For an hour, bareheaded, he went plunging into the darkness, a prey to a
nervous crisis, that left him shaking in every muscle. He knew the
extent of his passions, and the anger which had swept over him left him
weak and frightened.
"It's lucky that runt of a Reynolds held his tongue," he said hotly. "By
the Lord, I don't know what I would have done to him. Here, I must get
hold of myself. This is terrible. Well, thank Heaven, it's over."
He controlled himself slowly, and came back, limp and weak; yet beyond
the physical reaction was a liberated soaring of the spirit.
"I'm glad I did it! I never was gladder!" he said solemnly. "Good-by to
the whole society game, Skull and Bones, and all the rest. But I take my
stand from now on, and I stand on my own feet. I'm glad of it." Then he
thought of Jean Story, and he was troubled. "I wonder if she'll
understand? I can't help it. I couldn't do anything else. Now, I suppose
the whole bunch will turn on me. So be it."
It was long after midnight when he came back gloomily to the light still
staring from his window, and toiled up the heavy steps. When he entered
the room, Le Baron, Bob Story, and Joe Hungerford were sitting silently,
waiting for him, and in Story's hand was the pin bruised by his furious
heel.
He saw at once the full strength of the appeal that was to be made to
him, and he closed the door wearily.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said slowly. "The whole thing is
done and buried."
Bob Story, agitated and solemn, came to him.
"Dink, this is awful--the whole thing is awful," he said earnestly.
"You've got to talk it out with us."
"Do you understand, Bob," Stover said suddenly, "just what happened in
this room?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"I don't believe it."
"Dink, I want you to listen to me a moment," said Le Baron. "It's been
rotten business, the whole wretched thing. I can understand how you
felt. Reynolds and you got on each other's nerves. You each said what
you didn't mean. It was damned unfortunate. He put things to you like a
fool, and I was telling him so when you broke into the room. He was all
up on edge from something that had gone before."
"Oh, I lost my temper," said Stover. "I know it."
"I'd have done the same," said Hungerford openly.
"Now, Dink, there isn't one of us here that doesn't like you, and look
up to you," said Story, with his irresistible charm. "We know you're
every inch a man, and what you do you believe in. But, Dink, we're all
friends together, and this is a terrible thing to us. We want you to
take back your pin, and shut up this whole business. Will you?"
"I'd do a great deal for you, Bob Story," said Stover, looking him in
the eyes, "more than for any one else, but I can't do this."
He said it calmly, with a little sadness. The three were impressed with
the finality of the judgment. Story, standing with the cast-off pin in
his hand, turning and twisting it, said slowly:
"Dink, do you really mean it?"
"I do."
"It's a serious thing you're doing, Stover," said Le Baron, with the
first touch of formality, "and I don't think it should be done in
anger."
"I'm not."
"Remember that you are judging a whole society--your own friends--by
what one man happened to say to you in a moment of irritation."
"I don't want to talk of what's done," said Stover slowly, for his head
was throbbing. "I know myself, and I know nothing is going to make me go
back on what I've said. I'm only going to say a word, and then I'm going
into my room and going to bed. Le Baron"--with a sudden rise of his
voice he turned and faced the junior--"don't think I don't understand
what it means that I'm giving up. I get what you mean when you start in
calling me Stover. I know as well as I'm standing here that you and
Reynolds will keep me out of Bones, whether I make captain or not. And
that'll hurt me a good bit--I admit it. Now don't let's quibble. It
isn't the way Reynolds said what he did--though that did rile me--it's
what was told me, indirectly or directly--it's the same thing; you men
in sophomore societies would limit my freedom of choice. There you are.
I'm against you now, because for the first time I see how the thing
works out, because you're wrong! You're a bad influence for those who
are in, and a rotten influence for the whole college. Now I've made up
my mind to just one thing. I'm going to finish up here at the head of my
own business--my own master; and I'm not going to be in a position to be
told by any one in your class or my class what I'm to do."
"One moment." Le Baron rose as Stover moved towards the bedroom.
"There's another side to it."
"What other side?"
"Whatever you decide, and I won't take your answer until the morning,"
said Le Baron solemnly, "I want you to give me your word that what's
happened to-night remains a secret."
