Until dusk, like Gilliatt in Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea, waiting
for the tide to swallow him up, Stover sat motionless, brooding. There
was only one thing to do--to run away. His whole career had been
ruined in a twinkling. He knew. There could be no future for him in
the school. What he had done was so awful that it could never be
forgiven or forgotten. Why had he run? If only he had made a quick
dive at the ball as it had trickled off the glove and caught it before
it reached the ground, instead of standing there, horrified,
hypnotized. Yes, he would escape, run off to sea somewhere--anywhere!
But he wouldn't go home; no, never that! He would ship around the
Horn, like the hero in that dreadful book, Two Years Before the Mast.
He would run away that night, before the story spread over the whole
school. He would never face them. He hated the school, he hated the
Green, he hated every one connected with it!
A tap came on the door, and the voice of Butsey White said coldly:
"Open up! Fuzzy-Wuzzy's in the House; you're safe. Open up. I've got
to get ready for supper."
Stover drew back the bed, unlocked the door and waited with clenched
fists for Butsey to spring at him. Butsey White, whose tempestuous
rage had long since spent itself in hilarious laughter, as, indeed,
had been the case with the rest, thought it best, however, for the
purposes of authority, still to preserve a grave face.
"You're a fine specimen!" he said curtly. "You've had a beautiful day
of it."
"Yes, I have," said Dink miserably, "a beautiful day!"
Butsey, to whom the tragedy of the century was nothing but an
incident, had not the slightest suspicion of Stover's absolute,
overwhelming despair. Yet Butsey, too, had suffered, and profited by
the suffering.
"You better square up with Tough McCarty," he said, failing to read
the anguish in Stover's eyes. "You certainly were the limit."
"I hate him!" said Dink bitterly.
"Why?"
"He's a bully."
"Tough McCarty? Not a bit of it."
"He tried to bully me."
"Why didn't you let them in?" said Butsey, putting the part in the
middle of his hair with a dripping comb.
"Let them in!"
"Why, what do you think they'd have done to you?"
Stover had never thought of that. After all, what could they have done
to him?
"I didn't think----"
"Rats!" said Butsey. "They might have pied you on the bed; but that's
nothing if you lie face down and keep your elbows in. That's all you'd
have got. Then it would have been over; now you've got to square
yourself. Well, brush up and come down to supper, and for the love of
Mike smile a little."
Butsey White's sentiments neither consoled nor convinced. Stover was
too firmly persuaded of the enormity of his offense and the depth of
his ignominy.
In all his life he had never done a more difficult thing than to
follow Butsey into the dining-room and face the disdainful glances of
those from whom he had so lately fled.
He sat in abject mental and physical suffering, his eyes on his plate,
tasting nothing of what went into his mouth, chewing mechanically.
Mr. Jenkins, to be affable, asked him how he had enjoyed the day. He
mumbled some reply, he never knew what, hearing only the dreadful
snicker that ran the table. He refused the dessert and left the
table. It had been a nightmare.
He stayed in his room, watching from behind the curtains his
fellow-beings romping and shrieking over a game of baby-in-the-hat.
The bottom had, indeed, dropped out of things--the universe was
topsy-turvy. More keenly than in the afternoon he felt the utter
hopelessness of his disgrace. If he could only get away--escape from
it all. If he only had had five dollars in his pocket he could have
reached Trenton and worked his way to some seaport town. He looked at
the now ridiculous souvenir toilet set and bitterly thought where the
precious dollars had gone--that story, too, would be abroad by the
morrow. The whole school would probably rise and jeer at him when he
entered chapel the next morning. That night he crept into his bed to
the stillness of the black room, to suffer a long hour that first
overwhelming anguish that can only be suffered once, that no other
suffering can compare to, that is complete, because the knowledge of
other suffering has not yet come, and he who suffers suffers alone.
Then the imagination came to the rescue. He fell into blissful
unconsciousness by a process of consoling half dreams in which he
vindicated himself by feats of extraordinary valor, carrying the
suffocating Tough McCarty and the Coffee-colored Angel out of burning
houses at the risk of his own life, and earning the plaudits of the
whole school.
Suddenly a peal of thunder shook the building; he landed all in a heap
in the midst of the sunlit floor, rubbing his eyes. Outside, the
morning came in with warm embrace; green things stirred against the
window-panes; the flash of a robin's wing cut a swift shadow on the
floor and was gone. Below, the horrid clanging of the gong rattled the
walls and called on the dead to rise.
Dink gazed at the opposite bed. Butsey, with the covers wound around
him, with his knees under his chin, was actually asleep. In great
alarm he went over and shook him gently. One eye opened and
reproachfully fastened on him.
"I say, the gong--the gong's rung, Mr. White," said Dink.
