PART II

PRINCETON

I

"Young man, you've two years' work to enter."

"Just when," George asked, "does college open?"

"If the world continues undisturbed, in about two months."

"Very well. Then I'll do two years' work in two months."

"You've only one pair of eyes, my boy; only one brain."

George couldn't afford to surrender. He had arrived in Princeton the

evening before, a few hours after leaving Oakmont. It had been like a

crossing between two planets. Breathlessly he had sought and found a

cheap room in a students' lodging house, and afterward, guided by the

moonlight, he had wandered, spellbound, about the campus.

Certainly this could not be George Morton, yesterday definitely divided

from what Old Planter had described as human beings. His exaltation

grew. For a long time he walked in an amicable companionship of broader

spaces and more arresting architecture than even Oakmont could boast;

and it occurred to him, if he should enter college, he would have as

much share in all this as the richest student; at Princeton he would

live in the Great House.

His mood altered as he returned to his small, scantily furnished room

whose very unloveliness outlined the difficulties that lay ahead.

He unpacked his suitcase and came upon Sylvia's photograph and her

broken riding crop. In the centre of the table, where he would work, he

placed the photograph with a piece of the crop on either side. Whenever

he was alone in the room those objects would be there, perpetual lashes

to ambition; whenever he went out he would lock them away.

How lovely and desirable she was! How hateful! How remote! Had ever a

man such a goal to strain for? He wanted only to start.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning he set forth. He had never

seen a town so curiously empty. There were no students, since it was the

long vacation, except a few backward men and doubtful candidates for

admission. He stared by daylight at the numerous buildings which were

more imposing now, more suggestive of learning, wealth, and breeding.

They seemed to say they had something for him if only he would fight

hard enough to receive it.

First of all, he had to find someone who knew the ropes. There must be

professors here, many men connected with this gigantic plant. On Nassau

Street he encountered a youth, a little younger than himself, who, with

a bored air, carried three books under his arm. George stopped him.

"I beg your pardon. Are you going here?"

The other looked him over as if suspecting a joke.

"Going where?" he asked, faintly.

George appraised the fine quality of the young man's clothing. He was

almost sorry he had spoken. The first thing he had to do was to overcome

a reluctance to speak to people who obviously already had much that he

was after.

"I mean," he explained, "are you going to this college?"

"The Lord," the young man answered, "and Squibs Bailly alone know. I'm

told I'm not very bright in the head."

George smiled.

"Then I guess you can help me out. I'm not either. I want to enter in

the fall, and I need a professor or something like that to teach me.

I'll pay."

The other nodded.

"You need a coach. Bailly's a good one. I'm going there now to be told

for two hours I'm an utter ass. Maybe I am, but what's the use rubbing

it in? I don't know that he's got any open time, but you might come

along and see."

George, his excitement increasing, walked beside his new acquaintance.

"What's your name?" the bored youth asked all at once.

"Morton. George Morton."

"I'm Godfrey Rogers. Lawrenceville. What prep are you?"

"What what?"

"I mean, what school you come from?"

George experienced a sharp discomfort, facing the first of his

unforeseen embarrassments. Evidently his simple will to crush the past

wouldn't be sufficient.

"I went to a public school off and on," he muttered.

Rogers' eyes widened. George had a feeling that the boy had receded. It

wasn't until later, when he had learned the customs of the place, that

he could give that alteration its logical value. It made no difference.

He had a guide. Straightway he would find a man who could help him get

in; but he noticed that Rogers abandoned personalities, chatting only of

the difficulties of entrance papers, and the apparent mad desire of

certain professors to keep good men from matriculating.

They came to a small frame house on Dickinson Street. Rogers left George

in the hall while he entered the study. The door did not quite close,

and phrases slipped out in Rogers' glib voice, and, more frequently, in

a shrill, querulous one.

"Don't know a thing about him. Just met him on the street looking for a

coach. No prep."

"Haven't the time. I've enough blockheads as it is. He'd better go to

Corse's school."

"You won't see him?"

"Oh, send him in," George heard Bailly say irritably. "You, Rogers,

would sacrifice me or the entire universe to spare your brain five

minutes' useful work. I'll find out what he knows, and pack him off to

Corse. Wait in the hall."

Rogers came out, shaking his head.

"Guess there's nothing doing, but he'll pump you."

George entered and closed the door. Behind a table desk lounged a long,

painfully thin figure. The head was nearly bald, but the face carried a

luxuriant, carelessly trimmed Van Dyke beard. Above it cheeks and

forehead were intricately wrinkled, and the tweed suit, apparently,

strove to put itself in harmony. It was difficult to guess how old

Squibs Bailly was; probably very ancient, yet in his eyes George caught

a flashing spirit of youth.

The room was forcefully out of key with its occupant. The desk,

extremely neat with papers, blotters, and pens, was arranged according

to a careful pattern. On books and shelves no speck of dust showed, and

so far the place was scholarly. Then George was a trifle surprised to

notice, next to a sepia print of the Parthenon, a photograph of a

football team. That, moreover, was the arrangement around the four

walls--classic ruins flanked by modern athletes. On a table in the

window, occupying what one might call the position of honour, stood a

large framed likeness of a young man in football togs.

Before George had really closed the door the high voice had opened its

attack.

"I haven't any more time for dunces."

"I'm not a dunce," George said, trying to hold his temper.

Bailly didn't go on right away. The youthful glance absorbed each detail

of George's face and build.

"Anyhow," he said after a moment, less querulously, "let's see what you

lack of the infantile requirements needful for entrance in an American

university."

He probed George's rapid acquaintance with mathematics, history,

English, and the classics. With modern languages there was none. Then

the verdict came. Two years' work.

"I've got to make my eyes and brain do," George said. "I've got to enter

college this fall or never. I tell you, Mr. Bailly, I am going to do it.

I know you can help me, if you will. I'll pay."

Bailly shook his head.

"Even if I had the time my charges are high."

George showed his whole hand.

"I have about five hundred dollars."

"For this condensed acquisition of a kindergarten knowledge,

or--or----"

"For everything. But only let me get in and I'll work my way through."

Again Bailly shook his head.

"You can't get in this fall, and it's not so simple to work your way

through."

"Then," George said, "you refuse to do anything for me?"

The youthful eyes squinted. George had an odd impression that they

sought beyond his body to learn just what manner of man he was. The

querulous voice possessed more life.

"How tall are you?"

"A little over six feet."

"What's your weight?"

George hesitated, unable to see how such questions could affect his

entering college. He decided it was better to answer.

"A hundred and eighty-five."

"Good build!" Bailly mused. "Wish I'd had a build like that. If your

mind is as well proportioned----Take your coat off. Roll up your

sleeves."

"What for?" George asked.

Bailly arose and circled the desk. George saw that the skeleton man

limped.

"Because I'd like to see if the atrophying of your brain has furnished

any compensations."

George grinned. The portrait in the window seemed friendly. He obeyed.

Bailly ran his hand over George's muscles. His young eyes widened.

"Ever play football?"

George shook his head doubtfully.

"Not what you would call really playing. Why? Would football help?"

"Provided one's the right stuff otherwise, would being a god help one

climb Olympus?" Bailly wanted to know.

He indicated the framed likeness in the window.

"That's Bill Gregory."

"Seems to me I've seen his name in the papers," George said.

Bailly stared.

"Without doubt, if you read the public prints at all. He exerted much

useful cunning and strength in the Harvard and Yale games last fall. He

was on everybody's All-American eleven. I got him into college and

man-handled him through. Hence this scanty hair, these premature

furrows; for although he had plenty of good common-sense, and was one of

the finest boys I've ever known, he didn't possess, speaking relatively,

when it came to iron-bound text-books, the brains of a dinosaur; but he

had the brute force of one."

"Why did you do it?" George asked. "Because he was rich?"

"Young man," Bailly answered, "I am a product of this seat of learning.

With all its faults--and you may learn their number for yourself some

day--its success is pleasing to me, particularly at football. I am very

fond of football, perhaps because it approximates in our puling, modern

fashion, the classic public games of ruddier days. In other words, I was

actuated by a formless emotion called Princeton spirit. Don't ask me

what that is. I don't know. One receives it according to one's concept.

But when I saw in Bill something finer and more determined than most men

possess, I made up my mind Princeton was going to be proud of him, on

the campus, on the football field, and afterward out in the world."

The hollow, wrinkled face flushed.

"When Bill made a run I could think of it as my run. When he made a

touchdown I could say, 'there's one score that wouldn't have been made

if I hadn't booted Bill into college, and kept him from flunking out by

sheer brute mentality!' Pardon me, Mr. Morton. I love the silly game."

George smiled, sensing his way, if only he could make this fellow feel

he would be the right kind of Princeton man!

"I was going to say," he offered, "that while I had never had a chance

to play on a regular team I used to mix it up at school, but I was

stronger than most of the boys. There were one or two accidents. They

thought I'd better quit."

Bailly laughed.

"That's the kind of material we want. You do look as if you could bruise

a blue or a crimson jersey. Know where the field house is? Ask anybody.

Do no harm for the trainer to look you over. Be there at three o'clock."

"But my work? Will you help me?"

"Give me," Bailly pled, "until afternoon to decide if I'll take another

ten years from my life. That's all. Send that fellow Rogers in. Be at

the field house at three o'clock."

And as George passed out he heard him reviling the candidate.

"Don't see why you come to college. No chance to make the team or a Phi

Beta Kappa. One ought to be a requisite."

The shrill voice went lower. George barely caught the words certainly

not intended for him.

"You know I wouldn't be a bit surprised if that fellow you brought me,

if he had a chance, might do both."

II

George, since he had nothing else to do, walked home. Bailly could get

him in if he would. Did it really depend in part on the inspection he

would have to undergo that afternoon? It was hard there was nothing he

could do to prepare himself. He went to the yard, to which the landlady

had condemned Sylvia's bulldog, and, to kill time, played with the

friendly animal until luncheon. Afterward he sat in his room before

Sylvia's portrait impressing on himself the necessity of strength for

the coming ordeal.

His landlady directed him glibly enough to the field house. As he

crossed the practice gridiron, not yet chalked out, he saw Bailly on the

verandah; and, appearing very small and sturdy beside him, a

gray-haired, pleasant-faced man whose small eyes were relentless.

"This is the prospect, Green," George heard Bailly say.

The trainer studied George for some time before he nodded his head.

"A build to hurt and not get hurt," he said at last; "but, Mr. Bailly,

it's hard to supply experience. Boys come here who have played all their

lives, and they know less than nothing. Bone seems to grow naturally in

the football cranium."

He shifted back to George.

"How fast are you?"

"I've never timed myself, but I'm hard to catch."

"Get out there," the trainer directed.

"In those clothes?" Bailly asked.

"Why not? The ground's dry. A man wouldn't run any faster with moleskins

and cleats. Now you run as far as the end of that stand. Halt there for

a minute, then turn and come back."

He drew out a stop watch.

"All set? Then--git!"

George streaked down the field.

"It's an even hundred yards," the trainer explained to Bailly.

As George paused at the end of the stand the trainer snapped his watch,

whistling.

"There are lots with running shoes and drawers wouldn't do any better.

