longer considered it funny to throw things or to
be profane without necessity, the fellows seemed to be as free and
jolly as in under-classmen days. He had supposed that there would be
some dignity about a great fine elective club with white curtains at
the window and a board of governors.
While beginning upon his roast beef the waiter placed a small, narrow
glass by his plate. He heard the "pop" of a drawn cork behind him. He
had understood that the club constitution forbade alcoholic beverages.
The waiter was filling his glass. He heard something hiss and sizzle,
but he did not like to look because it would be so obvious. This would
be a good opportunity to show these fellows that he was not such a
shark as they supposed. Still, after keeping out of temptation so many
years, he did not like the idea of running the risk of becoming a
drunkard now. But, perhaps, it would not be wrong to taste a little of
it.
"Are you fond of Apollinaris, Ray?" asked Stehman, emptying his glass
at a gulp. "I'm a disgusting guzzler of it."
"Oh, yes, I'm--I like it very much," said Stacy. Stehman asked him to
have another piece of roast just to keep him company, and without
giving time for answer, Stacy heard him say, "Two second,
Henry--rare." Jack made him drink another bottle of Apollinaris, too,
though it pricked his tongue, and he said he did not want it, and he
felt that he was imposing upon his friend when he saw him write out
another voucher for the amount.
Most of the table had finished by this time. They were smoking with
their coffee. Those who could afford it were smoking cigars and those
who had used up their credit with the Cigar Committee were solacing
themselves with pipes. Some there were who did not smoke at all.
"Our crowd," Jack explained, "makes it a matter of principle never to
leave the table for a half hour or so. It's good for the digestion."
Three or four of the fellows were leaning back with their heads on the
backs of chairs or on one another's shoulders. One was slouching with
his elbow on the table and with his other hand he played with the
salt-cellars. And some looked perfectly contented and happy, and some
looked grave or sour, and all were beautifully and completely
indolent, and everything seemed comfortable and happy and Bohemian to
Stacy, and he thought it fine to eat his dessert with the smoke
floating about it.
Dougal Davis opposite was blowing fat, well-formed rings aimed at the
top of Stacy's Apollinaris bottle, while Linton, without looking up,
was informing him, in picturesque, though hardly complimentary
language, that he had a mouth splendidly adapted to ring-blowing.
Davis kept on sending rings across the table, and paid no attention.
Stacy wondered whether they were on bad terms with one another.
Perhaps it was rude in him to listen. They seemed so much in earnest.
It was difficult to understand these fellows. Some of them he knew to
be as hard students as himself, and yet they seemed to be as much in
with the crowd as the others. Someone would say something in a most
impressive, sober way, and nobody seemed to notice it, or else
everyone laughed. Of course he knew that what they were saying during
dinner about their extreme poverty was meant humorously, even by those
of the fellows who tutored or wrote for the papers to help themselves
along. But what troubled him was that he could not catch the drift and
join in and be like the rest of them. Once, when everybody laughed
heartily, and Pope bowed his head and said, "I acknowledge that I am
sat upon," Stacy laughed, too, and said "Pretty good," though he did
not know what it was, and hoped that no one knew he was bluffing.
From another part of the house came the pounding of billiard-cues and
a few emphatic remarks, varied at intervals with a yell or a loud
laugh. In another room three or four voices were singing, perhaps
unconsciously, and the strong final notes reached the dining-room.
Upstairs someone was exclaiming, "I had next on that!" From the
lounging room came the notes of a piano, and Stacy said, "That
'Pilgrim's Chorus' is a beautiful thing, isn't it, Jack?" for Stacy
knew.
He had enjoyed his dinner, and was perfectly self-possessed. He could
look about the room at everyone without flinching. Henry brought the
coffee in very pretty cups, with the club design on them. The buttons
came in at Stehman's ringing. "Jackson, get me a ---- Ray, you don't
smoke, do you?"
"Oh, yes, I do," Stacy replied.
"Oh, I beg your pardon--bring some Perfectos, Jackson--please pardon
me, I forgot entirely that you smoked. I must have mixed you up with
someone else. I thought sure you did not smoke."