"The rising gong?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, when the breakfast gong explodes wake me up."
The eyes shut, but presently reopened and a muffled voice added:
"Pour out water--washbasin--stick my shoes over here."
Dink obeyed, mystified. Then, going to the window, he drank in all the
zest and glory of green fields and blue skies with woolly clouds
drifting over the tingling air. Joyfully he turned for a plunge in
cold water and the unspeakable crockery set met his eye. Then he
remembered. A shadow fell across the room; the day went into eclipse.
Mechanically, heavily, he dressed, and the fever of yesterday sprang
up anew.
Meanwhile, not a sound in the House except down the hall a snore--a
glorious, triumphant note. A second time the gong took up its
discordant march. Then from the cocoon on the bed a flash of legs and
arms sprang out and into the waiting garments. There was a splash in
the basin that spattered the water far and near, and Butsey, enveloped
in a towel, rushed into his upper garments, flung back his hair with a
masterful swooping stroke of the comb, and bolted out of the door,
buckling his belt and struggling into a sweater. Down the stairs they
went in the midst of floating coats, collars to be buttoned and
neckties to be tied; and when the last note of the gong had ended not
a place was vacant, though every eye still drooped with drowsiness.
Breakfast over, Dink followed Butsey to their room and, after the more
permanent preparations had been attended to, they left for chapel.
The much-dreaded breakfast had passed with but one incident; the
Coffee-colored Angel, in passing him the sugar, had said in a terrific
whisper:
"I'll get you to-day. I'll tame you!"
But, being still in a nodding state, his anger was contented with this
slight expression. Tough McCarty had given him just one look, but
somehow he remembered nothing else. The instinctive hostility he had
felt at the first meeting of their eyes rose anew. The Coffee-colored
Angel and the White Mountain Canary were but incidents; the enemy, _le
sacre_ Albion, was Tough McCarty.
He went in the current of boyhood past Foundation House and around the
circle toward chapel. For the first time the immensity of the school
was before him in the hundreds that, streaming across the campus in
thin, dotted lines, swelled into a compact, moving mass at the chapel
steps. It was more than an institution; it was a world, the complex,
marvelously ordered World of Youth.
Somehow, he did not attract the attention he had expected. His
entrance into the pew was attended by no hilarious uprising _en
masse_. He found his place in the gallery, between Pebble Stone and
Duke Straus, who sleepily asked his name and went off for a
supplementary nap on the shoulder of D. Tanner. Stone evidently had
heard nothing of his disgrace, or else was too absorbed in a hurried
conning of the Latin lesson to make remarks.
Dink lifted his head a little and stole a glance--strange, no one
seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him. Somewhat
astonished and unutterably relieved he gazed down at the body of the
school marshaled below, at the enormous fifth-formers who seemed--and
never was that illusion to fade--the most terrifically immense and
awesome representatives of manhood he had ever seen. The benches were
hard, decidedly so; but he lost himself pleasantly in the vaulted
roof, and gazed with respect at the distant pulpit.
The Doctor ascended and swept the school with that glance peculiar to
head masters which convinces each separate boy it is directed at him.
Stover felt the impact on his own forehead and dropped his eyes
uneasily. When the hymn began he looked curiously among his
classmates, located Doc Macnooder and caught the eye of the Tennessee
Shad, who winked at him to show him he was still his friend.
Somehow, his awful disgrace seemed to slip from him--the Green House
was but a grain in the sand. There were friends, undiscovered friends,
in the mass before him, to be won and held. An easier feeling came to
him. When the school shuffled out he sought the Tennessee Shad and,
holding out his hand said:
"Say, you are wonders; and I'm the only living sucker!"
"Dink, you're a real sport," said the Tennessee Shad, pleased; "but we
did come it pretty strong. Now, if you want to turn in those
shoes----"
"Not on your life!" said Dink. "I deserved it, but--but look out for
next year!"
"All right," said the Tennessee Shad with an approving look. "If you
do us we'll take you into the firm. Tack on to me, and I'll pilot you
to The Roman's."
Following his lanky guide Stover went in the churning, lagging mass
across to Memorial Hall, rubbing elbows with the heroes, who stalked
majestically in their voluminous bulk, with the coveted 'Varsity caps
riding on the backs of their cropped heads, or being jostled by the
freckled imps who ran zigzag, shrieking chases past him.
At the steps they divided, some surging upward and others crowding
into the lower corridor.
"Below for us," said the Tennessee Shad, pushing his way forward.
Dink found himself outside of one of the dozen classrooms in a throng
that waited hopefully, as other classes waited hopefully every hour
of every day in the hopes of an improbable cut.
"The Roman," said the Tennessee Shad wisely, "is the one master you
want to stand in with. Study like the devil the first two weeks; and
say, get up on the gerund and the gerundive--they're his pets."
