This providential appearance of his mother mercifully allowed Dink an
opportunity to suffer without fear of disgrace in the eyes of the
unemotional Tennessee Shad.
That very night, as soon as the Shad had departed in search of
Beekstein's guiding mathematical hand, Dink sat down heroically to
frame his letter of congratulations. He would show her that, though
she looked upon him as a boy, there was in him the courage that never
cries out. She had played with him, but at least she should look back
with admiration.
"Dear Miss McCarty," he wrote--that much he owed to his own dignity,
and that should be his only reproach. The rest should be in the tone
of levity, the smile that shows no ache.
DEAR MISS MCCARTY: Of course, it was no surprise to me. I saw it
coming long ago. Mr. Ver Plank seems to me a most estimable young
man. You will be very congenial, I am sure, and very happy. Thank
you for letting me know among the first. That was _bully_ of you!
Give my very best congratulations to Mr. Ver Plank and tell him I
think he's a very lucky fellow.
Faithfully yours,
JACK.
He had resolved to sign formally "Cordially yours--John H. Stover."
But toward the end his resolution weakened. He would be faithful, even
if she were not. Perhaps, when she read it and thought it over she
would feel a little remorse, a little acute sorrow. Imbued with the
thought, he stood looking at the letter, which somehow brought a
little consolation, a little pride into the night of his misery. It
was a good letter--a very good letter. He read it over three times and
then, going to the washstand, took up the sponge and pressed out a
lachrymal drop that fell directly over the "Faithfully yours."
It made a blot that no one could have looked at unmoved.
He hastily sealed the letter and slipping out the house, went over and
mailed it with his own hands. It was the farewell--he would never toil
out his heart over another. And with it went John Stover, the faithful
cavalier. Another John Stover had arisen, the man of heroic sorrows.
For a whole week faithfully he was true to his grief, keeping his own
company, eating out his heart, suffering as only that first deception
can inflict sorrow. And he sought nothing else. He hoped--he hoped
that he would go on suffering for years and years, saddened and
deceived.
But, somehow--though, of course, deep down within him nothing would
ever change--the gloom gradually lifted. The call of his fellows began
to be heard again. The glances of the under formers that followed his
public appearances with adoring worship began to please him once more.
Finally, one afternoon, he stopped in at Appleby's to inspect a new
supply of dazzling cravats.
"You've got the first choice, Mr. Stover," said Appleby in his
caressing way. "No one's had a look at them before you."
"Well, let's look 'em over," said Stover, with a beginning of
interest.
"Look at them," said Appleby; "you're a judge, Mr. Stover. You know
how to dress in a tasty way. Now, really, have you ever seen anything
genteeler than them?"
Stover fingered them and his eye lit up. They certainly were
exceptional and just the style that was becoming to his blond
advantages. He selected six, then added two more and, finally, went to
his room with a dozen, where he tried them, one after the other,
before his mirror, smiling a little at the effect.
Then he went to his bureau and relegated the photograph of the future
Mrs. Ver Plank to the rear and promoted Miss Dow to the place of
honor.
"That's over," he said; "but she nearly ruined my life!"
In which he was wrong, for if Miss McCarty had not arrived Appleby,
purveyor of Gents' Fancies, would never have sold him a dozen most
becoming neckties.
When the Tennessee Shad came in, he looked in surprise.
"Hello, better news to-day?" he said sympathetically.
"News?" said Dink in a moment of abstraction.
"Why, your mother."
"Oh, yes--yes, she's better," said Dink hastily, and to make it
convincing he added in a reverent voice, "thank God!"
The next day he informed McCarty that he had changed his mind. He was
going to college; they would have four glorious years together.
"What's happened?" said Tough mystified. "Better news from home?"
"Yes," said Dink, "stocks have gone up."
But the tragedy of his life had one result that came near wrecking
his career and the school's hope for victory in the Andover game.
During the early weeks of the term Dink had been too engrossed with
his new responsibilities to study, and during the later weeks too
overwhelmed by the real burden of life to think of such technicalities
as lessons. Having studied the preferences and dislikes of his tyrants
he succeeded, however, in bluffing through most of his recitations
with the loyal support of Beekstein. But The Roman was not thus to be
circumvented, and as Dink, in the Byronic period of grief, had no
heart for florid improvisations of the applause of the multitude he
contented himself, whenever annoyed by his implacable persecutor, The
Roman, by rising and saying with great dignity:
"Not prepared, sir."
The blow fell one week before the Andover game, when such blows always
fall. The Roman called him up after class and informed him that, owing
to the paucity of evidence in his daily appearances, he would have to
put him to a special examination to determine whether he had a passing
knowledge.