He seemed so cut up about it and his voice so pathetically apologetic
that Stacy felt sorry for him, and had to say, "That's all right,
Jack. You see I have just begun. That is, I haven't been smoking very
long, you know, on account of my eyes." But he hoped the others did
not hear.
"Will you have a cigarette first?" Stehman asked.
"No, I prefer a cigar," said Stacy, in a fine, deep voice. Stehman
lighted a cigarette.
Horatio had never smoked but one cigar before, and he was not certain
about how much of the end to bite off. But it seemed to draw all right
when the buttons held a match for him. It did not make him feel the
least bit sick. He thought he held it between his first and second
fingers rather well.
His host began to talk about the Dean's English again, and Stacy
changed the subject. Of course Jack meant it out of consideration for
him, but Stacy could talk about other things than his studies.
Presently Jack began again. "What collateral reading are you doing in
the Public Law course, Ray---- What's that you're saying, Timber?"
"Oh, nothing," said Timberly, smiling satirically. "We are just amused
a little bit at your posing as a heavy poler. That's all."
But Jack only frowned, and turned again to Stacy, who knew the others
were paying attention, and so made answer, "Don't intend to read
anything. I've quit taking notes on the lectures, too. A syllabus at
the end of the term will have to do me." That ought to show them.
Nobody said anything for a moment, and when he looked up he could not
tell from their faces what they thought of his remark, though Linton
seemed to wear a quizzical smile. But then that fellow always seemed
to be sneering or else looking oblivious.
Then Smith, who was a track athlete, went on with his conversation
with Pope. He was venturing the opinion that Princeton's prospects for
the spring were poor. He was a young man who thought he had a dignity,
and he liked to have people pay attention to what he said. He had
reason to suppose that his opinions on athletics amounted to
something. So he was rather astonished, as were Stehman and the rest
of the table, when Stacy's high voice burst in with, "No, now, you
don't mean it, Smithie. You are joking, aren't you?" There was no
reason why he should not be familiar and play horse like the rest.
At first there was such a pause that he felt himself blush, and he
feared he had offended Smith, who had stopped talking and was blushing
a little, too. Then suddenly Timberly burst out with a snorting laugh,
and then Davis and then the whole crowd, even Linton, and Stacy
himself, because he had made such a hit, laughed modestly, though
still blushing, at which they all laughed still more. He did not know
it was so funny as all that. That was not half as witty as he could
be, as he would show them.
But just then Stehman interrupted and claimed attention. "Timber," he
called down the table, "I heard a new one to-day on Jimmie McCosh."
Stehman then told a story about the Doctor's falling on the slippery
stones on McCosh walk, and what he said when he could not get up. Like
most imitations of dear old Jimmie's Scotch, Stehman's sounded like a
poor Irish brogue. It was not a very good story, but the fellows
imagined how it would sound if told well, and then laughed because it
was good old Jack Stehman. Stacy thought he could do better than that.
Everything was quiet. Now was the time. He cleared his throat. "Say,
fellows, this is the way the president talks in chapel." His voice was
high and unnecessarily loud. He arose and took hold of the lapels of
his little coat and raised his brows and compressed his lips and
looked side wise through his glasses and repeated very quickly in a
strange voice, "The seven Arabic numerals do not form a sufficient
basis for crystallization about which the cardinal virtues may
cluster." Then he promptly sat down and began to puff vigorously upon
his big cigar.
The fellows smiled surprisedly and looked at each other. Then they
laughed. They stopped a moment; then one by one they began to laugh
again, as if the thing were growing on them. Finally they roared and
kept on roaring.
At home they always applauded when he got that off, although his
mother thought it wrong in him, but they did not pound on the table
and scream and slap each other on the back, as these fellows were
doing now. It must have been because this audience was more familiar
with the original. But he hardly heard them.
"Say, fellows, I'll tell you the story of the little boy who stole the
jam!" he exclaimed, excitedly. Before Stehman and one or two others of
this same crowd he had tried once in freshman year to tell this same
story, and failed for lack of courage. He was not the least bit
frightened this time.
He leaned back in his chair and imitated the boy's voice and blew
smoke between sentences and gesticulated with the cigar in his hand;
and when he had finished everyone pounded and screamed and applauded
as before, while he only shut his lips tight and tried to look
serious, as all good _raconteurs_ should. Would not this be fine to
write to Fannie about?