Let's have him back."

He waved his arm. George tore up and leant against the railing,

breathing hard, but not uncomfortably.

"You were a full second slower coming back," the trainer said with a

twinkle.

"I'm sorry," George cried. "Let me try it again."

Green shook his head.

"I'd rather see you make a tackle, but I've no one to spare."

He grinned invitation at Bailly.

"My spirit, Green," the tutor said, "is less fragile than my corpus, but

it has some common-sense. I prefer others should perish at the hands of

my discoveries."

"You've scrubbed around," the trainer said, appraising George's long,

muscular legs. "Ever kick a football?"

"A little."

Green entered the field house, reappearing after a moment with a

football tucked under his arm.

"Do you mind stepping down the field, Mr. Bailly, to catch what he

punts? I wouldn't go too far."

Bailly nodded and walked a short distance away. The trainer gave George

the football and told him to kick it to Bailly. George stepped on the

grass and swung his leg. If the ball had travelled horizontally as far

as it did toward heaven it would have been a good kick. For half an hour

the trainer coached interestedly, teaching George the fundamentals of

kicking form. Some of the later punts, indeed, boomed down the field for

considerable distances, but in George's mind the high light of that

unexpected experience remained the lanky, awkward figure in wrinkled

tweeds, limping about the field, sometimes catching the ball, sometimes

looking hurt when it bounded from his grasp, sometimes missing it

altogether, and never once losing the flashing pleasure from his eyes or

the excitement out of his furrowed face.

"Enough," the trainer said at last.

George heard him confide to the puffing tutor:

"Possibilities. Heaven knows we'll need them a year from this fall,

especially in the kicking line. I believe this fellow can be taught."

Bailly, his hands shaking from his recent exercise, lighted a pipe. He

assumed a martyr's air. His voice sounded as though someone had done him

an irreparable wrong.

"Then I'll have to try, but it's hard on me, Green, you'll admit."

George hid his excitement. He knew he had passed his first examination.

He was sure he would enter college. Already he felt the confidence most

men placed in Squibs Bailly.

"Wouldn't you have taken him on anyway, Mr. Bailly?" the trainer

laughed. "Anyway, a lot of my players are first-group men. I depend on

you to turn him over in the fall for the Freshman eleven. Going to

town?"

"Come on, Morton," Bailly said, remorsefully.

Side by side the three walked through to Nassau Street and past the

campus. George said nothing, drinking in the scarcely comprehensible

talk of the others about team prospects and the appalling number of

powerful and nimble young men who would graduate the following June.

Near University Place he noticed Rogers loafing in front of a restaurant

with several other youths who wore black caps. He wondered why Rogers

started and stared at him, then turned, speaking quickly to the others.

Green went down University Place. George paced on with Bailly. In front

of the Nassau Club the tutor paused.

"I'm going in here," he said, "but you can come to my house at

eight-thirty. We'll work until ten-thirty. We'll do that every night

until your brain wrinkles a trifle. You may not have been taught that

twenty-four hours are allotted to each day. Eight for sleep. Two with

me. Two for meals. Two at the field. Two for a run in the country. That

leaves eight for study, and you'll need every minute of them. I'll give

you your schedule to-night. If you break it once I'll drop you, for

you've got to have a brain beyond the ordinary to make it wrinkle

enough."

"Thanks, Mr. Bailly. If you don't mind, what will it cost?"

Bailly considered.

"I'll have to charge you," he said at last, "twenty-five dollars, but I

can lend you most of the books."

George understood, but his pride was not hurt.

"I'll pay you in other ways."

Bailly looked at him, his emaciated face smiling all over.

"I think you will," he said with a little nod. "All right. At

eight-thirty."

He limped along the narrow cement walk and entered the club. George

started back. The group, he noticed, still loitered in front of the

restaurant. Rogers detached himself and strolled across. He was no

longer suspicious.

"You been down at the field with Mr. Green?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Running a little, kicking a football around."

"Trust Bailly to guess you played. What did Green say?"

"If I get in," George, answered simply, "I think he'll give me a show."

"I guess so," Rogers said, thoughtfully, "or he wouldn't be wasting his

time on you now. Come on over and meet these would-be Freshmen. We'll

all be in the same class unless we get brain-fever. Mostly

Lawrenceville."

George crossed and submitted to elaborate introductions and warm

greetings.

"Green's grooming him already for the Freshman eleven," Rogers

explained.

George accepted the open admiration cautiously, not forgetting what he

had been yesterday, what Sylvia had said. Why was Rogers so friendly all

at once?

"What prep?" "Where'd you play?" "Line or backfield?"

The rapidity of the questions lessened his discomfort. How was he to

avoid such moments? He must make his future exceptionally full so that

it might submerge the past of which he couldn't speak without

embarrassment. In this instance Rogers helped him out.

"Morton's bummed around. Never went to any school for long."

George pondered this kind act and its fashion as he excused himself and

walked on to his lodging. There was actually something to hide, and

Rogers admitted it, and was willing to lend a cloak. He could guess why.

Because Green was bothering with him, had condescended to be seen on the

street with him. George's vision broadened.

He locked himself in his room and sat before his souvenirs. Sylvia's

provocative features seemed clearer. For a long time he stared hungrily.

He had an absurd impression that he had already advanced toward her.

Perhaps he had in view of what had happened that afternoon.

His determination as well as his strength had clearly attracted Bailly;

yet that strength, its possible application to football, had practically

assured him he would enter college, had made an ally of the careful

Rogers, had aroused the admiration of such sub-Freshmen as were in town.

It became clear that if he should be successful at football he would

achieve a position of prominence from which he could choose friends

useful here and even in the vital future after college.

His planning grew more practical. If football, a game of which he knew

almost nothing, could do that, what might he not draw from one he

thoroughly knew--anything concerning horses, for instance, hunting,

polo? The men interested in horses would be the rich, the best--he

choked a trifle over the qualification--the financial and social leaders

of the class. He would have that card up his sleeve. He would play it

when it would impress most. Skill at games, he hazarded, would make it

easier than he had thought to work his way through.

Whatever distaste such cold calculation brought he destroyed by staring

at Sylvia's remote beauty. If he was to reach such a goal he would have

to use every possible short cut, no matter how unlovely.

He found that evening a radical alteration in Squibs Bailly's study. The

blotter was spattered with ink. Papers littered the desk and drifted

about the floor. Everything within reach of the tutor's hands was

disarranged and disreputably untidy. Bailly appeared incomparably more

comfortable.

The course opened with a small lecture, delivered while the attenuated

man limped up and down the cluttered room.

"Don't fancy," he began, "that you have found in football a key to the

scholastic labyrinth."

His wrinkled face assumed a violent disapproval. His youthful eyes

flashed resentfully.

"Mr. Morton, if I suffered the divine Delphic frenzy and went to the

Dean and assured him you were destined to be one of our very best

undergraduates and at the same time would make fifteen touchdowns

against Yale, and roughly an equal number against Harvard, do you know

what he would reply?"

George gathered that an answer wasn't necessary.

"You might think," the tutor resumed, limping faster than ever, "that he

would run his fingers through his hair, if he had sufficient; would

figuratively flame with pleasure; would say: 'Miraculous, Mr. Bailly.

You are a great benefactor. We must get this extraordinary youth in the

university even if he can't parse "the cat caught the rat."'"

Bailly paused. He clashed his hands together.

"Now I'll tell you what he'd actually reply. 'Interesting if true, Mr.

Bailly. But what are his scholastic attainments? Can he solve a

quadratic equation in his head? Has he committed to memory my favourite

passages of the "Iliad" of Homer and the "Aeneid" of Virgil? Can he name

the architect of the Parthenon or the sculptor of the Aegean pediments?

No? Horrible! Then off with his head!'"

Bailly draped himself across his chair.

"Therefore it behooves us to get to work."

III

That was the first of sixty-odd toilsome, torturing evenings, for Bailly

failed to honour the Sabbath; and, after that first lecture, drab

business alone coloured those hours. The multiplicity of subjects was

confusing; but, although Bailly seldom told him so, George progressed

rapidly, and Bailly knew just where to stress for the examinations.

If it had ended there it would have been bad enough. When he studied the

schedule Bailly gave him that first night he had a despairing feeling

that either he or it must break down. Everything was accounted for even

to the food he was to eat. That last, in fact, created a little

difficulty with the landlady, who seemed to have no manner of

appreciation of the world-moving importance of football. Rogers wanted

to help out there, too. He had found George's lodging. It was when

Green's interest was popular knowledge, when from the Nassau Club had

slipped the belief that Squibs Bailly had turned his eyes on another

star. George made it dispassionately clear to Rogers that Bailly had not

allowed in his schedule for calls. Rogers was visibly disappointed.

"Where do you eat, then?"

"Here--with Mrs. Michin."

"Now look, Morton. That's no way. Half a dozen of us are eating at Joe's

restaurant. They're the best of the sub-Freshmen that are here. Come

along with us."

The manner of the invitation didn't make George at all reluctant to tell

the truth.

"I can't afford to be eating around in restaurants."

"That needn't figure," Rogers said, quickly. "Green's probably only

letting you eat certain things. I'll guarantee Joe'll take you on for

just what you're paying Mrs. Michin."

George thought rapidly. He could see through Rogers now. The boy wanted,

even as he did, to run with the best, but for a vastly different cause.

That was why his manner had altered that first morning when he had sized

George up as the unfinished product of a public school, why it had

altered again when he had sensed in him a football star. George's heart

warmed, but not to Rogers. Because he rioted around for a period each

afternoon in an odorous football suit he was already, in the careful

Rogers' eyes, one of the most prominent of the students in town. For the

same reason he was in a position to wait and make sure that Rogers

himself was the useful sort. George possessed no standard by which to

judge, and it would be a mistake to knot ropes that he might want to

break later; nor did he care for that sort of charity, no matter how

well disguised, so he shook his head.

"Green and Squibs wouldn't put up with it."

He wheedled his landlady, instead, into a better humour, paying her

reluctantly a little more.

The problem of expenses was still troublesome, but it became evident

that there, too, Bailly would be a useful guide.

"I have actually bearded the dean about you," he said one evening.

"There are a few scholarships not yet disposed of. If I can prove to him

that you live by syntax alone you may get one. As for the rest, there's

the commons. Impecunious students profitably wait on table there."

George's flush was not pretty.

"I'll not be a servant," he snapped.

"It's no disgrace," Bailly said, mildly.

"It is--for me."

He didn't like Bailly's long, slightly pained scrutiny. There was no use

keeping things from him anyway.

"I can trust you, Mr. Bailly," he said, quickly, and in a very low

voice, as if the walls might hear: "I know you won't give me away. I--I

was too much like a servant until the day I came to Princeton. I've

sworn I'd never be again. I can't touch that job. I tell you I'd rather

starve."

"To do so," Bailly remarked, drily, "would be a senseless suicide.

You'll appreciate some day, young man, that the world lives by service."

George wondered why he glanced at the untidy table with a smile

twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm also sorry to learn your ambition is not altogether unselfish, or

altogether worthy."

George longed to make Bailly understand.

