After the drudgery of the football season he had a few short weeks of
gorgeous idleness, during which he browsed through a novel a day, curled
up on his window-seat, rolling tobacco clouds through the fog of smokers
in the room. He had won his spurs and the right to lounge, and he looked
forward eagerly to the rest of the year as a time for reading and the
opening up of the friendships of which he had dreamed.
Old age settled down rapidly upon him, and at eighteen that malady
appears in its most virulent form. Perhaps there was a little
justification. The test he had gone through had educated him to
self-control in its most difficult form. He was not simply the big man
of the class, the first to emerge to fame, but the prospective captain
of a future Yale eleven. A certain gravity was requisite--moreover, it
was due the University. To have seen the burning letters S-T-O-V-E-R
actually vibrating on the front pages of metropolitan papers, to have
gazed on his distinguished (though slightly smudged) features, ruined by
an unfeeling photographer, but disputing nevertheless the public
attention with statesmen and champions of the pugilistic ring--to have
felt these heavenly sensations at the age of eighteen could not be
lightly disguised.
So he lay back among welcome cushions, book in hand, and listened with a
tolerant ear to the rapid-fire comedy of McNab and Buck Waters. He
stayed much in his own room, which became a sort of lounging spot where
the air was always blue with smoke and a mandolin or guitar was
strumming a low refrain or a group near the fireplace was noisy with the
hazards of the national game.
Pretty much every one of importance in the class dropped in on him. The
preliminary visiting period of the sophomore societies was nearly over.
With the opening of the winter term the hold-offs and elections would
begin. He understood that those who were uncertain wished the advantage
of being seen in his company--that his, in fact, was now the "right"
crowd.
He intended to call on several men who interested him: Brockhurst, who
had made his appearance with a story in the _Lit_ which announced him as
a possible future chairman; Gimbel, about whose opinions and sincerity
he was in doubt; and, above all, Regan, who genuinely attracted him.
But, somehow, having now nothing to do, his afternoons and evenings
seemed always filled, and he continually postponed until the morrow what
suggested itself during the day. Besides, there was a complacent delight
in being his own master again and of looking forward to such a period of
independent languor.
The first discordant note to intrude itself upon this ideal was a remark
of Le Baron's during one of the evening visits. These embassies were
always conducted with punctiliousness and gravity. The inquisitorial
sophomores arrived about eight o'clock in groups of three and four. As
McCarthy was the object of attention from a different society, Stover,
when the former's inspectors arrived, shook hands gravely, and shortly
discovered that he had a letter to post at the corner. When the
committee on Stover appeared trimly at the door, McCarthy rose at once
to return a hypothetical book, after which the conversation began with
about as much spontaneity and zest as would be permitted to a board of
alienists sitting in judgment on a victim. The sophomores were
embarrassed with their own impromptu dignity, and the freshmen at the
constraint of their superiors.
On one such occasion, after the committee of four had spent fifteen
minutes in the grave discussion of a kindergarten topic, and had filed
out with funereal solemnity, Le Baron returned for a more intimate
conversation.
Since the night of his introduction to college, Stover had had only
occasional glimpses of Le Baron. True, he was generally of the visiting
committee that called every other night for perfunctory inspection, but
through it all the sophomore had adopted an attitude of almost defensive
aloofness and impartiality.
"I want to talk over some of the men in the class," said Le Baron,
falling into an arm-chair and picking up a pipe, while his manner
changed to naturalness and equality. Stover understood at once that the
attitude was a notice served on him of the security of his own position.
"Dink, I want to know your opinion. What do you think of Brockhurst, for
instance?"
"Brockhurst? Why, I hardly know him."
"Is he liked?"
"Why, yes."
"Who are his friends?"
Stover thought a moment.
"Why, I think he rather keeps to himself. He strikes me as being--well,
a little undeveloped--rather shy."
"Do you like him?
"I do."
"And Schley?"
The question was put abruptly, Le Baron raising his eyes to get his
answer from Stover's face.
"Schley?" said Dink, considering a little. "Why, Schley seems to--"
"Regan?" said Le Baron, satisfied.
"One of the best in the class!"
"He seems a rather rough diamond."
"He's proud as Lucifer--but he has more to him than any one I know."
"It's a question what he'll do."
"I'd back him every time."
"You are quite enthusiastic about him," said Le Baron, looking at him
with a little quizzical surprise.
"He's a man," said Stover stoutly.
"Of course, the football captaincy will probably be between you two."
"Regan?" said Stover, amazed.
"Either you or Regan."
Stover had never thought of him as a rival for his dearest ambition. He
remained silent, digesting the possibility, aware of Le Baron's
searching inquiry.
"Of course, you have nine chances out of ten, but the race is a long
one."
"He would make a good captain," Stover said slowly.
"You think so?"
"I hadn't thought of it before," Stover said, with a sudden falling
inside, "but he has the stuff in him of a leader all right."
"I wish he weren't quite so set," said Le Baron. "He hasn't made a
particularly favorable impression on some of the fellows."
An involuntary smile came to Stover at the thought of Regan's probable
reception of a committee of inspection.