"I won't give my word to that or anything else," said Dink defiantly. "I
shall do exactly what I think is right to be done, and for that reason
only. Now you'll have to excuse me. Good night."
He went to his bedroom, shut the door, and without undressing tumbled on
the bed, and, still hearing in a confused jumble the murmur of voices,
dropped off to sleep.
He was startled out of heavy dreams by a beating in his ears, and sprang
up to find Bob Story thundering on his door. He looked at his watch. It
was still an hour before chapel.
When he entered his dim study, Story was waiting, and Hungerford
uncoiling from the couch where he had passed the night.
"Have you fellows been here all night?" said Stover, stopping short.
"Dink, we want a last chance to talk this over," said Story solemnly.
"We've all had a chance to sleep it out. Le Baron isn't here, just Joe
and myself--your friends."
"You make it hard for me, boys," said Dink, shaking his head.
Hungerford rose with the stiffness of the night, and coming to Stover,
took him by the shoulders.
"Damn you, Dink," he said, "get this straight, we're not thinking about
the society, we're thinking about you--about your future. And I want you
to know this: whatever you decide, I'm your friend and proud to be it."
"What Joe says is what I feel," said Story, as Stover, much affected,
stood looking at the ground. "We're sticking by you, Dink--that's why
I'm going to try once more. Can't you go on in the society, make no open
break, and still fight for what you believe in--what Joe and I believe
in, too?"
"But, Bob, I think they're wrong through and through--you don't
understand--I'm for wiping them out now."
"That whole question's coming up, and coming up soon," continued Story
earnestly, "and a lot of our own crowd will line up for you. Work inside
the crowd, if you can see it that way, Dink. There are only five of us
know what's happened, and no one else need know."
"Wait a moment, Bob, old fellow," said Dink, stopping him. "You two have
got down under my skin, and I won't forget it. Now I'm going to ask you
fellows a couple of questions. First: you think if I stick to my
determination that most of the crowd'll turn on me?"
"Yes."
"That I have as much chance of being tapped for Bones as Jackson, the
sweep?"
"Yes, Dink."
"Now, boys, honest, if I took back my pin for any such reason as that,
wouldn't I be a spineless, calculating little quitter?"
Neither answered.
"What would you think of me, Joe--Bob?"
"Damn the luck," said Hungerford. He did not attempt to answer the
question. Neither did Bob Story. They shook hands with Stover, and went
out defeated.
Just how big a change in his college career his renunciation would
make, Stover had not understood until in the weeks that succeeded he
came to feel the full effects of the resentment he had aroused in the
society crowds, now at bay before a determined opposition.
The second morning, as he went down High Street to his eating-joint,
Hungerford was loafing ahead of him, ostensibly conning a lesson. Stover
joined him, unaware of the friendly intent of the action. They went
inside, laughing together, to where a score of men were rubbing their
eyes over hasty breakfasts. Four-fifths of them belonged to sophomore
societies.
"Morning, everybody," said the new arrivals, in unison, and the answer
came back:
"Hello, Joe."
"Hello, Dink."
"Shove in here."
At their arrival a little constrained silence was felt, for the news had
somehow passed into rumor. Opposite Stover, Jim Hunter was sitting. He
nodded to Hungerford, and then with deliberation continued a
conversation with Tommy Bain, who sat next to him.
Stover perceived the cut instantly, as others had perceived it. He sat a
moment quietly, his glance concentrated on Hunter.
"Oatmeal or hominy?" said the waiter at his back.
"One moment." He raised his hand, and the gesture concentrated the
attention of the table on him. "Why, how do _you_ do, Jim Hunter?" he
said, with every word cut sharp.
There was a breathless moment, and a nervous stirring under foot, as
Hunter turned and looked at Stover. Their glances matched one another a
long moment, and then Hunter, with an excess of politeness, said:
"Oh, hello--Stover."
Instantly there was a relieved hum of voices, and a clatter of cutlery.
"I'll take oatmeal now," said Stover calmly. Story, glancing over, saw
two spots of scarlet standing out on his cheeks, and realized how near
the moment had come to a violent scene.
"Dink, old gazabo," said Hungerford, as they walked over to chapel,
"what are you going to do? You can't go about the whole time with a chip
on your shoulder."
