CHAPTER XXII_Stover at Yale

What Stover in his fuddled consciousness had said to little Wookey on

that last wild night returned to him with doubled force in the white of

the day. He had given his opponents the right to destroy all he had

stood for by pointing to his own example. He had been a deserter from

the cause, but the sound of the enemy's bugle had recalled him to the

battle.

He took the first occasion to stop Le Baron, for he wanted the latter to

make no mistake about him.

"Hugh, I was rude as the devil to you the other night," he said

directly. "I was drunk--more than you had any idea. What I want you to

know is this. You put the question right up to me. You've forced me to

take my stand, and I've done it. You're all wrong on the argument, but I

don't blame you. Only after this you'll never have the chance to fling

that at me again. You and I'll never agree on things here, we're bound

to be enemies, but I want to thank you for opening my eyes, putting it

squarely up to me."

He left without waiting for an answer, having said what he wished to.

For several days he kept by himself, taking long walks, disciplining the

ship that had sailed so long in mutiny. Then he turned up in Regan's

room, and holding out his hand, said:

"Well, Tom, it's over. How in blazes did you keep from telling me what

you thought about me all this time?"

Regan, unruffled and undemonstrative, said through the cloud of his

pipe:

"Well, I've seen men go through it before. You never were very bad."

"What?" said Stover, who felt rather annoyed at this tame estimate.

"It's not a bad thing when you've licked the devil four ways to

election," said Regan. "You know what you can do, and that's something."

"Ever been through it?" said Stover, still a little piqued.

"Ye-es."

"Really, Tom?" said Dink amazed.

"Ran about six months," said Regan, crossing his legs and dreaming. "I

wasn't nice and polite like you--used to clean up the place--rather ugly

time, but I pulled out."

"You've never told me about yourself," said Stover tentatively.

Regan rose, reaching for the tobacco. "No, I never have," he said. "My

story is one of those stories that isn't told. Come on over to Brocky's;

he's got a debating scheme you'll be interested in."

"You damned unemotional cuss," said Stover, looking at him a little

defiantly.

"Are you coming with me this summer to see a little real life--get a

little real education?" said Regan irrelevantly.

"If you'll take me."

"Good boy."

He rested his hand on Stover's shoulder a moment, and gave him a little

tap, and the touch brought a genuine thrill of happiness to Dink.

"Lord, what a leader he'd make," he thought. "Why is it, and what's the

story the old rhinoceros can't tell, I wonder?"

The old crowd was at Brocky's, the crowd which had first stirred his

imagination. His return produced quite a sensation. Nothing was said,

but the grip in the handshakes was different, and the diffident,

hesitant little expressions of relieved good-will that came to him

touched him more than he would have believed.

Brockhurst began to expound his scheme, speaking nervously, in

compressed sentences, as he always did in the beginning of an argument.

"Here's what I'm trying to say. We've all been sitting round and

criticizing--I mean I have--things up here. Now why not really suggest

something--worth while?" He frowned, and becoming angry at his own

difficulty in expressing himself, gradually became more fluent. "We all

feel the need of getting together and having real discussions, and we

all agree that debating here has died out, become merely perfunctory.

The debates take place in a class-room, and everything is cold, stiff,

mechanical. Now that all is unnecessary. What we want is something

spontaneous, informal and with the incentive of a contest. This is my

scheme. To take a certain number--say twenty--of the men in the class

who really have ideas, and believe in expressing them; form a club to

meet one night a week in some room over a restaurant where we can sit

about tables, smoke, have beer and lemonade, a bit to eat if you want,

everything natural, informal. Divide the club up equally into two camps,

each camp to have a leader for each debate, who opens the discussion and

sums it up--the only formal, perfunctory speeches. Every one else speaks

as he feels like it, right from his table. Have in an outside judge,

and keep a record. At the end of the year the side that loses sets the

other up to a banquet."

Stover was interested at once. He saw an instrument at hand for which he

had been looking--something to bring the class together.

"Look here, it's bigger than that, Brocky," he said earnestly. "I'm not

criticizing--I like the idea, the whole thing, you know. But here's what

we can do. Make the club, say, forty, and get into it all the

representative elements of the class--make it a real meeting place. Get

the fellows who are going to be managers and captains. They've all got

to speak--the fellows on papers, the real debaters--and you'll have

something that'll bring the class together."

"What would you debate?" said Swazey, while the others considered

Stover's suggestion.

"College subjects every one has an opinion about at first," said Regan.

"And then get into red-hot politics."

"Of course Stover's idea is a social one--democratic if you will," said

Brockhurst perplexed. "My idea was for a more intimate crowd, all alike,

trying to discuss real things."

"Brocky, I don't believe you can do it," said Stover. "My experience is

that the big discussions, the ones worth while, always are informal,

just as they've been in this crowd, and the crowd mustn't be too large."