"It was forced on me," he said. "I worked in my father's livery business

until he failed. Then I had to go to a rich man's stable. I was treated

like dirt. Nobody would have anything to do with me. They won't here,

probably, if they find out."

"Never mind," Bailly sighed. "We will seek other means. Let us get on

with our primers."

Once or twice, when some knotty problem took George to the house during

the early morning, he found the spic-and-span neatness he had observed

at his first visit. In Bailly's service clearly someone laboured with a

love of labour, without shame or discouragement.

One evening in August the maid who customarily opened the door was

replaced by a short, plump-looking woman well over thirty. She greeted

George with kindly eyes.

"I daresay you're Mr. Morton. I've heard a great deal about you."

George had never seen a face more unaffected, more friendly, more

competent. His voice was respectful.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And I am Mrs. Bailly. We expect much of you."

There rushed over George a feeling that, his own ambition aside, he had

to give them a great deal. No wonder Squibs felt as he did if his ideas

of service had emerged from such a source.

That portion of his crowded schedule George grew eventually to like. It

brought him either unrestrained scolding or else a tempered praise; and

he enjoyed his cross-country runs. Sylvia's bulldog usually accompanied

him, unleashed, for he could control the animal. With surprised eyes he

saw estates as extravagant as Oakmont, and frequently in better taste.

Little by little he picked up the names of the families that owned them.

He told himself that some day he would enter those places as a guest,

bowed to by such servants as he had been. It was possible, he promised

himself bravely, if only he could win a Yale or a Harvard game.

He enjoyed, too, the hours he spent at the field. He could measure his

progress there as well as in Bailly's study. Green was slow with either

praise or blame, but sometimes Rogers and his clan would come down, and,

sitting in the otherwise empty stands, would audibly marvel at the

graceful trajectory of his punts. He soiled himself daily at the

tackling dummy. He sprawled after an elusive ball, falling on it or

picking it up on the run. Meantime, he had absorbed the elements of the

rules. He found them rather more complicated than the classics.

The head coach came from the city one day. Like Green, he said nothing

in praise or blame, merely criticising pleasantly; but George felt that

he was impressed. The great man even tossed the ball about with him for

a while, teaching him to throw at a definite mark. After that Rogers and

his cronies wanted to be more in evidence than ever, but George had no

time for them, or for anything outside his work.

His will to survive the crushing grind never really faltered, but he

resented its necessity, sometimes wistfully, sometimes with turbulence.

He despised himself for regretting certain pleasanter phases of his

serfdom at Oakmont. The hot, stuffy room on the top floor of the frame

house; the difficult books; the papers streaked with intricate and

reluctant figures, contrived frequently to swing his mind to pastoral

corners of the Planter estate. He might have held title to them, they

had been so much his own. He had used them during his free time for the

reading of novels, and latterly, he remembered, for formless dreams of

Sylvia's beauty. At least his mind had not been put to the torture

there. He had had time to listen to a bird's song, to ingratiate himself

with a venturesome squirrel, to run his hands through the long grass, to

lie half asleep, brain quite empty save for a temporal content.

Now, running or walking in the country, he found no time for the happier

aspects of woods or fields. He had to drive himself physically in order

that his mind could respond to Bailly's urgencies. And sometimes, as has

been suggested, his revolt was more violent. He paced his room angrily.

Why did he do it? Why did he submit? Eventually his eyes would turn to

her photograph, and he would go back to his table.

He was grateful for the chance that had let him pick up that picture.

Without its constant supervision he might not have been able to keep up

the struggle. During the worst moments, when some solution mocked him,

he would stare at the likeness while his brain fought, while, with a

sort of self-hypnosis induced by that pictured face, he willed himself

to keep on.

One night, when he had suffered over an elusive equation beyond his

scheduled bedtime, he found his eyes, as he stared at the picture,

blurring strangely; then the thing was done, the answer proved; but

after what an effort! Why did his eyes blur? Because of the intensity of

some emotion whose significance he failed all at once to grasp. He

continued to stare at Sylvia's beauty, informed even here with a sincere

intolerance; at those lips which had released the contempt that had

delivered him to this other slavery. Abruptly the emotion, that had

seemed to leap upon him from the books and the complicated figures,

defined itself with stark, unavoidable brutality. He reached out and

with both hands grasped the photograph. He wanted to snatch his hands

apart, ripping the paper, destroying the tranquil, arrogant features. He

replaced the picture, leant back, and continued hypnotically to study

it. His hands grasped the table's edge while the blurring of his eyes

increased. He spoke aloud in a clear and sullen voice:

"I hate you," he said. "With all my heart and soul and body I hate you."

IV

About this time one partial break in the schedule came like a strong

tonic. Bailly at the close of an evening's session spoke, George

fancied, with a little embarrassment.

"My wife wants to speak to you before you go."

He raised his voice.

"Martha! The battle's over for to-night."

She came quietly in and perched herself on the arm of a chair.

"I'm having a few people for dinner to-morrow," she explained. "There's

one young girl, so I want a young man. Won't you help me out?"

George's elation was shot with doubt of an unexplored territory. This

promised an advance if he could find the way. He glanced inquiringly at

Bailly.

"Women," the tutor said, "lack a sense of values. I shall be chained

anyway to my wife's ill-conceived hospitality, so you might as well

come. But we'll dine early so we won't destroy an entire evening."

"Then at seven-thirty, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Bailly said.

"Thank you," George answered. "I shall be very happy to come."

As a matter of fact, he was there before seven-thirty, over-anxious to

be socially adequate. He had worried a good deal about the invitation.

Could it be traced to his confession to Bailly? Was it, in any sense, a

test? At least it bristled with perplexities. His ordinary suit of

clothing, even after an extended pressing and brushing, was, he felt,

out of place. It warned him that of the ritual of a mixed dinner he was

blankly ignorant. He established two cardinal principles. He would watch

and imitate the others. He wouldn't open his mouth unless he had to.

Bailly, with tact, wore the disgraceful tweeds, but there were two other

men, a professor and a resident, George gathered in the rapidity of the

introduction which slurred names. These wore evening clothes. Of the two

elderly women who accompanied them one was quite dazzling, displaying

much jewellery, and projecting an air truly imperial. Side by side with

her Mrs. Bailly appeared more than ever a priestess of service; yet to

George her serene self-satisfaction seemed ornament enough.

Where, George wondered, was the girl for whom he had been asked?

Mrs. Bailly drew him from these multiple introductions. He turned and

saw the girl standing in the doorway, a dazzling portrait in a dingy

frame. As he faced her George was aware of a tightening of all his

defences. Her clothing, her attitude, proclaimed her as of Sylvia's

sort. He ventured to raise his eyes to her face. It was there, too, the

habit of the beautiful, the obvious unfamiliarity with life's grayer

tones. Yet she did not resemble Sylvia. Her skin was nearly white. Her

hair glinted with gold; but she, too, was lovely. George asked himself

if she would have lifted the crop, if all these fortunates reacted to a

precise and depressing formula. Somehow he couldn't imagine this girl

striking to hurt.

Mrs. Bailly presented him. Her name was Alston, Betty

Alston, it developed during the succeeding general conversation. He

fixed the stouter of the men in evening clothes as her father and the

imperial woman as her mother. He understood then that they were, indeed,

of Sylvia's sort, for during his cross-country work he had frequently

passed their home, an immense Tudor house in the midst of pleasant

acres.

It was because of the girl that the pitfalls of dinner were bridged. In

the technique of accepting Mrs. Bailly's excellent courses he was always

a trifle behind her. She made conversation, moreover, surprisingly easy.

After the first few moments, during which no one troubled to probe his

past, the older people left them to themselves. She didn't ask what his

prep was, or where he lived, or any other thing to make him stammer.

"You look like a football player," she said, frankly.

They talked of his work. He said he had admired her home during his

runs. She responded naturally:

"When we are really back you must come and see it more intimately."

The invitation to enter the gates!

He fell silent. Would it be fair to go without giving her an opportunity

to treat him as Sylvia had done? Why should she inspire such a question?

Hadn't he willed his past to oblivion? Hadn't he determined to take

every short cut? Of course he would go, as George Morton, undergraduate,

football player, magician with horses. The rest was none of her

business.

They were in Princeton, she explained, only for a few days from time to

time, but would be definitely back when college opened. She, too, was

going to be introduced to society that winter. He wanted to ask her how

it was done. He pictured a vast apartment, dense with unpleasant people,

and a man who cried out with a brazen voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! This

is Miss Sylvia Planter. This is Miss Betty Alston." Quite like an

auction.

"It must be wonderful to play football," she was saying. "I should have

preferred to be a man. What can a girl do? Bad tennis, rotten golf,

something with horses."

He smiled. He could impress Betty Alston, but there was no point in

that, because she was a girl, and he could think of only one girl.

Yet he carried home an impression of unexpected interest and kindness.

Her proximity, the rustling of her gown, the barely detectable perfume

from her tawny hair, furnished souvenirs intangible but very warm in his

memory. They made the portrait and the broken crop seem lifeless and

unimpressive.

He forced himself to stare at Sylvia's likeness until the old hypnotic

sense returned.

V

He saw Betty Alston once more before college opened, unexpectedly,

briefly, and disturbingly; but with all that he carried again to his

lodging an impression of a distracting contact.

He was out for a morning run, wearing some ancient flannels Bailly had

loaned him, and a sweater, for autumn's first exhilaration sharpened the

air. Sylvia's bulldog barked joyously about him as he trotted through a

lane not far from the Alston place. He often went that way, perhaps

because its gates were already half open. As he turned the corner of a

hedge he came face to face with Betty. In a short skirt and knitted

jacket she was even more striking than she had been at the Bailly's. The

unexpected encounter had brought colour to her rather pale face. The

bulldog sprang for her. George halted him with a sharp command.

"I am not afraid of him," she laughed. "Come here, savage beast."

The dog crawled to her and licked her fingers. George saw her examining

the animal curiously.

"I hope he didn't frighten you," he said, his cap in his hand.

She glanced up, and at her voice George straightened, and turned quickly

away so that she couldn't see the response to her amazing question. Was

it, he asked himself, traceable to Old Planter's threats. Were they

going to try to smash him at the start and keep him out of Princeton?

"Do you happen," Betty had said, frowning, "to know Sylvia Planter, or,

perhaps, her brother, Lambert?"

George didn't care to lie; nor was it, his instinct told him, safe to

lie to Betty. She knew the Planters, then. But how could Old Planter

drive him out except through his parents? He wasn't going to be driven

out. He turned back slowly. In Betty's face he read only a slight

bewilderment.

"That's a queer thing to ask," he managed.

"The dog," she said, caressing the ugly snout, "is the image of one

Sylvia Planter was very fond of. Sylvia and I were at school together

last year. I've just been visiting her the last few days. She said she

had given her dog away."

She drew the dog closer and read the name on the collar.

"Roland! What was the name of her dog?"

George relaxed.

"That dog," he said, harshly, "belongs to me."

She glanced at him, surprised, releasing the dog and standing up. It

wasn't Old Planter then, and his parents were probably safe enough; but

had Sylvia, he asked himself angrily, made a story for her guest out of

his unwary declaration and his abrupt vanishing from Oakmont? Did this

friendly creature know anything? If she did she would cease to be

amiable. His anger diminished as he saw the curiosity leave her face.