"Oh, yes, I can," said Dink between his teeth. "I'll stick right where I
am. And I'd like to see Jim Hunter or any one else try that again on
me!"
Hungerford shook his head.
"You know, Dink, you must see both sides. Now from Hunter's side, you've
smashed all traditions, and given us a blow that may be a knockout,
considering the state of feeling in the college. Hunter's a society man,
believes in them heart and soul."
"Then let him come to me and say what he thinks."
"Are you quite sure, Dink," said Joe, with a glance, "that there isn't
some other reason for the way you two feel about each other?"
"You mean jealousy?" said Dink, flushing a little. "Bob's sister? Yes,
there's that. But from the first we've been on opposite sides." He
hesitated a moment, and then asked: "I say, Joe, what does Bob think
about what I've done? Tell me straight."
"Of course he respects you," said Hungerford carefully, "more now than I
think he did last year, but--Bob's a society man--all these Andover
fellows are brought up in the idea, you know--and I think it's kind of a
jolt."
"I suppose it is," said Stover, with a little depression.
He would like to have asked Hungerford to state his case to Jean Story,
but he lacked the courage of his boyish impulse. The thought of Jean
Story, as he sat in chapel, came to him like a temptation. The Judge was
of the Skull and Bones alumni, Bob was sure to go; all the influences
about her were of belief in the finality of that judgment.
"Yes, and Hunter will go in with sailing colors; he'll never risk
anything," he said bitterly, "and I'll stand up and take my medicine,
for doing what? For showing I had a backbone. But no one will ever know
it outside. They'll think it's something wrong in my character--they
always do. Stover, Yale's star end, misses out for Bones! That's the
slogan. Cheating at cards or bumming. I wonder what she'll think? Lord,
that's the hard part!"
For a week, proud as Lucifer, on edge for an opportunity, he stuck it
out at the eating-joint, knowing the hopelessness of it all--that what
he wanted had gone, and no amount of bravado could make him wink the
fact, that in the midst of his own crowd, where he had stood as a
leader, he was now regarded as an outsider.
In the second week he gave up the useless fight, and went to Commons, to
the table where Regan, Gimbel, and Brockhurst ate. They forebore to ask
him the reasons of the change, and he gave no explanation. That
something had happened which had caused him to break away from his
society was soon a matter of common rumor, and several incorrect
versions circulated, all vastly to his credit. His influence in the body
of the class was correspondingly increased, and Gimbel once or twice
approached him with offers to run him for manager of the crew or the
Junior Prom.
One day, about a month after his withdrawal, when, bundled up in his
dressing-gown, he went shuffling into the basement for a cold tub, he
had quite a shock, that brought home visually to him the realization of
the price he had paid.
It had been the practise from long custom to inscribe on the walls
tentative lists of the probable selections from the class for the three
senior societies. On this particular list his name had stood at the head
from the beginning, and the constant familiar sight of it had always
brought him a warm, secure pleasure.
All at once, as he looked at it, he perceived a leaden blur where his
name had stood, and the names of Bain and Hunter heading the list.
"I suppose they've got me down among the last now," he said, with a long
breath. He searched the list, his name was not even on it. This popular
estimation of what he himself believed had nevertheless power to wound
him deeply.
"Well, it's so--I knew it," he said; but it was said in bitterness, with
a newer and keener realization.
He began indeed to feel like an outsider, and, rebelling against the
injustice of it all, to set his heart in bitterness. Hungerford and Bob
Story, Dopey McNab often, tried to keep up with him, but, understanding
their motives, he was proudly sensitive, and sought rather to avoid
them.
Meanwhile the opposition to the sophomore societies reached the point of
open revolt, and a mass meeting was held, which, as had been planned,
caused a stir throughout the press of the country, and brought in from
the alumni a storm of protest.
Stover, himself, despite his inclination to come forward in direct
opposition, after a long debate, remained silent, feeling bound by the
oath he had given at his initiation.
Shortly after the news spread like wildfire that the President, taking
cognizance of the intolerable state of affairs, had summoned
representatives of the three sophomore societies before him, and given
them a month to deliberate and decide on some scheme of reform that
would be comprehensive and adequate.