"He doesn't perhaps realize the importance of some things," he said
carefully.
"He doesn't," said Le Baron, who was not without a sense of humor. "It's
a pity, though, for his sake. I wish you'd talk to him a little."
"I will."
Le Baron rose.
"By the way, what are you going out for this spring?"
"This spring?" said Stover, surprised.
"Ever rowed any?"
"Never."
"That doesn't make any difference. You learn the stroke quicker--no bad
habits."
"I'm light as mischief."
"Oh, I don't know--not for the freshman. We want to stimulate the
interest in rowing up here. It's a good example for a man like you to
come out. Ever done anything in baseball or the track?"
"No."
"Rowing's the stunt for you." He went toward the door, and turned. "Have
a little chat with Regan. I admire the fellow, but he needs to rub up a
bit with you fellows and get the sharp edges off him. By the way, when
you start rowing I'll get hold of you and give you a little extra
coaching."
When McCarthy came grinning through the door, he found Dink, his legs
drawn up Turkish fashion, staring rebelliously at the ceiling.
"Hello! In love, or what?" said Tough, stopping short. "Recovering,
perhaps, from the brilliant conversation?"
"By George, I'm not going out for anything more!" said Dink, between his
teeth.
"Heavens! haven't you slaved enough?"
"You bet I have. I'll be hanged if I'm going through here--just varsity
material. I'm going to be a little while my own master."
"You think so?" said McCarthy, with a short, incredulous laugh. "Every
one's doing something." McCarthy was a candidate for the baseball nine.
"Have you heard anything about Regan?" said Stover, between puffs.
"In what way?"
"Have any of the sophomores been around to see him?"
McCarthy exploded into laughter. "_Have_ they? Didn't you hear what
happened?"
"No. What?"
"They spent half the night locating his diggings, and when they got them
the old rhinoceros wouldn't receive them."
"Why not?"
"Hadn't time, he said, to be fooling with them."
"The old chump!"
"Lucky dog," said McCarthy, between his teeth. "I wish I had the nerve
to do the same."
"What the deuce?"
"It makes me boil! I can't sit up and have a solemn bunch of fools look
me over. I can't be natural."
"It's give and take," said Dink, smiling. "You'll think yourself the
lord of the universe next year."
"I'm not so sure," said McCarthy, gloomily.
"Rats!"
"Oh, you--you've a cinch," said McCarthy. "They're not picking you to
pieces and dissecting you. Half the crowd that come to see me have got
some friends in the class they'd rather see in than me. I'm darned
uncertain, and I know it."
Stover, who believed the contrary, laughed at him. He rose and went out,
determined to find Regan and make him understand conditions.
His walk led him along the dark ways of College Street into the
forgotten street where, under the roof of a bakery, Regan had found a
breathing-hole for five dollars a month.
For the first time a little feeling of jealousy went through Stover as
he swung along. Why should he help build up the man who might snatch
from him his ambition? Why the deuce had Le Baron mentioned Regan as a
possible captain? No one else thought of such a thing. Compared to him,
Regan was a novice in football knowledge and experience. Still, it was
true that the man had a stalwart, unflinching way of moving on that
impressed. There was a danger there with which he must reckon.
He found Regan in carpet slippers and sweater, bending grimly over the
next day's Greek as if it were a rock to be shattered with the weight of
his back.
"8-16-6-9-47," said Stover, in a hallo, giving the signal that had sent
him through the center.
Regan started up.
"Hello, Dink, old bantam; glad to hear your voice."
Stover entered, with a glance at the room. A cot, a bureau, a washstand
reënforced by ropes, a pine table scorched and blistered, and a couple
of chairs were the entire equipment. Half the gas globe was left and
two-thirds of the yellow-green shade at the window. In the corner was
the battle-scarred valise which had brought Regan's whole effects to
college.
"Boning out the Greek?" said Stover, placing a straight chair against
the wall so that his feet could find the ledge of the window.
"Wrestling with it."
"Don't you use a trot?" said Stover in some surprise, perceiving the
absence of the handy, literal short-cut to recitation.
"Can't afford to."
"Why not?" said Stover, wondering if Regan was a gospel shark, after
all.
"I've got too much to learn," said Regan, leaning back and elevating his
legs in the national position. "You know something; I don't. You can
bluff; I'm a rotten bluffer. I've got to train my whole mind, lick it
into shape and make it work for me, if I'm going to do what I want."
"Tom, what are you aiming for?"
"You'd never guess."
"Well, what?"
"Politics."
"Politics?" said Stover, opening his mouth.
"Exactly," said Regan, puffing at his corncob pipe. "I want to go back
out West and get in the fight. It's a glorious fight out there. A real
fight. You don't know the West, Stover."
"No."
"We believe in something out there, and we get up and fight for
it--independence, new ideas, clean government, hard fighters."
"I hadn't thought of you that way," said Stover, more and more
surprised.
"That's the only thing I care about," said Regan frankly. "I've come
from nothing, and I believe in that nothing. But to do anything I've got
to get absolute hold of myself."
"Tom, you ought to get in with the fellows more. You ought to know all
kinds," said Stover, feeling an opening.