"An odd resemblance! Do you know, Mr. Morton, I rather think you're

bound to meet Lambert Planter anyway. I believe he's a very important

young man at Yale. You'll have to play football a little better than he

does. His sister and he are going to visit me for a few days before he

goes back to New Haven. Perhaps you'll see him then."

George resented the prospect. He got himself away.

"Squibs," he told her, "sees everything. If I loiter he finds out and

scolds."

He had an impression that she looked after him until he was out of

sight. Or was it the dog that still puzzled her? Something of her, at

least, accompanied him longer than that--her kindness, her tact in the

matter of the Planters. He would take very good care that he didn't meet

Lambert; the prospect of Sylvia's adjacence, however, filled him with a

disturbing excitement. He wanted to see her, but he felt it wouldn't be

safe to have her see him yet.

Her picture increased his excitement, filled him with a craving for her

physical presence. He desired to look at her, as he had looked at the

photograph, to see if he could tell himself under those conditions that

he hated her. Whether that was true or not, he was more determined than

ever to make his boasts good.

VI

The day of the immediate test approached and he found himself no longer

afraid of it. Even Bailly one early September evening abandoned

cynicism.

"You've every chance, Morton," he said, puffing at his pipe, "to enter

creditably. You may have a condition in French, but what of that? We'll

have it off by the divisionals. I'll admit you're far from a dunce.

During the next ten days we'll concentrate on the examination

idiosyncrasies of my revered colleagues."

The scholarship had, in fact, been won for George, but the necessary

work, removed from any suspicion of the servatorial, had not yet been

found. Bailly, although he plainly worried himself, told George not to

be impatient; then, just before the entrance examinations, the head

coach arrived and settled himself in Princeton. Self-assured young men

drifted to the field now every afternoon--"varsity men," the Rogers clan

whispered with awe. And there were last year's substitutes, and faithful

slaves of the scrub, over-anxious, pouring out to early practice,

grasping at one more chance. So far no Freshmen candidates had been

called, but the head coach was heard to whisper to Green:

"We'd better work this fellow Morton with the squad until the cubs

start. He'll stand a lot of practice. Give him all the football he'll

hold. He's outkicking his ends now. Jack him up without cutting down his

distance. I'd like to see him make a tackle. He looks good at the dummy,

but you never can tell. He may be an ear-puller."

The magic words slipped through the town. George caught arriving

Freshmen pointing him out. He overheard glowing prophecies.

"Green says he'll outkick Dewitt."

It didn't turn his head. To be the greatest player the game had ever

known wouldn't have turned his head, for that would have been only one

small step toward the summit from which Sylvia looked down on him with

contemptuous, inimical eyes.

The head coach one afternoon gave the ball to a young man of no

pronounced value, and instructed him to elude George if he could.

"You, Morton," the head coach instructed, "see that he doesn't get past

you. Remember what you've done to the dummy."

George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with a

hundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desire

to make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than a

man, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by his

rough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept his

glance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going to

side-step, and in which direction; lunged at exactly the right moment;

clipped the runner about the knees; lifted him; brought him crashing to

the ground. The ball rolled to one side. George released his man,

sprawled, and gathered the ball in his arms. A great silence descended

on the field. Out of it, as George got up, slipped the uncertain voice

of his victim.

"Did anything break off, Green? That wasn't a tackle. It was a bad

accident. How could I tell he was a bull when he didn't wear horns?"

George helped the man to his feet.

"Hope I didn't hurt you."

"Oh, no. I'll be all right again in a couple of months."

He limped about his work, muttering:

"Maybe mother was right when she didn't want me to play this game."

The coach wasn't through. He gave the ball to George and signalled one

of the biggest of the varsity men.

"Let me see you get past that fellow, Morton."

George didn't get past, although, with the tackler's vise-like grip

about his legs, he struggled with knees and elbows, and kept his feet

until the coach called to let him go.

"I'm sorry," George began.

"Yes," Green said, severely, "you've got to learn to get past tacklers.

If you learn to do that consistently I'll guarantee you a place on the

team, provided Mr. Stringham's willing."

"I'm willing," the head coach said with apparent reluctance.

Everyone within hearing laughed, but George couldn't laugh, although he

knew it was expected.

"Mr. Stringham," he said, "I will learn to get past them unless they

come too thick."

The coach patted his shoulder. His voice was satisfied.

"Run along to the showers now."

There may have been something in the sequence of these events, for that

very night Squibs Bailly's face twitched with satisfaction.

"You have a share," he said, "in the agency of the laundry most

generally patronized by our young men. It will pay you enough unless you

long for automobiles and gaiety."

"No," George said, "but, Mr. Bailly, I need clothes. I can afford to buy

some now. Where shall I go? What shall I get?"

Bailly limped about thoughtfully. He named a tailor of the town. He

prescribed an outing suit and a dinner suit.

"Because," he said, "if you're asked about, you want to be able to go,

and a dinner suit will pass for a Freshman nearly anywhere."

"If," George asked himself defiantly as he walked home, "Squibs thinks

my ambition unworthy, why does he go out of his way to boost it? Anyway,

I'm going to do my best to make touchdowns for him and Mrs. Squibs. Is

that Princeton spirit, or Bailly spirit, or am I fooling myself, and am

I going to make touchdowns just for myself and Sylvia Planter?"

VII

The meeting he had desired above all things to avoid took place when he

was, for a moment, off his guard. He was on his way to Dickinson Hall

for his first examination. Perhaps that was why he was too absorbed to

notice the automobile drawn up at the curb just ahead, and facing him.

He had no warning. He nearly collided with Lambert Planter, who walked

out of a shop. George stopped, drew back, and thought of dodging behind

the procession of worried, sombrely clothed Freshmen; but there wasn't

time. Lambert's face showed bewilderment and recognition.

"Certainly it is Mr. Morton," he said in his old mocking fashion.

George glanced at the surprised features which, in a masculine fashion,

were reminiscent of Sylvia; and beyond he saw, in the rear seat of the

automobile, Sylvia herself, lovelier, more removed than ever. Betty

Alston sat at her side. Evidently neither had observed the encounter,

for they laughed and chatted, probably about the terror-stricken

Freshmen.

George swallowed hard.

"I heard you were going to be here. I wanted to keep out of your way."

"But why?" Lambert laughed. "You have a scholastic appearance. You never

mean----"

"I am taking my entrance examinations," George said. "I want to make

good here."

He looked straight into Lambert's eyes. His voice became incisive,

threatening.

"I will make good. Don't try giving me away. Don't you tell Miss Alston

where I came from----"

"Yeh. The big fellow! Morton! Stringham and Green say he's going to be a

wonder."

It drifted to them from the passing youths.

Lambert whistled. The mockery left his voice.

"Go as far as you can," he said.

And followed it with:

"Don't be a self-conscious ass."

He smiled whimsically.

"Glad to have run into you--George."

The driver had noticed Lambert. The automobile glided nearer.

"I--I've got to get away," George said, hastily. "I don't want your

sister to see me."

Lambert turned. His voice, in turn, was a trifle threatening.

"That's all nonsense. She's forgotten all about you; she wouldn't know

you from Adam."

George couldn't help staring. What a contrast the two young women

offered! He wanted to realize that he actually looked at Sylvia Planter,

Sylvia of the flesh, Sylvia who had expressed for him an endless

contempt. But he couldn't help seeing also the golden hair and the soft

colouring of Betty Alston.

Lambert sprang into the car. Sylvia and Betty both glanced at the man

he had left. George waited. What would happen now? Sylvia's colour did

not heighten. Her eyes did not falter. Betty smiled and waved her hand.

George took off his cap, still expectant. Sylvia's lifeless stare

continued until the car had rolled away. George sighed, relaxed, and

went on.

Had Lambert been right? He didn't want to believe that. It hurt too

much.

"She saw me," he muttered. "She stared, not as if she saw an unknown

man, but as if she wanted to make me think she saw nothing. She saw me."

But he couldn't be sure. It seemed to him then that he wanted more than

anything in the world to be sure.

And he had not taken advantage of his chance. Instead of looking at her

and fixing the stark fact of hatred in his mind, he had only thought

with an angry, craving desire:

"You are the loveliest thing in the world. The next time you'll know me.

By God, the next time I'll _make_ you know me."

VIII

In the examination hall George called upon his will to drive from his

mind the details of that encounter. Lambert might be dependable, but if

Sylvia had actually recognized him what might she not say to Betty

Alston? He didn't want to see the kindness vanish from Betty's eyes, nor

the friendliness from her manner. Lambert's assurance, moreover, that

Sylvia had forgotten him lingered irritatingly.

"I will not think of it," George told himself. "I will think of nothing

but this paper. I will pass it."

This ability to discipline his mind had increased steadily during his

hours before Sylvia's portrait. The simple command "I will," was a

necessity his brain met with a decreasing reluctance. For two hours now

it excluded everything except his work. At the end of that time he

signed his paper, sat back, and examined the anxious young men crowded

about him in the long room. From these he must sooner or later detach

the ones of value to himself. That first quick appraisal disclosed

little; they were clothed too much to a pattern, wearing black jerseys,

more often than not, black clothes, with black caps hanging from the

supports of their chairs. In their faces, however, were visible

differences that made him uneasy. Even from a uniform, then, men, to an

extent, projected discrepancies of birth, or training, or habit. He

sighed and turned in his paper.

At the foot of the stairs groups collected, discussing the ordeal

pessimistically. As he started to walk through, several spoke to George.

"How did _you_ hit it, Morton?"

Already he was well spotted. He paused and joined the apprehensive

chatter.

"It's a toss-up with me," Rogers admitted. "Don't tell me any answers.

If ignorance is bliss, I want to stay dumb."

He caught George's arm.

"Have you met Dicky Goodhue? Hello, Goodhue!"

Goodhue gave the impression of not having met Rogers to any extent. He

was a sturdy young man with handsome, finely formed features. George

looked at him closely, because this young man alone of the Freshmen he

had met remained unmoved by his fame.

"Would like you to meet Morton, Goodhue."

Goodhue glanced at George inquiringly, almost resentfully.

"George Morton," Rogers stumbled on, as if an apology were necessary.

"Stringham, you know, and Green----"

"Glad to meet you," Goodhue said, indifferently.

"Thanks," George acknowledged as indifferently, and turned away.

Goodhue, it came upon him with a new appreciation of difficulties, was

the proper sort. He watched him walk off with a well-dressed,

weak-looking youth, threading a careless course among his classmates.

"How long have you known this fellow Goodhue?" George asked as he

crossed the campus with Rogers.

"Oh, Goodhue?" Rogers said, uncomfortably. "I've seen him any number of

times. Ran into him last night."

"Good-looking man," George commented. "Where's he come from?"

"You don't know who Dicky Goodhue is!" Rogers cried. "I mean, you must

have heard of his father anyway, the old Richard. Real Estate for

generations. Money grows for them without their turning a hand. Dicky's

up at the best clubs in New York. Plays junior polo on Long Island."

George had heard enough.

"If I do as well with the other exams," he said, "I'm going to get in."