Rightly or wrongly, Stover felt that these developments intensified the
feeling of the society element against him. A few weeks outside the
boundaries, despite all his bravado, had brought home to him how much he
cared for the companionship of those from whom he had separated.
Regan was his one friend; Brockhurst stimulated him; and in the
intercourse with Swazey, Pike, Lake, Ricketts, and others he had found a
certain inspiration. But after all, the men of his own kind--Story,
Hungerford, and others, whom from pride he now avoided--were largely the
men of the society crowd. They spoke a language he understood, they came
from a home that was like his home, and their judgment of him would go
with him out into the new relations in life.
[Illustration: "REGAN WAS HIS ONE FRIEND"--_Page 288._]
It was a time of depression and bitter revolt at what he knew was the
injustice of his ostracism, forgetting how much was of his own proud
choosing.
He wandered from crowd to crowd, rather taciturn and restless, seeking
diversion with a consuming nervousness. The new restlessness of spirit
drove him away from the conferences in Regan's and Swazey's rooms to the
company of idlers. For a period, in his pride and bitterness, he let go
of himself, flung the reins to the wind, and started down hill with a
gallop.
In pursuance of his policy of open defiance, he chose to appear at
Mory's with the wildest element of the class. His companions were a
little in awe of his grim, concentrated figure; when he sat into a game
of poker or joined a table of revelers, he did it with no zest. He never
joined in the chorus, and if he occasionally broke out into a boisterous
laugh, there was always a jarring note to it, that caused his companions
to glance at him uneasily. With the impetuousness of his nature, he
outstripped his associates, plunging deeper and deeper, obstinately
resolved, into the black gulf of his cynicism. In a week his excesses
became college gossip, and, unknown to Stover, the subject of many long
conferences among his friends.
One Friday night, as, straying aimlessly from room to room, he set out
for Mory's in quest of Tom Kelly and a group of Sheff pagans, he was
trudging along the hard ways in front of Welch Hall, fists sunk in his
pockets, head down under a slouch hat, when he chanced on Tom Regan
coming out of the Brick Row.
"Hello there, bantam," said Regan, with the prerogative of his size.
"Hello, Tom," he said, but without enthusiasm, for he had rather avoided
him in company with the rest of his old friends.
"That's a deuced cordial greeting! Where are you bound, stranger?"
"Mory's."
"Mory's," said Regan, appearing to consider. "Good idea. I've got a
hankering after a toby of musty ale and a rabbit myself. Wait till I
stow these books and I'll join you."
Stover stood frowning, suspicious and rebelling, for at that age it is a
point of honor, when a man of the world resolves to run his head against
a stone wall, that any interference from a friend is regarded as an
unwarranted insult.
"He thinks he'll try the big brother act on me," he said, scowling. He
was not in a particularly good humor, nor was his head clear from
several nights that had gone their reeling way.
When they entered Mory's, Tom Kelly, Dopey McNab, and Buck Waters were
already grouped in the inner room.
"Well, old flinthead, how do you feel after last night?" said Kelly,
making room for them.
"Fine," said Dink mendaciously, secretly pleased at the tribute to his
sporting talents before Regan.
"More'n I can say," said Dopey, affectionately feeling of his head.
"Curse the man who invented fish-house punch."
[Illustration: "'CURSE THE FELLOW WHO INVENTED FISH-HOUSE PUNCH'"--_Page
290._]
"Get home all right?" continued Kelly.
"Sure."
"I had a little tiff with a cop. If he'd been smaller, I'd have taken
his shield away. He was most impudent. Never mind, I beat him in a foot
race."
"Cocktails," said Stover, resolved that Regan should be well punished.
"Make it two for me, Louis, I'll have to catch up."
"I'll stick to a toby and a rabbit," said Regan, without a change of
expression.
"Cocktail, Dopey?" continued Stover, with a millionaire gesture.
"I never refuse," said Dopey, who planned to go through life on that
virtuous method.
With such a beginning, matters progressed with remarkable facility.