The school was in dismay. A failure, of course, meant disbarment from
the Andover game--the loss of Stover, who was the strength of the
whole left side.
To Dink, of course, this extraordinary decree was the crowning
evidence of the determined hatred of The Roman. And all because he
had, years before, mistaken him for a commercial traveler and called
him "Old Cocky-wax!"
He would be flunked--of course he would be flunked if The Roman had
made up his mind to do it. He might have waited another week--after
the Andover game. But no, his plan was to keep him out the game, which
of course, meant the loss of the captaincy, which every one accorded
him.
These opinions, needless to say, were shared by all well-wishers of
the eleven. There was even talk, in the first moments of excitement,
of arraigning The Roman before the Board of Trustees.
The examination was to be held in The Roman's study that night.
Beekstein and Gumbo hurried to Dink's assistance. But what could that
avail with six weeks' work to cover!
In this desperate state desperate means were suggested by desperate
characters. Stover should go the examination padded with interlinear,
friendly aids to translation. A committee from outside should then
convey the gigantic water cooler that stood in the hall to the upper
landing. There it should be nicely balanced on the topmost step and a
string thrown out the window, which, at the right time, should be
pulled by three patriots from other Houses. The water cooler would
descend with a hideous clatter, The Roman would rush from his study,
and Stover would be given time to refresh his memory.
Now, Stover did not like this plan. He had never done much direct
cribbing, as that species of deception made him uncomfortable and
seemed devoid of the high qualities of dignity that should attend the
warfare against the Natural Enemy.
At first he refused to enter this conspiracy, but finally yielded in a
half-hearted way when it was dinned in his ears that he was only
meeting The Roman at his own game, that he was being persecuted, that
the school was being sacrificed for a private spite--in a word, that
the end must be looked at and not the means and that the end was moral
and noble.
Thus partly won over, Dink entered The Roman's study that night with
portions of interlinear translations distributed about his person and
whipped up into a rage against The Roman that made him forget all
else.
The study was on the ground floor--the conspirators were to wait at
the window until Stover should have received the examination paper and
given the signal.
The Roman nodded as Stover entered and, motioning him to a seat, gave
him the questions, saying:
"I sincerely hope, John, you are able to answer these."
"Thank you, sir," said Stover with great sarcasm.
He went to the desk by the window and sat down, taking out his pencil.
There was a shuffling of feet and the scraping of a chair across the
room. Stover looked up in surprise.
"Take your time, John," said The Roman, who had risen. Then, without
another word, he turned and left the room.
Stover smiled to himself. He knew that trick. He waited for the sudden
reopening of the door, but no noise came. He frowned and, mechanically
looking at the questions, opened his book at the place designated.
Then he raised his head and listened again.
All at once he became very angry. The Roman was putting him on his
honor--he had no right to do any such thing! It changed all their
preparations. It was a low-down, malignant trick. It took away all the
elements of danger that glorified the conspiracy. It made it easy and,
therefore, mean.
At the window came a timid scratching. Stover shook his head. The
Roman would return. Then he would give the signal willingly. So he
folded his arms sternly and waited--but no footsteps slipped along
outside the door. The Roman had indeed left him to his honor.
A great, angry lump came in his throat, angry tears blurred his eyes.
He hated The Roman, he despised him; it was unfair, it was malicious,
but he could not do what he would have done. There _was_ a difference.
All at once the bowels of the House seemed rent asunder, as down the
stairs, bumping and smashing, went the liberated water cooler.
Instantly a chorus of shrieks arose, steps rushing to and fro, and
then quiet.
Still The Roman did not come. Stover glanced at the paragraphs
selected, and oh, mockery and bitterness, two out of three happened to
be passages he had read with Beekstein not an hour before. His eye
went over them, he remembered them perfectly.
"If that ain't the limit!" he said, choking. "To know 'em after all.
Of course, now I can't do 'em. Of course, now if I hand 'em in the old
rhinoceros will think I cribbed 'em. Of all the original Jobs I am the
worst! This is the last straw!"
When half an hour later The Roman returned Stover was sitting erect,
with folded arms and lips compressed.
"Ah, Stover, all through?" said The Roman, as though the House had not
just been blown asunder. "Hand in your paper."
Stover stiffly arose and handed him the foolscap. The Roman took it
with a frowning little glance. At the top was written in big, defiant
letters: "John H. Stover."
Below there was nothing at all.
Stover stood, swaying from heel to heel, watching The Roman.
"What the deuce is he looking at?" he thought in wonder, as The Roman
sat silently staring at the blank sheet.
Finally he turned over the page, as though carefully perusing it,
poised a pencil, and said in a low voice, without glancing up:
"Well, John, I think this will just about pass."