With Freshmen customs what they were, he was thinking, he could appear

as well dressed as the Goodhue crowd. He would take pains with that.

He passed Goodhue on his way to the examination hall that afternoon, and

Goodhue didn't remember him. The incident made George thoughtful. Was

football going to prove the all-powerful lever he had fancied? At any

rate, Rogers' value was at last established.

He reported that evening to Bailly:

"I think it's all right so far."

The tutor grinned.

"To-day's beyond recall, but to-morrow's the future, and it cradles,

among other dragons, French."

He pointed out passages in a number of books.

"Wrestle with those until midnight," he counselled, "and then go to

sleep. Day after to-morrow we'll hope you can apply your boot to a

football again."

Mrs. Bailly stopped him in the hall.

"How did it go?" she asked, eagerly.

Her anxiety had about it something maternal. It gave him for the first

time a feeling of being at home in Princeton.

"I got through to-day," he said.

"Good! Good!"

She nodded toward the study.

"Then you have made him very happy."

"I always want to," George said. "That's a worthy ambition, isn't it?"

She looked at him gropingly, as if she almost caught his allusion.

IX

As George let himself out of the gate a closed automobile turned the

corner and drew up at the curb. The driver sprang down and opened the

door. Betty Alston's white-clad figure emerged and crossed the sidewalk

while George pulled off his cap and held the gate open for her. He

suffered an ugly suspense. What would she say? Would she speak to him at

all? Phrases that Sylvia might have used to her flashed through his

mind; then he saw her smile as usual. She held out her hand. The warmth

of her fingers seemed to reach his mind, making it less unyielding. The

fancy put him on his guard.

"I know you passed," she said.

He walked with her across the narrow yard to the porch.

"I think so, to-day."

She paused with her foot on the lower step. The light from the corner

disclosed her face, puzzled and undecided; and his uneasiness returned.

"I am just returning this," she said, holding up a book. "I'd be glad to

drop you at your lodging----"

"I'll wait."

While she was inside he paced the sidewalk. There had been a question in

her face, but not the vital one, which, indeed, she wouldn't have

troubled to ask. Sylvia had not recognized him, or, recognizing him, had

failed to give him away.

Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into the

pleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her white

figure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfume

of her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so close

to her. He had no business, anyway----

She snapped on the light. She laughed.

"I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter."

He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might give

way.

"If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "it

was because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wanted

to forget."

"I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed glad

to see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?"

"Yes," he answered, doubtfully.

That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced.

"I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; I

mean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?"

"Yes," he said again.

Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly if

Lambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself up

short. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and Lambert

Planter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness of his

companionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. It

surrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened,

after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he had

condemned himself.

"Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in.

Dear old Squibs told me so."

He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her,

said good-night, and turned resolutely away.

It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked

Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he

had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered

him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his

ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape.

Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so

differently?

The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to

himself.

"Because she doesn't know."

He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He

would detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use that

crop yet.

X

He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose a

seat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends of

Goodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. George

noticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entire

room. At first George thought it was because he was older, then he

decided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lacked

lustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examination

sheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first to

rise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, and

sighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him:

"How do you suppose Spike does it?"

George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike.

He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly well

emptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. He

took a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more than

two months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased.

First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly.

"Lend me a novel--something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open a

text-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir,

and you haven't given me another."

Bailly's wrinkled face approved.

"You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shall

have your novel. I'm afraid----"

He paused, laughing.

"I mean, my task with you is about done. You've more brain than a

dinosaur. It is variously wrinkled where once it was like a babe's.

Except for the French, you should handle your courses without superhuman

effort. Don't ever let me hear of your getting a condition. Your next

schedule will come from Stringham and Green."

He limped to a bookcase and drew out a volume bound in red.

"Without entirely wasting your time, you may amuse yourself with that."

"'Treasure Island.'"

George frowned doubtfully.

"We studied something about this man. If he's good enough to get in the

school books maybe he isn't just what I'm looking for to-night."

"Have you ever perused Nick Carter, or, perhaps Old Sleuth?" Bailly

asked.

George smiled.

"I know I have to forget all that."

"In intellectual circles," Bailly agreed.

He glanced slyly around.

"I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment,

so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearly

equal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the most

exalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment is

based on manner rather than matter."

"You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing it

is the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?"

Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced George

with a little show of bewildered temper.

"See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can't

fasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home and

read your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawless

and touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, is

always worth while."

George's attitude was a challenge.

"Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if your

hands do get dirty."

Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need a

preacher," he said, "not a tutor."

XI

In his room George opened his book and read happily. Never in his life

had he been so relaxed and content. Entangled in the adventures of

colourful characters he didn't hear at first the sliding of stealthy

feet in the hall, whispered consultations, sly knockings at various

doors. Then there came a rap at his own door, and he glanced up,

surprised, sweeping the photograph and the broken crop into the table

drawer.

"Come in," he called, not heartily.

A dozen young men crowded slowly into the room. They wore orange and

black jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had the

appearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George had

no doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazing

was frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism.

"Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, and

follow us."

George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, to

give them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should be

qualified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledged

him as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready to

obey. Then someone grunted with disgust.

"Come on. Duck out of here."

"What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel."

"It's Morton. We can't monkey with him."

The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door in

search of victims more available. George became belligerent for an

opposite reason.

"Why not?" he demanded.

The leader smiled in friendly fashion.

"You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field."

As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation.

Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an important

character.

The next morning, packed with the nervous Freshmen in a lecture room, he

heard his name read out with the sections. He fought his way into the

university offices to scan the list of conditioned men. He didn't appear

on a single slip. He had even managed the easy French paper. He attended

to the formalities of matriculating. He was free to play football, to

take up the by-no-means considerable duties of the laundry agency, to

make friends. He had completed the first lap.

When he reported at the field that afternoon he found that the Freshmen

had a coach of their own, a young man who possessed the unreal violence

of a Sophomore, but he knew the game, and the extra invective with which

he drove George indicated that Stringham and Green had confided to him

their hopes.

The squad was large. Later it would dwindle and its members be thrown

into a more intimate contact. Goodhue was there, a promising

quarterback. Rogers toiled with a hopeless enthusiasm. George smiled,

appreciating the other's logic. It was a good thing to try for the team,

even though one had no chance of making it. As a matter of fact, Rogers

disappeared at the first weeding-out.

The opening fortnight was wholly pleasant--a stressing of fundamentals

that demanded little severe physical effort. Nor did the curriculum

place any grave demands on George. During the evenings he frequently

supplemented his work at the field with a brisk cross-country run, more

often than not in the vicinity of the Alston place. He could see the

lights in the huge house, and he tried to visualize that interior where,

perhaps, men of the Goodhue stamp sat with Betty. He studied those

fortunates, meantime, and the other types that surrounded him. There

were many men of a sort, of the Rogers sort particularly, who

continually suggested their receptivity; and he was invariably

courteous--from a distance, as he had seen Goodhue respond to Rogers.

For George had his eyes focused now. He had seen the best.

The election of Freshmen class officers outlined several facts. The

various men put up for office were unknown to the class in general, were

backed by little crowds from their own schools. Men from less important

schools, and men, like George, with no preparatory past, voted wild.

These school groups, he saw, clung together; would determine, it was

clear, the social progress through college of their members. That

inevitably pointed to the upper-class club houses on Prospect Street.

George had seen them from his first days at University Field, but until

now they had, naturally enough, failed to impress him with any immediate

interest. He desired the proper contacts for the molding of his own

deportment and, to an extent even greater, for the bearing they would

have on his battle for money and position after he should leave college.

But it became clear to him now that the contest for Prospect Street had

begun on the first day, even earlier, back in the preparatory schools.

Were such contacts possible in a serviceable measure without success in

that selfish, headlong race? Was it practicable to draw the attention of

the eager, half-blind runners to one outside the sacred little groups?

Football would open certain doors, but if there was one best club he

would have that or nothing. It might be wiser to stand brazenly aloof,

posing as above such infantile jealousies. The future would decide, but

as he left the place of the elections he had an empty feeling, a

sharpened appreciation of the hazards that lay ahead.

Goodhue would be pointed for the highest. Goodhue would lead in many

ways. He was elected the first president of the class.

The poor or earnest men, ignorant of everything outside their books,

come from scattered homes, quite friendless, gravitated together in what

men like Rogers considered a social quarantine. Rogers, indeed, ventured

to warn George of the risk of contagion. As chance dictated George

chatted with such creatures; once or twice even walked across the campus

with them.

"You're making a mistake," Rogers advised, "being seen with polers like

Allen."

"I've been seen with him twice that I can think of," George answered.

"Why?"

"That lot'll queer you."

George put his hand on Rogers' shoulder.

"See here. If I'm so small that that will queer me, you can put me down

as damned."

He walked on with that infrequently experienced sensation of having made

an advance. Yet he couldn't quite see why. He had responded to an

instinct that must have been his even in the days at Oakmont, when he

had been less than human. If he didn't see more of men like Allen it was

because they had nothing to offer him; nothing whatever. Goodhue had----

When their paths crossed on the campus now Goodhue nodded, for each day

they met at the field, both certainties, if they escaped injury, for the

Freshmen eleven.

Football had ceased to be unalloyed pleasure. Stringham that fall used

the Freshmen rather more than the scrub as a punching bag for the

varsity. The devoted youngsters would take punishment from three or four

successive teams from the big squad. They became, consequently, as hard

as iron. Frequently they played a team of varsity substitutes off its

feet. George had settled into the backfield. He was fast with the ball,

but he found it difficult to follow his interference, losing patience

sometimes, and desiring to cut off by himself. Even so he made

consistent gains through the opposing line. On secondary defence he was

rather too efficient. Stringham was continually cautioning him not to

tackle the varsity pets too viciously. After one such rebuke Goodhue

unbent to sympathy.

"If they worked the varsity as hard as they do us Stringham wouldn't

have to be so precious careful of his brittle backs. Just the same,

Morton, I would rather play with you than against you."

George smiled, but he didn't bother to answer. Let Goodhue come around

again.

George's kicking from the start outdistanced the best varsity punts. The

stands, sprinkled with undergraduates and people from the town, would

become noisy with handclapping as his spirals arched down the field.

Squibs Bailly, George knew, was always there, probably saying, "I kicked

that ball. I made that run," and he had. The more you thought of it, the

more it became comprehensible that he had.

The afternoon George slipped outside a first varsity tackle, and dodged

two varsity backs, running forty yards for a touchdown, Squibs limped on

the field, followed by Betty Alston. The scrimmaging was over. The

Freshmen, triumphant because of George's feat, streaked toward the field

house. Goodhue ran close to George. Bailly caught George's arm. Goodhue

paused, calling out:

"Hello, Betty!"

At first Betty seemed scarcely to see Goodhue. She held out her hand to

George.

"That was splendid. Don't forget that you're going to make me

congratulate you this way next fall after the big games."

"I'll do my best. I want you to," George said.

Again he responded to the frank warmth of her fingers that seemed

unconsciously endeavouring to make more pliable the hard surface of his

mind.

"The strength of a lion," Bailly was saying, "united to the cruel

cunning of the serpent. Heaven be praised you didn't seek the higher

education at Yale or Harvard."