"I will," said Dink.
"You can't bluff him and you can't beat his system," continued the
Tennessee Shad. "If you guess don't hesitate; jump at it. The only
thing you can do is to wait for his jokes, and then grab the desk and
weep for salvation--it's his one weak spot."
"I will," said Dink.
A cry of dismay went up from the sentinels at the window.
"Oh, rats! Here he comes."
"Oh, peanuts!"
"Oh, melancholy!"
"All in!"
Dink modestly took a seat in the back, at the end of the row of S's
where he must sit. On four sides, like prison walls that no convict
might hope to scale, the slippery blackboards rose up and bound them
in. On a raised stand was the master's pulpit where presently The
Roman would come and sit, like the watcher of the galley slaves in Ben
Hur, with his eagle glance sweeping the desks that, in regimental
file, ran back from him.
Outside, through two open windows, was the warm, forbidden month of
April, and the gateway to syntax-defying dreams. At this moment Dink's
copy of Caesar's Gallic Wars slid on to the floor. He bent down,
laboriously collecting the scattered pages and straightened up. Then
he glanced at the pulpit. Directly in front of him, his eyes on his
eyes, sat the big consular frame of his stage companion of the day
before.
Dink gasped in horror; twice his hand went instinctively toward his
lip, stopped half-way and dropped. Then his mouth opened, set, and
galvanically he rose to his feet, while the room seemed to tip up.
He grasped the desk to keep from slipping, never taking his eyes from
the Ciceronian countenance and the twinkling orbits above the slightly
twitching lips.
"Dear me," said a low, mocking voice with a curious rising and falling
infection, "who's here? Another delegate to this congress of
scintillating intelligences?"
"Yes, sir," said Dink in a whisper.
"Quite a valuable addition, I hope. Yes? What is the name?"
"John."
"Well--well?"
"John Humperdink Stover," said Dink with difficulty.
"Ah, yes, Stover: the name is familiar--very familiar," said The
Roman, with a twitch to his lip and a sudden jump of the eyebrow.
"Haven't we met before?"
Dink, suffocating, nodded. The class, at a loss, turned from one to
the other, watching for the cue.
"Well, Stover, come a little nearer. Take the seat between Stone and
Straus. Straus will be better able to take his little morning nap. A
little embarrassed, Stover? Dear me! I shouldn't have thought that of
you. Sit down now and--try to put a little ginger into the class,
Stover."
Dink looked down and blushed until it seemed as though his hair would
catch on fire. The class, perceiving only that there was a point for
laughter, burst into roars.
"There--there," said The Roman, stilling the storm with one finger.
"Just a little joke between us two; just a little confidential joke. Now
for a bee-ootiful recitation. Splendid spring weather--yesterday was a
cut; of course you all took the hour to study conscientiously--eager
for knowledge. Fifth and sixth rows go to the board."
While The Roman's modulated accents doled out conjugations and
declensions Stover sat, without a thought in his head, his hands
locked, staring out at the green and yellow necktie that rose on
Pebble Stone's collar.
"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" he said at last. "Dished! Spinked! He'll flunk
me every day. I certainly am in wrong!"
He raised his eyes at the enthroned Natural Enemy and mentally threw
down the gage of battle with a hopeless, despairing feeling of the
three years' daily conflict that was to come. For, of course, now
there could be no question of The Roman's mortal and unsparing enmity.
But after the first paralyzing shock Dink recovered himself. It was
war, but the war he loved--the war of wits.
The Roman, having flunked a dozen by this time, had Channing, the
Coffee-colored Angel, on his feet, on delicate matters of syntax.
"Top of page, third word, Channing--gerund or gerundive?" said The
Roman.
"Gerund, sir."
"Too bad!" said The Roman musically, and on a lower octave repeated:
"Too bad! Third line, fifth word--gerund or gerundive?"
"Gerund, sir," said the Coffee-colored Angel with more conviction.
"No luck, Channing, no luck. Tenth line, last word--gerund, Channing,
or gerundive?"
"Gerund-ive," said the Coffee-colored Angel hesitatingly.
"Poor Channing, he didn't stick to his system. The laws of
probability, Channing----"
"I meant gerund," said the Coffee-colored Angel hastily.
"Dear me! Really, Channing?"
"Yes, sir."
"Positive?"
"Absolutely, sir."
"It _was_ the gerundive, Channing."
The Coffee-colored Angel abruptly sat down.
"Don't want to speculate any more, Channing?"
"No, sir."
"No feeling of confidence--no luck to-day? Try the gerundive
to-morrow."
The discouraged began to return from the boards, having writ in water.
The Roman, without malice, passed over the rows and, from flunking
them individually, mowed them down in sections.