Several nodded assent. "The other thing is something we need in the

class. We've been torn to pieces, all at loggerheads, and I believe,

outside of the debating, this is the first step to getting together.

Moreover, I think you'll find all crowds will jump at the chance. Let me

talk it around."

"I think Dink's got the practical idea, Brocky," said Regan. "And,

moreover, he's the man to work it."

As they went out together they were met with the sensation of the

campus--the sophomore societies had been abolished!

Stover stopped McNab, who was hurrying past.

"I say, Dopey, is it true?"

"Sure thing."

"How'd it happen?"

"Don't know."

Gimbel came up with the full news.

"The President gave them a certain time, you remember, to submit a plan

of reform. They reported they couldn't agree, so he called the committee

together and said:

"'Well, gentlemen, I gave you the opportunity to conform to public

sentiment, you haven't been able to do it, you are now abolished.'"

"Who'd have thought it!"

"You don't say so!"

"Abolished!"

"I know you're glad, Dink, old man," said Gimbel, shaking his hand with

a confidential look. "We all know how you stood."

"It's for the best," said Stover slowly; then he added: "But Gimbel, the

fight's over; the big thing now is for the class to get together--be

careful how you fellows take it."

Strangely enough, in the hour of defeat the instinct of caste came back

to him--he was again the sophomore society man. He walked over to his

rooms with a curious feeling of resentment at the rejoicing on the

campus, where the news was being shouted from window to window. Bob

Story, leaving the fence, came over and took him by the arm.

"Dink, old fellow, I've been waiting to see you."

"I've just heard the news," said Stover, when they reached his room.

"That's not what I came about," said Story, "though it fits in all the

better. Dink, you won't mind our clearing up a little past history?"

"I wish you would, Bob," said Stover earnestly. "I know you never saw

things my way."

"No, I didn't. I don't say you were wrong. It was a question of

different temperaments. You did a braver thing than I would have done--"

"Oh, I say--"

"Yes, I mean it. Of course I think it was all a rotten mistake, and that

if you'd talked the matter out as you've done with me, Le Baron and

Reynolds would have seen your side."

"Perhaps so."

"I felt that Reynolds had acted like an ass, and you very naturally had

lost your temper--the result being to put the society in the position as

a society of dictating a man's friendships. I don't believe that was

justified."

"Indirectly, Bob, it worked out that way."

"There I believe you're right, Dink," said Story openly. "I've come to

see it, and I admit it now. I'm glad the system has gone. I'm for the

best here. Now, Dink,"--he hesitated a moment--"I know you've been

through a rotten time; you've felt every one was against you unjustly. I

know all that, and I know you've got hold of yourself again."

"That's true."

"What I want to talk over with you now is this. Don't let what has

passed keep you away from any one in the class."

"But, Bob," said Dink, amazed, "how can I help it? The soph crowd must

be down on me--particularly now."

"Rats, they all know pretty well the circumstances, and they all respect

your nerve, that's honest. We like a good fighter up here. Now, Dink,

more than ever, we need a real leader here to bring us together again.

Don't leave the field to Bain and Hunter--they're all right in their

way, but they can't see things in a big way. Go right out where you've

always gone, twice the man you used to be, and make us all follow you.

Don't make apologies for what you did--go out as though you were proud

of it, and the whole bunch will rise up and follow you."

"I get what you mean," said Stover solemnly. "That's horse sense,

Bob--you've always got that. I wish you'd said it before."

"I wish I had."

Stover looked at him wondering, but not daring to ask if some one else

had prompted him to the act.

"It's strange you came just now, Bob," he said. "You've put words in my

mouth that were already there. I've just been talking over a scheme that

I think's a big idea. It's Brockhurst's."

He detailed the plan and his own suggestion. Story was enthusiastic.

They talked at length, drawing up a list of possible members, with the

enthusiasm of pioneers.

"I say, Dink, there's one thing more," said Bob, as he started to go.

"I've been thinking a lot lately about things here, and what I want for

the next two years--this is about ended. I'd like to propose something

to you."

"Propose it."

"What do you say to you and me, Joe Hungerford, and Tom Regan, all

rooming together another year?"

"Tom?" said Stover, surprised a moment. "The very thing if he'd do it."

"The four of us are all different enough to make just the combination we

need. I'm tired of bunking alone. I want to rub up against some one

else."

"There's nothing I could have thought of better, Bob. You're right, we

four ought to be friends--real friends--and stand together. Here's my

hand on it."

"Bully. I've spoken to Joe, and he's going to see Regan. I say, Dink,

drop in soon."

"Sure thing."

"I mean at the house."

"Oh, yes." A little constraint came to him, and then a flush of boyish

hope. "I'm coming round."

"Because--the family have been wondering."

When Bob had gone, Stover stood a long while gazing at the excited

groups about the fence, retailing the all-important news.