Betty called a belated greeting to Goodhue.

"Hello, Dicky! Wasn't it a real run? I feel something of a sponsor. I

told him before college opened he would be a great player."

Goodhue's surprise was momentarily apparent.

"It was rather nice to see those big fellows dumped," he said.

Betty went closer to him.

"Aren't you coming out to dinner soon? I'll promise Green you won't

break training."

The warm, slender fingers were no longer at George's mind. He felt

abruptly repulsed. He wanted only to get away. Her eyes caught his, and

she smiled.

"And bring Mr. Morton. I'm convinced he'll never come unless somebody

takes him by the hand."

George glanced at her hand. He had a whimsical impulse to reach out for

it, to close his eyes, to be led.

Heavy feet hurried behind the little group. A voice filled with rancour

and disgust cried out:

"You standing here without blankets just to enjoy the autumn breezes?

You ought to have better sense, Mr. Bailly."

"It's my fault, Green," Betty laughed.

"That's different," the trainer admitted, gallantly. "You can't expect a

woman to have much sense. Get to the showers now, and on the run."

Goodhue and George trotted off.

"I didn't know you were a friend of Betty Alston's," Goodhue said.

George didn't answer. Goodhue didn't say anything else.

XII

Often after those long, pounding afternoons George returned to his room,

wondering dully, as he had done last summer, why the deuce he did it.

Sylvia's picture stared the same answer, and he would turn with a sigh

to one of the novels Bailly loaned him regularly. Bailly was of great

value there, too, for he chose the books carefully, and George was

commencing to learn that as a man reads so is he very likely to think.

Whenever he spoke now he was careful to modulate his voice, to choose

his words, never to be heard without a reason.

The little fellow with the moustache whom the Goodhue crowd called Spike

met him on the campus one day after practice.

"My name," he announced in a high-pitched, slurred voice, "is Wandel.

You may not realize it, but you are a very great man, Morton."

George looked him over, astonished. He had difficulty not to mock the

other's manner, nearly effeminate.

"Why am I great, Mr. Wandel?"

"Anybody," Wandel answered in his singing voice, "who does one thing

better than others is inevitably great."

George smiled vindictively.

"I suppose I ought to return the compliment. What do you do?"

Wandel wasn't ruffled.

"Very many things. I brew good tea for one. What about a cup now? Come

to my rooms. They're just here, in Blair tower."

George weighed the invitation. Wandel was beyond doubt of the

fortunates, yet curiously apart from them. George's diplomacy required a

forcing of the fortunates to seek him. Wandel, for that matter, had

sought. Where George might have refused a first invitation from Goodhue

he accepted Wandel's, because he was anxious to know the man's real

purpose in asking him.

"All right. Thanks. But I haven't much time. I want to do some reading

before dinner."

He hadn't imagined anything like Wandel's room existed in college, or

could be conceived or executed by one of college age. The study was

large and high with a broad casement window. The waning light increased

the values Wandel had evidently sought. The wall covering and the

draperies at the three doors and the window were a dead shade of green

that, in fact, suggested a withdrawal from life nearly supernatural, at

least medieval. The half-dozen pictures were designed to complete this

impression. They were primitives--an awkward but lovely Madonna, a

procession of saints who seemed deformed by their experiences, grotesque

conceptions of biblical encounters. There were heavy rugs, also green in

foundation; and, with wide, effective spaces between, stood

uncomfortable Gothic chairs, benches, and tables.

Two months ago George would have expressed amazement, perhaps

admiration. Now he said nothing, but he longed for Squibs' opinion of

the room. He questioned what it reflected of the pompous little man who

had brought him.

Wandel stooped and lighted the fire. He switched the heavy green

curtains over the window. In a corner a youth stirred and yawned.

"Hello, Dalrymple," Wandel said. "Waited long? You know that very great

man, Morton?"

The increasing firelight played on Dalrymple's face, a countenance

without much expression, intolerant, if anything, but in a far weaker

sense than Sylvia's assurance. George recognized him. He had seen him

accompany Goodhue through the crowd the day of the first examination.

Dalrymple didn't disturb himself.

"The football player? How do. Damn tea, Spike. You've got whiskey and a

siphon."

George's hand had been ready. He was thankful he hadn't offered it. In

that moment a dislike was born, not very positive; the emotion one has

for an unwholesome animal.

Wandel disappeared. After a moment he came in, wearing a fantastic

embroidered dressing gown of the pervading dead green tone. He lighted a

spirit lamp, and, while the water heated, got out a tea canister, cups,

boxes of biscuits, cigarettes, bottles, and glasses. Dalrymple poured a

generous drink. Wandel took a smaller one.

"You," he said to George, "being a very great man, will have some tea."

"I'll have some tea, anyway," George answered.

The door opened. Goodhue strolled in. His eyebrows lifted when he saw

George.

"Do you know you're in bad company, Morton?"

"I believe so," George answered.

Wandel was pleased. George saw Goodhue glance a question at Dalrymple.

Dalrymple merely stared.

They sat about, sipping, talking of nothing in particular, and the

curious room was full of an interrogation. George lost his earlier fancy

of being under Wandel's inspection. It was evident to him now that

Wandel was the man to do his inspecting first. Why the deuce had he

asked him here? Dalrymple and Goodhue were clearly puzzled by the same

question.

When he had emptied his cup George rose and put on his cap.

"Thanks for the cup of tea, Wandel."

"Don't go," Wandel urged.

He waved his hands helplessly.

"But, since you're a very distinguished person, I suppose I can't keep

you. Come again, any day this time. Every day."

The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his position

irritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waiting

for the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip,

unaffected by this departure.

Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed George

out. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The broken

light from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision in

his eyes.

"Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; I

mean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?"

George shook his head. He was quite frank.

"I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about that

myself."

Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand.

"Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow."

"Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you call

Wandel 'Spike'?"

Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he coloured

it.

"Maybe it's because he's so sharp."

XIII

George saw a day or two later a professor's criticism in the _Daily

Princetonian_ of the current number of the _Nassau Literary Magazine_.

Driggs Wandel, because of a poem, was excitedly greeted as a man with a

touch of genius. George borrowed a copy of the _Lit_ from a neighbour,

and read a haunting, unreal bit of verse that seemed a part of the room

in which it had probably been written. Obsessed by the practicality of

the little man, George asked himself just what Wandel had to gain by

this performance. He carried the whole puzzle to Bailly that night, and

was surprised to learn that Wandel had impressed himself already on the

faculty.

"This verse isn't genius," Bailly said, "but it proves that the man has

an abnormal control of effect, and he does what he does with no apparent

effort. He'll probably be managing editor of the _Lit_ and the

_Princetonian_, for I understand he's out for that, too. He's going to

make himself felt in his class and in the entire undergraduate body.

Don't undervalue him. Have you stopped to think, Morton, that he still

wears a moustache? Revolutionary! Has he overawed the Sophomores, or has

he too many friends in the upper classes?"

Bailly limped up and down, ill at ease, seeking words.

"I don't know how to advise you. I believe he'll help you delve after

some treasure, though the stains on his own hands won't be visible.

Whether it's just the treasure you want is another matter. Be

inscrutable yourself. Accept his invitations. If you can, find out what

he's up to without committing yourself. You can put it down that he

isn't after you for nothing."

"But why?" George demanded.

Bailly shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"Anyway, I've told you what I could, and you'll go your own way whether

you agree or not."

George did, as a matter of fact. His curiosity carried him a number of

times to Wandel's rooms. Practically always Dalrymple sat aloof,

sullenly sipping whiskey which had no business there. He met a number of

other men of the same crowd who talked football in friendly enough

fashion; and once or twice the suave little fellow made a point of

asking him for a particular day or hour. Always Wandel would introduce

him to some new man, offering him, George felt, as a specimen to be

accepted as a triumph of the Wandel judgment. And in every fresh face

George saw the question he continually asked himself.

Wandel's campaign accomplished one result: Men like Rogers became more

obsequious, considering George already a unit of that hallowed circle.

But George wasn't fooled. He knew very well that he wasn't.

Goodhue, however, was more friendly. Football, after all, George felt,

was quite as responsible for that as Betty Alston or Wandel; for it was

the combination of Goodhue at quarter and George at half that accounted

for the team's work against the varsity, and that beat the Yale and the

Harvard Freshmen. Such a consistent and effectual partnership couldn't

help drawing its members closer out of admiration, out of joy in

success, out of a ponderable dependence that each learned to place upon

the other. That conception survived the Freshman season. George no

longer felt he had to be careful with Goodhue. Goodhue had even found

his lodgings.

"Not palatial," George explained, "because--you may not know it--I am

working my way through college."

Goodhue's voice was a trifle envious.

"I know. It must give you a fine feeling to do that."

Then Betty's vague invitation materialized in a note which mentioned a

date and the fact that Goodhue would be there. Goodhue himself suggested

that George should call at his rooms that evening so they could drive

out together. George had never been before, had not suspected that

Dalrymple lived with Goodhue. The fact, learned at the door, which bore

the two cards, disquieted him, filled him with a sense nearly

premonitory.

When he had entered in response to Goodhue's call his doubt increased.

The room seemed inimical to him, yet it was a normal enough place. What

did it harbour that he was afraid of, that he was reluctant even to look

for?

Goodhue was nearly ready. Dalrymple lounged on a window seat. He glanced

at George languidly.

"Will say, Morton, you did more than your share against those Crimson

Freshmen Saturday."

George nodded without answering. He had found the object the room

contained for which he had experienced a premonitory fear. On one of the

two desks stood an elaborately framed replica of the portrait he himself

possessed of Sylvia Planter. Its presence there impressed him as a

wrong, for to study and commune with that pictured face he had fancied

his unique privilege. Nor did its presence in this room seem quite

honest, for Sylvia, he was willing to swear, wasn't the type to scatter

her likenesses among young men. George had an instinct to turn on

Dalrymple and demand a history of the print, since Goodhue, he was

certain, wouldn't have placed it there without authority. After all,

such authority might exist. What did he know of Sylvia aside from her

beauty, her arrogance, and her breeding? That was it. Her breeding made

the exposure of her portrait here questionable.

"What you staring at?" Dalrymple asked, sullenly.

"Is this your desk?" George demanded.

"Yes. Why?"

George faced him abruptly.

"I was looking at that photograph."

"What for?" Dalrymple demanded, sitting up.

"Because," George answered, evenly, "it happens to be where one sees

it."

Dalrymple flushed.

"Deuced pretty girl," he said with an affectation of indifference. "Of

course you don't know her."

"I have seen her," George said, shortly.

He felt that a challenge had been passed and accepted. He raised his

voice.

"How about it, Goodhue?"

"Coming."

Dalrymple opened his mouth as if to speak, but Goodhue slipped into the

room, and George and he went down the stairs and climbed into Goodhue's

runabout.

"I didn't know," George said when they had started, "that you lived with

Dalrymple."

"We were put together at school, so it seemed simple to start out here."

George was glad to fancy a slight colour of apology, as if such a

companionship needed a reason.