"Good! Good!" they were shouting to him. "Give us another, Stace.
You're a good one. Do the Dr. Patton act again. These fellows haven't
seen it."
"No, we haven't seen it. Let her go."
Stacy raised his eyes from the table-cloth. Those of the juniors that
had left and some of the seniors, hearing the racket, had come in to
see what was up. The piano had ceased. Fellows were pushing into the
room with cues in their hands and their coats off. Some of them were
sitting on the table. Some had their arms about one another's
shoulders. Leaning against the door-post, with a pipe in his mouth and
a merry twinkle in his eye, stood a senior named Bangs, whom Stacy, in
freshman year, feared more than anything on earth. He had never, until
this moment, forgiven him.
Before Bangs and over half the active membership of the club did
little Stacy, who used to cross the street to avoid being looked at,
jump up on a chair and with greater gusto than ever, with his funny
little mouth twisted up, with his voice strained to produce a peculiar
resonance, repeat part of a sermon once preached by the president of
the college. And when he had finished, his hearers were doubled up on
the floor with laughter.
Throughout all this Stehman alone seemed unappreciative. He laughed in
a nervous way. Once he said, "Let's go sit by the fire." Could it be
possible that his good friend Jack, who was accustomed to being the
most popular, was--no, he would not think that of him.
"Do something else," they were crying. "Go on. Go on. Please!"
If he wanted to he could double them up once more, this time with an
imitation of Jimmie Johnson's stuttering, but he absolutely declined.
He knew that brevity was the soul of wit. "Stacy, you ought to go on
the stage!" one of the seniors exclaimed.
But he only answered, "Naw. That don't amount to anything. Shoot." And
then they all began laughing once more at the mere remembrance of it.
Jack arose to go. Stacy picked up the huge cigar, which had gone out,
and jamming it firmly between his teeth, strode after his host. He
walked past the fellows, who were still laughing, as modestly and with
as unconscious an expression as Jack Stehman himself wore on the
football field when running back to his place after making a
touch-down and the crowd was cheering.
In the hall he said, "I think I'll have to go now, Jack." His voice
was joyously nervous. He could not hold in much longer.
"Must you go, Ray?"
"Yes. I must finish a letter. Good-night, Jack, old man. I've had a
bully time."
The buttons was helping him on with his coat, and he repeated,
"Good-night, Jack, old man. I've had a bully time." His voice nearly
broke.
Then the door closed, and Stehman, who was angry, turned toward the
convulsing crowd by the fire and said, in a calm voice, "I greatly
admire what you fellows have done this evening. You are indeed typical
Princeton men. Oh, you have the true spirit."
"Fine poler, your quiet, inoffensive, young friend," some one rejoined
with a chuckle.
"Not ashamed--as you were reminding us the other night--not ashamed of
being a poler either," said the fellow Stehman had jumped on for being
a kid.
"Wow!" cried Bangs, with a groan of laughter. "I haven't had so much
horse since sophomore year."
Then Linton spoke. "Jackie, dear, don't look that way. It's not nice.
And do not chew a rag because your little poler did not develop as you
wanted him to. You must learn to part with your ideals----"
"And, Jack, you must admit," interrupted Davis, "that it was absurdly
comical. It was mean to laugh, but how could we help it? His standing
up there and kicking up his poler antics, like an old cow, and
thinking all the time that he was----"
The rest was cut short by Stehman's bringing his big fist down upon a
table by the window. "But, Dougal," he thundered, "that doesn't make
any difference. He was my guest. Because he tried to bring himself
down to our tone you fellows let him make a fool of himself, and sat
there and laughed at him, like a set of snobs. Jackson, get my coat."
"You needn't talk so loud," growled a sarcastic-faced post-graduate.
"The people across the street don't care to hear about it."
"Don't go away with your back up, Jack," Linton shouted after him
good-naturedly. "And you need not worry about little Stacy. The best
time he ever had in college was with us snobs here to-night, and he's
probably chuckling to himself now on his way across the campus about
the big tear he made."
But little Stacy was not doing anything of the sort. One of his new
Blucher shoes had come untied when he had jumped up on the chair to do
the president act, and he stopped to tie it by the light of the club
window. And it was wide open.