"By George, I'll do it," he said at last. "I'll not leave it to Tommy

Bain or Jim Hunter. It may be a fight, but I'm going out to lead because

I can do it, and because I believe in the right things." Then he thought

over all the incidents of Bob's visit, and he fell into a musing state

with sudden wild jumps of the imagination. "I wonder--did he come of his

own accord--I wonder if she knew!"

With one of his old-time sudden resolves, he went that very night to the

Storys'. The struggle he had come through in victory showed in a new,

abrupt self-confidence. He felt older by a year than at his last visit.

Jean Story was at the piano, Jim Hunter on the wide seat beside her,

turning over the leaves of her music. He saw it from the hall in the

first glance.

The Judge, surprised, came to him, delighted.

"Well, if here isn't Dink in the flesh. How are you? Thought you'd

eloped somewhere. Glad to see you; tarnation if I'm not glad to shake

your hand."

Hungerford, Bain, Bob Story, and Stone were present; a little difference

in their several greetings.

"Well, we're holding a sort of wake here," said the Judge cheerily.

"Bain seems the most afflicted."

"It's a hard moment," said Stover calmly, knowing that any expression of

opinion from him would be resisted in certain quarters. "I felt quite

upset myself to-day when I heard the news, despite the stand I've

taken."

Hunter looked up and then down, but said nothing.

"It's for the best," said Hungerford, not wishing him to stand alone.

"Best for the college as a whole."

"That remains to be seen," said Bain. "I passed Gimbel coming over, and

his crowd. It wasn't very pleasant."

"Well, it's over," said Dink in a matter-of-fact tone. "No post-mortem!

The great thing now is to recognize what exists. The class to-day is

shot to pieces. We want to get together again. One half our time's up,

and, wherever the fault, we've done nothing but scrap and get apart."

"I've been telling them a little about your scheme, yours and

Brockhurst's," said Story.

Stover launched into an enthusiastic argument in its support. Bain and

Hunter followed, instinctive in their opposition, each perceiving all

the superiority that would derive to Stover from its success.

"May I ask," said Hunter finally, in a tone of icy criticism, "What is

the difference between knocking down the sophomore society and putting

up this organization?"

"Very glad to tell you, Jim," said Stover, assuming an attitude of

careful good-will. "The difference is that this is an open organization,

drawing from every element of the class, to meet for the sole purpose of

doing a little thinking and getting to know other crowds. The sophomore

society was an organization drawn from one element of the class,

consciously or unconsciously for the purpose of advancing the social

ambitions of its members at the expense of others. One is natural and

democratic, and the other's founded on selfishness and exclusiveness."

The Judge, fearing the results of a controversy, broke in, switching the

conversation to safer channels.

"By the way, Jim," said Stover, in an interlude, "we're counting on you

and Tommy Bain to go into this thing and make it a success. Is that

right?"

Despite their reluctance at so prompt an espousal, Hunter and Bain were

too far-seeing to set themselves in opposition. But the acceptance was

given without enthusiasm, and, not relishing this sudden renewal of

authority in one whom they naturally held at fault, they soon broke up

the party.

Hungerford and Bob went into the billiard room for a game, and presently

the Judge disappeared upstairs to run over some routine work.

Stover took the seat vacated by Hunter, with perhaps a little malicious

pleasure, saying:

"Aren't you going on playing?"

The young girl hesitated a moment, turning the leaves aimlessly.

"I don't know," she said. "Do you want me to very much?"

"I'd much rather talk."

She closed the music, turning to him with a little reproachful

seriousness.

"You've been away a long while."

"Yes." He admitted the implied accusation with a moment's silence. "A

crazy spell of mine. Bob was over this afternoon and we had a long

talk." He said it point blank, watching her face for some indication he

hoped to find there of her complicity. "Did he tell you?"

"He was speaking of it at the dinner table," she said quietly.

"Did you blame me," he said impulsively, "for what I did about getting

out of my society?"

"No."

"Bob did, at least for a while," he said, looking eagerly into her eyes.

"I did not agree with him there."

She rose.

"If we are going to talk, let's find more comfortable chairs."

He followed her, a little irritated at the sudden closing on this

delightful prospect. They took chairs by the window. Through the vista

of open rooms could be seen the glare of the brilliant lights, and the

figures of the two young fellows moving at their game.

Suddenly, with a return of the old-time feeling of camaraderie between

them, he burst out:

"You know I've got into such a serious point of view! I don't quite know

how it happened. Sometimes it seems to me I'm missing all the fun of

college life." He made a gesture toward the billiard room. "Even

fellows like McNab, good for nothing, jovial little loafers, according

to Yale standards, do seem to be getting something wonderful out of

these years. I don't. It's been all work or fighting."

"That's because they are going different ways in life than you are," she

said quickly. "Tell me more about this new organization. It seems a big

idea. Whom will you take in?" She added suddenly: "Take charge yourself,

do it all yourself. It's just what you should do."

He was too much interested in the expounding of the idea to notice the

solicitude she showed him. After a while the conversation drifted to