It was a pleasant and intimate little dinner to which they drove. Mr.

and Mrs. Alston recollected meeting George at the Baillys', and they

were kind about his football. A friend of Betty's from a neighbouring

house made the sixth. George was not uncomfortable. His glass had shown

him that in a dinner suit he was rather better looking than he had

thought. Observation had diminished his dread of social lapses. There

flowed, however, rather too much talk of strange worlds, which included

some approaching gaieties in New York.

"You," Betty said casually to him, "must run up to my great affair."

Her aunt, it appeared, would engineer that a short time before the

holidays. George was vague. The prospect of a ballroom was terrifying.

He had danced very little, and never with the type of women who would

throng Betty Alston's debut. Yet he wanted to go.

"Betty," her mother said, dryly, "will have all the lions she can trap."

George received an unpleasant impression of having been warned. It

didn't affect him strongly, because warnings were wasted there; he was

too much the slave of a photograph and a few intolerable memories.

Sylvia would almost certainly be at that dance.

Wandel appeared after dinner.

"I tried to get Dolly to come," he said, "but he was in a most

villainous temper about something, and couldn't be budged. Don't mind

saying he missed a treat. I hired a pert little mare at Marlin's. If I

can find anything in town nearly as good I'll break the two to tandem

this winter."

George's suppressed enthusiasm blazed.

"I'd like to help you. I'd give a good deal for a real fight with a

horse."

He was afraid he had plunged in too fast. He met the surprise of the

others by saying he had played here and there with other people's

horses; but the conversation had drifted to a congenial topic, and it

got to polo.

"Because a man was killed here once," Wandel said, "is no reason why the

game should be damned forever."

"If you young men," Mr. Alston offered, "want to get some ponies down in

the spring, or experiment with what I've got, you're welcome to play

here all you please, and it might be possible to arrange games with

scrub teams from Philadelphia and New York."

"Do you play, Mr. Morton?" Betty asked, interestedly.

"I've scrubbed around," he said, uncertainly.

She laughed.

"Then he's a master. That's what he told dear old Squibs about his

football."

George wanted to get away from horses. He could score only through

action. Talking was dangerous. He was relieved when he could leave with

Goodhue and Wandel.

The runabout scurried out of Wandel's way. The pert little mare sensed a

rival in the automobile, and gave Wandel all the practice he wanted.

George smiled at the busy little man as his cart slithered from side to

side of the driveway.

"That's Spike's one weakness," Goodhue laughed as they hurried off.

"He's not a natural horseman, but he loves the beasts, so he takes his

falls. By the way, I rather think I can guess what he's up to with you."

"What?" George asked.

Goodhue shook his head.

"Learn from Spike. Anyway, I may be wrong."

Then why had Goodhue spoken at all? To put him on his guard?

"Wandel," George promised himself, "will get away with nothing as far as

I am concerned."

Yet all that night the thought of the little man made him uncomfortable.

XIV

George watched his first big varsity game the following Saturday. It was

the last of the season, against Yale. He sat with Goodhue and other

members of the Freshman eleven in an advantageous part of the stands.

The moment the blue squad, greeted by a roar, trotted on the field, he

recognized Lambert Planter's rangy figure. Lambert's reputation as a

fullback had come to Princeton ahead of him, and it had scarcely been

exaggerated. Once he had torn through the line he gave the Princeton

backs all they wanted to do. He kicked for Yale. Defensively he was the

deadliest man on the field. He, George and Goodhue agreed, would

determine the outcome. As, through him, the balance of the contest

commenced to tip, George experienced a biting restlessness. It wasn't

the prospect of the defeat of Princeton by Yale that angered him so much

as the fact that Lambert Planter would unquestionably be the cause.

George felt it unjust that rules should exist excluding him from that

bruising and muddy contest. More than anything else just then he wanted

to be on the field, stopping Planter, avoiding the reluctance of such an

issue.

"We ought to be out there, Morton," Goodhue muttered. "If nothing

happens, we will be next year."

"It's that fellow Planter," George answered. "He could be stopped."

"You could stop him," Goodhue said. "You could outkick him."

George's face was grim.

"I'm stronger than Planter," he said, simply. "I could beat him."

The varsity, however, couldn't. Lambert, during the last quarter,

slipped over the line for the deciding touchdown. The game ended in a

dusky and depressing autumn haze. George and Goodhue watched sullenly

the enemy hosts carry Planter and the other blue players about the

field. Appearing as if they had survived a disaster, they joined the

crowd of men and women, relatives and friends of the players, near the

field house. The vanquished and the substitutes had already slipped

through and out of sight. The first of the steaming Yale men appeared

and threaded a path toward the steps. Lambert, because he had been

honoured most, was the last to arrive, and at that moment out of the

multitude there came into George's vision faces that he knew, as if they

had waited to detach themselves for this spectacular advent.

He saw the most impressive one first of all, and he stood, as he had

frequently stood before her portrait, staring in a mood of wilful

obstinacy. It was only for a few moments, and she was quite some

distance away. Before he could appreciate the chance, she had withdrawn

herself, after a quick, approving tap of her brother's shoulder, among

the curious, crowding people. George had seen her face glow with a happy

pride in spite of her effort at repression; but in the second face which

he noticed there was no emotion visible at all. The hero's mother simply

nodded. Dalrymple stood between mother and daughter, smiling inanely.

Lambert forged ahead, filthy and wet. The steam, like vapour from an

overworked animal, wavered about him. The Baillys and the Alstons pushed

close to George and Goodhue, who were in Lambert's path, pressed there

and held by the anxious people.

At sight of Betty, Lambert paused and stretched out his hand. She was,

George thought, whiter than ever.

"You'll say hello even to an Eli?"

She gave her hand quickly, the colour invading her pallor. For an

instant George thought Lambert was going to draw her closer, saw his

lips twitch, heard him say:

"Don't hold it against me, Betty."

Certainly something was understood between these two, or Lambert, at

least, believed so.

Betty freed her hand and caught at George's arm.

"Look at him," she said clearly, indicating Planter. "You're going to

take care of him next fall. You're not going to let him laugh at us

again."

George managed a smile.

"I'll take care of him, Miss Alston."

Lambert's dirty face expanded.

"These are threats! And it's--George. Then we're to have a return bout

next fall. I'll look forward to it. Hello, Dick. Good-bye, Betty. Till

next fall--George."

He passed on, leaving an impression of confidence and conquest.

"Why," Betty said, impulsively, in George's ear, "does he speak to you

that way? Why does he call you George like that?"

For a moment he looked at her steadily, appealingly.

"It's partly my own fault," he said at last, "but it hurts."

Her voice was softer than before.

"That's wrong. You mustn't let little things hurt, George."

For the first time in his memory he felt a stinging at his eyes, the

desire for tears. He didn't misunderstand. Her use of his first name was

not a precedent. It had been balm applied to a wound that she had only

been able to see was painful. Yet, as he walked away with Goodhue, he

felt as if he had been baptized again.

XV

Wandel, quite undisturbed, joined them.

"You and Dicky," the little man said, "look as if you had come out of a

bad wreck. What's up? It's only a game."

"Of course you're right," George answered, "but you have to play some

games desperately hard if you want to win."

"Now what are you driving at, great man?" Wandel wanted to know.

"Come on, Spike," Goodhue said, irritably. "You're always looking for

double meanings."

George walked on with them, desolately aware of many factors of his life

gone awry. The game; Lambert's noticeable mockery, all the more

unbearable because of its unaffectedness; Dalrymple's adjacence to

Sylvia--these remembrances stung, the last most of all.

"Come on up, you two," Goodhue suggested as they approached the building

in which he lived, "I believe Dolly's giving tea to Sylvia Planter and

her mother."

George wanted to see if the photograph was still there, but he couldn't

risk it. He shook his head.

"Not into the camp of the enemy?" Wandel laughed.

Of course, George told himself as he walked off, Wandel's words couldn't

possibly have held any double meaning.

He fought it out that night, sleeping scarcely at all. In the rush of

his progress here he had failed to realize how little he had really

advanced toward his ultimate goal. Lambert had offhand, perhaps

unintentionally, shown him that afternoon how wide the intervening space

still stretched. Was it because of moral cowardice that he shrank from

challenging a crossing? The answer to such a challenge might easily mean

the destruction of all he had built up, the heavy conditioning of his

future which now promised so abundantly.

He faced her picture with his eyes resolute, his jaw thrust out.

"I'll do it," he told the lifeless print. "I'll make you know me. I'll

teach your brother not to treat me as a servant who has forgotten his

place."

The last, in any case, couldn't be safely put off. Lambert's manner had

already aroused Betty's interest. Had she known its cause she might not

have resented it so sweetly for George. There was no point in fretting

any more. His mind was made up to challenge at the earliest possible

moment.

In furtherance of his resolution he visited his tailor the next day, and

during the evening called at the Baillys'. He came straight to the

point.

"I want some dancing lessons," he said. "Do you know anybody?"

Bailly limped up, put his hands on George's shoulder, and studied him.

"Is this traceable to Wandel?"

"No. To what I told you last summer."

"He's going to Betty Alston's dance," Mrs. Bailly cried.

"If I'm asked," George admitted, "but as a general principle----"

Mrs. Bailly interrupted, assuming control.

"Move that table and the chairs," she directed the two men. "You'll keep

my husband's secret--tinkling music hidden away between grand opera

records. It will come in handy now."

George protested, but she had her own way. Bailly sat by, puffing at his

pipe, at first scornful.

"I hate to see a football player pirouetting like a clown."

But in a little while he was up, awkwardly illustrating steps, his

cheeks flushed, his cold pipe dangling from his lips.

"You dance very well as it is," Mrs. Bailly told George. "You do need a

little quieting. You must learn to remember that the ballroom isn't a

gridiron and your partner the ball."

And at the end of a fortnight she told him he was tamed and ready for

the soft and perfumed exercise of the dance floor.

He was afraid Betty wouldn't remember. Her invitation had been informal,

his response almost a refusal.

On free afternoons Goodhue and he often ran together, trying to keep in

condition, already feeling that the outcome of next year's big games

would depend on them. They trotted openly through the Alston place,

hoping for a glimpse of Betty as a break in their grind. When she saw

them from the house she would come out and chat for a time, her yellow

hair straying in the wind, her cheeks flushed from the cold. During

these brief conferences it was made clear that she had not forgotten,

and that George would go up with Goodhue and be a guest at his home the

night of the dance.

George was grateful for that quality of remoteness in Goodhue which at

first had irritated him. Now he was well within Goodhue's vision, and

acceptably so; but the young man had not shown the slightest interest in

his past or his lack of the right friends before coming to Princeton. At

any moment he might.

The Goodhue house was uptown between Fifth and Madison avenues. It was

as unexpected to George as Wandel's green study had been. The size of

its halls and rooms, the tasteful extravagance of its decorations, the

quiet, liveried servants took his breath. It was difficult not to say

something, to withhold from his glance his admiration and his lack of

habit.

There he was at last, handing his hat and coat to one who bent

obsequiously. He felt a great contempt. He told himself he was unjust,

as unjust as Sylvia, but the contempt persisted.