"I will, when I get the right," said Regan, nodding.
"Why the devil don't you let the University help you out a while? You
can pay it back," said Stover angrily.
"Never! I know it could be done, but not for me," said Regan, shaking
his head. "What I need is the hardest things to come up against, and I'm
not going to dodge them."
"Still, you ought to be with us; you ought to make friends."
"I'm going to do that," said Regan, nodding. "I'm going to get in at
South Middle after Christmas and perhaps get some work in the Coöp." He
took up a sheet of paper jotted over with figures. "I'm about fifty
dollars to the good; a couple of weeks' work at Christmas will bring
that up about twenty more. If I can make a hundred and fifty this summer
I'll have a good start. I want to do it, because I want to play
football. It's bully! I like the fight in it!"
"What sort of work will you do?" said Stover curiously.
"I may go in the surface cars down in New York."
"Driving?"
"Sure. They get good pay. I could get work in the mines--I've done
that--but it's pretty tough."
"But, Tom, what the deuce do you pick out the hardest grind for? Make
friends with fellows who only want to know you and like you, and you'll
get a dozen openings where you'll make twice what you get at manual
labor."
"Well, there's this to it," said Regan ruminatively, "It's an
opportunity I won't always have."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"The opportunity to meet the fellow who gets the grind of life--to
understand what he thinks of himself, and especially what he thinks of
those above him. I won't have many more chances to see him on the ground
floor, and some day I've got to know him well enough to convince him.
See? By the way, it would be a good college course for a lot of you
fellows if you got in touch with the real thing also."
"Are you a socialist?" said Stover, who vaguely associated the term with
dynamite and destruction.
"I may be, but I don't know it."
"I say, Tom, do you go in for debating and all that sort of thing?"
"You bet I do; but it comes hard as hen's teeth."
Stover, who had waited for an opportunity to volunteer advice, finding
no opening, resolved to take the dilemma by the horns.
"Tom, I think you're wrong about one thing."
"What's that?"
"Holding aloof so much."
"Particularly what?"
"I'm thinking about sophomore societies, for one thing. Why the deuce
don't you give the fellows a chance to help you?"
"Oh, you mean the dinky little bunch that came around to call on me,"
said Regan thoughtfully.
"Yes. Now, why turn them out?"
"Why, they bored me, and, besides, I haven't time for anything like
that. There are too many big things here."
"They can help you like the mischief, now and afterward."
"Thanks; I'll help myself. Besides, I don't want to get their point of
view."
"Why not?"
"Too limited."
"Have you been talking to Gimbel?" said Stover, wondering.
"Gimbel? No; why?"
"Because he is organizing the class against them."
"That doesn't interest me, either."
"What do you make of Gimbel?"
"Gimbel's all right; a good politician."
"Is he sincere?"
"Every one's sincere."
"You mean every one's convinced of his own sincerity."
"Sure; easiest person in the world to convince."
Stover laughed a little consciously, wondering for a brief moment if the
remark could be directed at him. Curiously enough, the more the blunt
antagonism of Regan impressed him, the more he was reassured that the
man was too radical ever to challenge his leadership. He rose to go, his
conscience satisfied by the half-hearted appeal he had made.
"I say, Dink," said Regan, laying his huge paw on his shoulder, "don't
get your head turned by this social business."
"Heavens, no!"
"'Cause there's some real stuff in you, boy, and some day it's coming
out. Thanks, by the way, for wanting to make me a society favorite."
Dink left with a curious mixture of emotions. Regan always had an
ascendency over him he could not explain. It irritated him that he could
not shake it off, and yet he was genuinely chained to the man.
"Why the deuce did Le Baron put that in my head?" he said to himself,
for the tenth time. "If Regan beats me out for captain it'll only be
because he's older and has got a certain way about him. Well, I suppose
if I'm to be captain I've got to close up more; I can't go cutting up
like a kid. I've got to be older."
He resolved to be more dignified, more melancholy, shorter of speech,
and consistent in gravity. For the first time he felt what it meant to
calculate his chances. Before, everything had come to him easily. He had
missed the struggle and the heartburnings. Now, suddenly, a shadow had
fallen across the open road, the shadow of one whom he had regarded as a
sort of protégé. He had thoughts of which he was ashamed, for at the
bottom he was glad that Regan would not be of a sophomore society--that
that advantage would be denied him; and, a little guiltily, he wondered
if he had tried as hard as he might have to show him the opportunity.
"If they ever know him as I do," he said, with a generous revulsion,
"he'll be the biggest thing in the class." York Street and the busy
windows of Pierson Hall came into his vision. A group of sophomores,
ending their tour of visits, passed him, saluting him cordially. He
thought all at once, with a sharp rebellion, how much freer Regan was,
with his own set purpose, than he under the tutelage of Le Baron.
"I wonder what I'd do if no darn sophomore societies existed," he said
to himself thoughtfully. And then, going up the stairs to his room, he
said to McCarthy as he entered: "I guess, after all, I'll get out and
slave again this spring--might as well heel the crew. I'm just varsity
material--that's all!"