Stover, taciturn and in an ugly mood, constantly hurried the rounds,
matching drink for drink, secretly resolved to prove his supremacy here
as elsewhere. Regan, after two tobies, withdrew from the contest,
sitting silently puffing on his huge pipe, but without attempt at
interference. Bob Story and Hungerford came in, and went away with a
glance at Stover's clouded face and Regan's stolid, unfathomable
expression. When midnight arrived, and Louis came in with apologies to
announce the closing, there was quite a reckoning to be paid.
Stover was the best of the lot, doggedly resolved to show no effects of
what he had taken. He felt a haziness in his vision, and words that were
spoken seemed to be whirled away without record, but his legs stood
firm, and his head was still under control. Buck Waters and a Sheff man
took Tom Kelly home by a circuitous route to avoid either a wrestling
match or a foot race with too zealous members of the New Haven police
force; and Stover had the fierce pride of showing Regan that he could
take charge of the hilarious but wabbly Dopey McNab, who, moved by the
finest feelings of the brotherhood of man, was determined to scatter his
superfluous change among his brother beings.
With great dignity and impressiveness, Stover, supporting one side,
continued to give foggy directions to Regan on the other, until, come to
McNab's quarters, they delivered that joyously exuberant person into his
bed, propped up his head, opened the window, locked the door and left
the key outside, to insure the termination of the night's adventure.
Stover went down the steep, endless stairs with great deliberation and
minute pains.
"Dopey's got weak head--no good--stand nothing," he said seriously to
Regan.
"Well, we've fixed him up for the night," said Regan cheerily. "You've
got a wonderful top, old sport."
"I'm pretty good--Dopey's got the weak head," said Stover, taking his
arm. "I'm good, I can put 'em under the table--all under the table."
"Good for you."
"Tom, you aren't--aren't in critical at-attochood, are you?" said Dink,
with all feeling of resentment gone.
"Lord, no, boy."
"'Cause it does me good--this does me good. I feel bad--pretty bad, Tom,
about some things. You don't know--can't tell--but I feel bad--this does
me good--forget--you understand."
"I understand."
"You're a good friend, Tom. They don't understand--no one else
understands. I'd like to shake hands. Thank you. Good night."
They had come opposite the Brick Row, and Regan, knowing the other's
true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. But
he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said:
"Feel all right, old bantam?"
"Fine." Stover took a step or two, and then returned. "I put 'em to bed,
didn't I?"
"You certainly did."
"Never 'fects me."
"You're a wonder."
"I thank you for your company."
"Good night."
Stover, intent only on making his entry, a hundred yards away, felt a
roaring in his ears, and sudden jumble and confusion before him.
"Must get there--self-control--that's it, self-control," he said to
himself, and by a supreme effort he reached his entry, pushed open the
door, and, stumbling in out of Regan's vision, sat heavily down on the
steps.
Some indistinct time after he beheld before him a little spectacled
figure in pink pajamas.
"Who are you?" he said.
"Wookey, sir."
"What's your class?"
"Freshman, sir."
"Very well. All right. You can help me--help me up. You know me?"
"Yes, sir."
The pink pajamas approached, and with an effort he rose, and, grasping
the proffered shoulder, tumbled up the steps. When he reached his room
his mind seemed to clear a moment, like the sudden drifting to and fro
of a fog.
"Who are you?" he said, frowning.
"Wookey, sir."
"Where do you room?"
"On the first landing, sir."
"Why do you wear pink ones?"
The little freshman, hero-worshipper, face to face with his first great
emotion, the conduct of an intoxicated man, blurted out:
"Don't you like 'em, sir?"
"Keep 'em on," said Stover magnanimously. "So you're a freshman."
"Yes, sir."
Suddenly he felt impressed with his duty, his obvious duty to one below
him.
"Freshman," he said thickly, "I want you listen to me. Never drink to
excess--understand. You beginning college--school of character--hold on
yourself--lead a good life--self-control's the great thing--take it from
me--understand?"
"Yes, sir," said Wookey, awed and a little frightened at the service he
was rendering to the great Dink Stover.
"That's all," said Stover benignly. "Is--is my bedroom still there?"
"Yes, sir."
"You may lead me to it."
When he had been brought to his bed he recalled the pink pajamas, and
said:
"I thank you for your courtesy and your kindness." Then he said to
himself: "It does me good--forget--happy now."
A moment later the fog closed over his consciousness again and he was
asleep.