There were details here more compelling than anything he had seen or

fancied at Oakmont. The entire household seemed to move according to a

feudal pattern. Goodhue's father and mother welcomed George, because

their son had brought him, with a quiet assurance. Mrs. Goodhue, George

felt, might even appreciate what he was doing. That was the outstanding,

the feudal, quality of both. They had an air of unprejudiced judgment,

of removal from any selfish struggle, of being placed beyond question.

Goodhue and George dined at a club that night. They saw Wandel and

Dalrymple, the latter flushed and talking louder than he should have

done in an affected voice. They went to the theatre, and afterward drove

up Fifth Avenue to Betty's party. George was dazzled, and every moment

conscious of the effort to prevent Goodhue's noticing it. His excitement

increased as he came to the famous establishment in the large ballroom

of which Betty was waiting, and, perhaps, already, Sylvia. To an extent

the approaching culmination of his own campaign put him at ease; lifted

him, as it were, above details; left him free to face the moment of his

challenge.

The lower halls were brilliant with pretty, eager faces, noisy with

chatter and laughter, a trifle heady from an infiltration of perfumes.

Wandel joined them upstairs and took George's card, returning it after a

time nearly filled.

"When you see anybody you particularly want to dance with," he advised

secretly, "just cut in without formality. The mere fact of your presence

ought to be introduction enough. You see everybody here knows, or thinks

he knows, everybody else."

George wondered why Wandel went out of his way, and in that particular

direction. Did the little man suspect? The succeeding moments brushed

the question aside.

Betty was radiant, lovelier in her white-and-yellow fashion than George

had ever seen her. He shrank a little from their first contact, all the

more startling to him because he was so little accustomed to the ritual

familiarity of dancing. With his arm around her, with her hand in his,

with her golden hair brushing his cheek, with her lips and eyes smiling

up at him, he felt like one who steals. Why not? Didn't people win their

most prized possessions through theft of one kind or another? It was

because those pliant fingers were always at his mind that he wanted to

release them, wanted to run away from Betty since she always made him

desire to tell her the truth.

"I'm glad you could come. It isn't as bad as football, is it? Have we

any more? If I show signs of distress do cut in if you're not too busy."

He overcame his fear of collisions, avoiding other couples smoothly and

rhythmically. Dalrymple, he observed, was less successful, apologizing

in a high, excited voice. As in a haze George watched a procession of

elderly women, young girls, and men of every age, with his own tall

figure and slightly anxious face greeting him now and then from a

mirror. This repeated and often-unexpected recognition encouraged him.

He was bigger and better looking than most; in the glasses, at least, he

appeared as well-dressed. More than once he heard girls say:

"Who is that big chap with Betty Alston?"

With all his heart he wanted to ask Betty why she had been so kind to

him from the beginning, why she was so kind now. He longed to tell her

how it had affected him. She glanced up curiously. Without realizing it

his grasp had tightened. He relaxed it, wondering what had been in his

mind. It was this odd proximity to a beautiful girl who had been kind to

him that had for a moment swung him from his real purpose in coming

here, the only purpose he had. He resumed his inspection of the crowding

faces. He didn't see Lambert or Sylvia. Had he been wrong? It was

incredible they shouldn't appear.

The music stopped.

"Thanks," he said. "Three after this."

His voice was wistful.

"I did like that."

He desired to tell her that he didn't care to dance with any one else,

except Sylvia, of course.

"I enjoyed it, too. Will you take me back?"

But her partner met them on the way, and he commenced to trail his.

It was halfway through the next number that he knew he had not planned

futilely. It was like Sylvia to arrive in that fashion--a distracting

element in a settled picture, or as one beyond the general run for whom

a special welcome was a matter of course. To George's ears the orchestra

played louder, as if to call attention to her. To his eyes the dancers

slackened their pace. The chatter certainly diminished, and nearly

everyone glanced toward the door where she stood a little in advance of

her mother and two men.

George was able to judge reasonably. In dress and appearance she was the

most striking woman in the room. Her dark colouring sprang at one,

demanding attention. George saw Dalrymple unevenly force a path in her

direction. He caught his breath. The dance resumed its former rhythm. In

its intricacies Sylvia was for a time lost.

Sometime later Lambert drifted in. George saw him dancing with Betty. He

also found Sylvia. He managed to direct his partner close to her a

number of times. She must have seen him, but her eyes did not waver or

her colour heighten. He wouldn't ask for an introduction. There was no

point. His imagination pictured a number of probable disasters. If he

should ask her to dance would she recognize him, and laugh, and demand,

so that people could hear, how he had forced a way into this place?

George relinquished his partner to a man who cut in. From a harbour

close to the wall he watched Sylvia, willing himself to the point of

action.

"I will make her know me before I leave this dance," he said to himself.

Dalrymple had her now. His weak face was too flushed. He was more than

ever in people's way. George caught the distress in Sylvia's manner. He

remembered Wandel's advice, what Betty had asked him to do for her. He

dodged, without further reflection, across the floor, and held out his

hand.

"If I may----"

Without looking at him she accepted his hand, and they glided off, while

Dalrymple stared angrily. George scarcely noticed. There was room in his

mind for no more than this amazing and intoxicating experience. She was

so close that he could have bent his head and placed his lips on her

dark hair--closer than she had been that unforgettable day. The

experience was worthless unless she knew who he was.

"She must know," he thought.

If she did, why did she hide her knowledge behind an unfathomable

masquerade?

"That was kind of you," he heard her say. "Poor Dolly!"

She glanced up. Interrogation entered her eyes.

"I can't seem to remember----"

"I came from Princeton with Dick Goodhue," he explained. "It seemed such

a simple thing. Shouldn't I have cut in?"

He looked straight at her now. His heart seemed to stop. She had to be

made to remember.

"My name is George Morton."

She smiled.

"I've heard Betty talk of you. You're a great football player. It was

very kind. Of course it's all right."

But it wasn't. The touch of her hand became unbearable to George because

she didn't remember. He had to make her remember.

They were near the entrance. He paused and drew her apart from the

circling dancers.

"Would you mind losing a little of this?" he asked, trying to keep his

voice steady. "It may seem queer, but I have something to tell you that

you ought to know."

She studied him, surprised and curious.

"I can't imagine----" she began. "What is it?"

It was only a step through the door and to an alcove with a red plush

bench. The light was soft there. No one was close enough to hear. She

sat down, laughing.

"Don't keep me in suspense."

He, too, sat down. He spoke deliberately.

"The last two times I've seen you you wouldn't remember me. Even now,

when I've told you my name, you won't."

Her surprise increased.

"It's about you! But I said Betty had----Who are you?"

He bent closer.

"If I didn't tell you you might remember later. Anyway, I wouldn't want

to fight a person whose eyes were closed."

Her lips half parted. She appeared a trifle frightened. She made a

movement as if to rise.

"Just a minute," he said, harshly.

He called on the hatred that had increased during the hours of his

mental and physical slavery, a hatred to be appeased only through his

complete mastery of her.

"It won't take much to remind you," he hurried on. "Although you talk to

me as if I were a man now, last summer I was a beast because I had the

nerve to touch you when you were thrown from your horse."

She stood up quickly, reaching out for the alcove curtain. Her contralto

voice was uneven.

"Stop! You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have told me."

All at once she straightened, her cheeks flaming. She started for the

ballroom. He sprang after her, whispering over her shoulder:

"Now we can start fair."

She turned and faced him.

"I don't know how you got here, but you ask for a fight, Mr. Morton----"

He smiled.

"I am Mr. Morton now. I'm getting on."

Then he knew again that sickening sensation of treacherous ground eager

to swallow him.

"Are you going to run and tell them," he asked, softly, "as you did your

father last summer?"

She crossed the threshold of the ballroom. He watched her while she

hesitated for a moment, seeking feverishly someone in the brilliant,

complacent crowd.

XVI

George watched Sylvia, fighting his instinct to call out a command that

she should keep secret forever what he had told her. It was intolerable

to stand helpless, to realize that on her sudden decision his future

depended. Did she seek her mother, or Lambert, who would understand

everything at the first word? Nevertheless, he preferred she should go

to Lambert, because he could forecast too easily the alternative--Mrs.

Planter's emotionless summoning of Betty and her mother; perhaps of

Goodhue or Wandel or Dalrymple; the brutal advertisement of just what he

was to all the people he knew, to all the people he wanted to know. That

might mean the close of Betty's friendliness, the destruction of the

fine confidence that had developed between him and Goodhue, a violent

reorganization of all his plans. He gathered strength from a warm

realization that with Squibs and Mrs. Squibs Sylvia couldn't possibly

hurt him.

He became ashamed of his misgivings, aware that for nothing in the

world, even if he had the power, would he rearrange the last five

minutes.

He saw her brilliant figure start forward and take an uneven course

around the edge of the room until a man caught her and swung her out

among the dancers. George turned away. He was sorry it was Wandel who

had interfered, but that would give her time to reflect; and even if she

blurted it out to Wandel, the little man might be decent enough to

advise her to keep quiet.

George wandered restlessly across the hall to the smoking-room. How long

would the music lilt on, imprisoning Sylvia in the grasp of Wandel or

another man?

He asked for a glass of water, and took it to a lounge in front of the

fire. Here he sat, listening to the rollicking music, to the softer

harmonies of feminine voices that seemed to define for him compelling

and pleasurable vistas down which he might no longer glance. When the

silence came Sylvia would go to her mother or Lambert.

"My very dear--George."

Lambert himself bent over the back of the lounge. George guessed the

other had seen him enter and had followed. All the better, even if he

had come to attack. George had things to say to Lambert, too; so he

glanced about the room and was grateful that, except for the servants,

it held only some elderly men he had never seen before, who sat at a

distance, gossiping and laughing.

"Where," Lambert asked, "will I run into you next?"

"Anywhere," George said. "Whenever we're both invited to the same place.

I didn't come without being asked, so my being here isn't funny."

Lambert walked around and sat down. All the irony had left his face. He

had an air of doubtful disapproval.

"Maybe not funny," he said, "but--odd."

George stirred. How long would the music and the laughter continue to

drift in?

"Why?"

"You've travelled a long way," Lambert mused. "I wonder if in football

clothes men don't look too much of a pattern. I wonder if you haven't

let yourself be carried a little too far."

"Why?" George asked again.

"Princeton and football," Lambert went on, "are well enough in their

way; but when you come to a place like this and dance with those girls

who don't know, it seems scarcely fair. Of course, if they knew, and

wanted you still--that's the whole point."

"They wouldn't," George admitted, "but why should they matter if the

people that count know?"

Lambert glanced at him. Was the music's quicker measure prophetic of the

end?

"What do you mean?" Lambert asked.

"What you said last fall has worried me," George answered. "That's the

reason I came here--so that your sister would know me from Adam. She

does, and she can do what she pleases about it. It's in her hands now."

Lambert reddened.

"You've the nerve of the devil," he said, angrily. "You had no business

to speak to my sister. The whole thing had been forgotten."

George shook his head.

"You hadn't forgotten it. She told me that day that I shouldn't forget.

I hadn't forgotten it. I never will."

"I can't talk about it," Lambert said.

He looked squarely at George.

"Here's what puts your being here out of shape: You're ashamed of what

you were. Aren't you?"