"Anything from the Davis House to-day? No, no? Anything from the Rouse
House combination? Nothing at all? Anything from the Jackson twins?
Alas! How about the D's this morning? Davis, Dark, Denton, Deer,
Dickson, nothing from the D's. Let's try the F's. Farr, Fenton,
Foster, Francis, Finch? Nothing from the F's--nothing from the D F's!
Nothing at all?"
Dink burst into laughter, and laughed alone. The Roman stopped. Every
one looked surprised.
"Ah, Stover has been coached--well coached," said The Roman. "But,
Stover, this is not the place to laugh. The D F's are not a joke; they
are painful, every day facts. Well, well, it has been a beautiful
recitation in the review--not exceptional, not exceptional at all. Has
any one the advance? Don't all rise at once. Strange what trying
weather it is--too sunny, not enough rain--every one rises exhausted.
Will Macnooder kindly lead the massacre?"
Macnooder disdained to rise; one or two faltered and tripped along for
brief spaces, and then sat down. The Roman, counting his dead,
hesitated and called:
"Stover."
"Me, sir?" said Dink, too astonished to rise. "Why, I'm unprepared,
sir."
"Unprepared?" said The Roman with a wicked smile. "I never thought you
would be unprepared, Stover."
The smile decided Stover.
"I'll try, sir," he said.
"Very kind of you, Stover."
Dink rose slowly, put the book on his desk, tightened his belt,
buttoned his coat and took up the prosy records of Caesar. Pebble Stone
showed him the place. He straightened up and, glancing at the first
line, saw:
"_Ubi eo ventum est, Caesar initio orationis_ ..."
"Caesar," began Dink in a firm voice.
"Excellent!" said The Roman.
"Caesar, wherever the wind blew him, initiated the orators ..." Dink
continued smoothly, after a rapid glance.
The Roman, from a listless attitude, gripped the desk, pivoted clear
on one leg of his chair, staring at the familiar text as though it had
suddenly taken on life and begun to crawl about the page.
Dink, resolved not to be bested, gravely and fluently continued to
glide on, without pause or hitch, turning syllables into words,
building sentences wherever he met an acquaintance. On and on he went,
glib and eloquent, weaving out of the tangled text a picture that
gradually, freeing itself from the early restraints, painted in vivid
detail a spirited conference between Caesar and the German envoys. The
class, amazed, resorted to their books; many of the unprepared, quite
convinced, stared at him as though a new rival to the high markers had
suddenly appeared.
The Roman, fascinated, never quitted the text, marveling as the tale
ran on, leaping adverbs and conjunctions, avoiding whole phrases,
undismayed by the rise of sudden, hostile nouns, impressing into
service whatever suited it, corrupting or beating down all obstacles.
Once or twice he twitched spasmodically, twice he switched the leg of
his chair, murmuring all the while to himself. Finally he rose and,
slowly approaching to where Stover stood, glanced incredulously at his
book.
"Shall I stop, sir?" said Stover.
"Heaven forbid!"
Stover completed the page with a graphic, rushing account of the
athletic exercises of the ancient Germans, and sat down without a
smile.
The Roman, back at his post, wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and
spoke:
"Very well run, indeed, Stover; excellently well run. Take your
breath. Very fluent, very vivid, very persuasive--a trifle free, a
trifle--but, on the whole, a very creditable performance. Very! I was
sure, whatever you did, Stover, you wouldn't bore us. Now, let us see
how the same passage will appeal to a more prosaic, less
richly-endowed mind."
Then Red Dog rose and, unfeelingly, brought the scene back to Rome and
the deliberations of the Senate.
But this was a detail that did not interest Dink in the least. He had
clashed with The Roman and not retreated. He had his first moment of
triumph, attested by the admiring glances of the class and the muffled
whisper of Straus, saying:
"Gee, you're a peach!"
The session ended with a solemn warning from The Roman.
"One word," he said in his deepest tones, "just one word to the wise.
We have journeyed together for two whole terms; there is only one more
between you and reassignment. Candor compels me to say that you have
acquired not even a flunking knowledge." He turned and raked the awed
ranks with the sweep of a pivot gun, and then took up again in
cutting, chilling, spaced syllables: "I have, in the course of my
experience as a teacher, had to deal with imbeciles, had to deal with
mere idiots; but for sheer, determined, _monumental_ asininity I have
never met the equal of this aggregation. I trust this morning's
painful, disgraceful, disheartening experience may never, never be
repeated. You may go."
And Stover, who had brazenly planned to remain and converse, went
swiftly out with the rest, little imagining that he whom he had ranked
as a deadly, unforgiving foe sat a long while chuckling over the
marvelous route Dink had gone, murmuring gratefully to himself:
"Wherever the wind blew him, Caesar initiated the orators."