Hugh wasn't troubled only by religion and sex; the whole college was
disturbing his peace of mind: all of his illusions were being ruthlessly
shattered. He had supposed that all professors were wise men, that their
knowledge was almost limitless, and he was finding that many of the
undergraduates were frankly contemptuous of the majority of their
teachers and that he himself was finding inspiration from only a few of
them. He went to his classes because he felt that he had to, but in most
of them he was confused or bored. He learned more in the bull sessions
than he did in the class-room, and men like Ross and Burbank were
teaching him more than his instructors.
Further, Nu Delta was proving a keen disappointment. More and more he
found himself thinking of Malcolm Graham's talk to him during the
rushing season of his freshman year. He often wished that Graham were
still in college so that he could go to him for advice. The fraternity
was not the brotherhood that he had dreamed about; it was composed of
several cliques warring with each other, never coalescing into a single
group except to contest the control of a student activity with some
other fraternity. There were a few "brothers" that Hugh liked, but most
of them were not his kind at all. Many of them were athletes taken into
the fraternity because they were athletes and for no other reason, and
although Hugh liked two of the athletes--they were really splendid
fellows--he was forced to admit that three of them were hardly better
than thugs, cheap muckers with fine bodies. Then there were the snobs,
usually prep school men with more money than they could handle wisely,
utterly contemptuous of any man not belonging to a fraternity or of one
belonging to any of the lesser fraternities. These were the "smooth
boys," interested primarily in clothes and "parties," passing their
courses by the aid of tutors or fraternity brothers who happened to
study.
Hugh felt that he ought to like all of his fraternity brothers, but, try
as he would, he disliked the majority of them. Early in his sophomore
year he knew that he ought to have "gone" Delta Sigma Delta, that that
fraternity contained a group of men whom he liked and respected, most of
them, at least. They weren't prominent in student activities, but they
were earnest lads as a whole, trying hard to get something out of
college.
The Nu Delta meetings every Monday night were a revelation to him. The
brothers were openly bored; they paid little or no attention to the
business before them. The president was constantly calling for order
and not getting it. During the rushing season in the second term,
interest picked up. Freshmen were being discussed. Four questions were
inevitably asked. Did the freshman have money? Was he an athlete? Had he
gone to a prep school? What was his family like?
Hugh had been very much attracted by a lad named Parker. He was a
charming youngster with a good mind and beautiful manners. In general,
only bad manners were _au fait_ at Sanford; so Parker was naturally
conspicuous. Hugh proposed his name for membership to Nu Delta.
"He's a harp," said a brother scornfully. "At any rate, he's a
Catholic."
That settled that. Only Protestants were eligible to Nu Delta at
Sanford, although the fraternity had no national rule prohibiting
members of other religions.
The snobbery of the fraternity cut Hugh deeply. He was a friendly lad
who had never been taught prejudice. He even made friends with a Jewish
youth and was severely censured by three fraternity brothers for that
friendship. He was especially taken to task by Bob Tucker, the
president.
"Look here, Hugh," Tucker said sternly, "you've got to draw the line
somewhere. I suppose Einstein is a good fellow and all that, but you've
been running around with him a lot. You've even brought him here
several times. Of course, you can have anybody in your room you want,
but we don't want any Jews around the house. I don't see why you had to
pick him up, anyway. There's plenty of Christians in college."
"He's a first-class fellow," Hugh replied stubbornly, "and I like him. I
don't see why we have to be so high-hat about Jews and Catholics. Most
of the fraternities take in Catholics, and the Phi Thetas take in Jews;
at least, they've got two. They bid Einstein, but he turned them down;
his folks don't want him to join a fraternity. And Chubby Elson told me
that the Theta Kappas wanted him awfully, but they have a local rule
against Jews."
"That doesn't make any difference," Tucker said sharply. "We don't want
him around here. Because some of the fraternities are so damn
broad-minded isn't any reason that we ought to be. I don't see that
their broad-mindedness is getting them anything. We rate about ten times
as much as the Phi Thetas or the Theta Kappas, and the reason we do is
that we are so much more exclusive."
Hugh wanted to mention the three Nu Delta thugs, but he wisely
restrained himself. "All right," he said stubbornly, "I won't bring
Einstein around here again, and I won't bring Parker either. But I'll
see just as much of them as I want to. My friends are my friends, and
if the fraternity doesn't like them, it can leave them alone. I pledged
loyalty to the fraternity, but I'll be damned if I pledged my life to
it." He got up and started for the door, his blue eyes dark with anger.
"I hate snobs," he said viciously, and departed.
After rushing season was over, he rarely entered that fraternity house,
chumming mostly with Carl, but finding friends in other fraternities or
among non-fraternity men. He was depressed and gloomy, although his
grades for the first term had been respectable. Nothing seemed very much
worth while, not even making his letter on the track. He was gradually
taking to cigarettes, and he had even had a nip or two out of a flask
that Carl had brought to the room. He had read the "Rubaiyat," and it
made a great impression on him. He and Carl often discussed the poem,
and more and more Hugh was beginning to believe in Omar's philosophy. At
least, he couldn't answer the arguments presented in Fitzgerald's
beautiful quatrains. The poem both depressed and thrilled him. After
reading it, he felt desperate--and ready for anything, convinced that
the only wise course was to take the cash and let the credit go. He was
much too young to hear the rumble of the distant drum. Sometimes he was
sure that there wasn't a drum, anyway.
He was particularly blue one afternoon when Carl rushed into the room
and urged him to go to Hastings, a town five miles from Haydensville.
"Jim Pearson's outside with his car," Carl said excitedly, "and he'll
take us down. He's got to come right back--he's only going for some
booze--but we needn't come back if we don't want to. We'll have a drink
and give Hastings the once-over. How's to come along?"
"All right," Hugh agreed indifferently and began to pull on his baa-baa
coat. "I'm with you. A shot of gin might jazz me up a little."
Once in Hastings, Pearson drove to a private residence at the edge of
the town. The boys got out of the car and filed around to the back door,
which was opened to their knock by a young man with a hatchet face and
hard blue eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Pearson," he said with an effort to be pleasant. "Want some
gin?"
"Yes, and some Scotch, too, Pete--if you have it. I'll take two quarts
of Scotch and one of gin."
"All right." Pete led the way down into the cellar, switching on an
electric light when he reached the foot of the stairs. There was a small
bar in the rear of the dingy, underground room, a table or two, and
dozens of small boxes stacked against the wall.
It was Hugh's first visit to a bootlegger's den, and he was keenly
interested. He had a high-ball along with Carl and Pearson; then took
another when Carl offered to stand treat. Pearson bought his three
quarts of liquor, paid Pete, and departed alone, Carl and Hugh having
decided to have another drink or two before they returned to
Haydensville. After a second high-ball Hugh did not care how many he
drank and was rather peevish when Carl insisted that he stop with a
third. Pete charged them eight dollars for their drinks, which they
cheerfully paid, and then warily climbed the stairs and stumbled out
into the cold winter air.
"Brr," said Carl, buttoning his coat up to his chin; "it's cold as
hell."
"So 'tis," Hugh agreed; "so 'tis. So 'tis. That's pretty. So 'tis, so
'tis, so 'tis. Isn't that pretty, Carl?"
"Awful pretty. Say it again."
"So 'tis. So 'tish. So--so--so. What wush it, Carl?"
"So 'tis."
"Oh, yes. So 'tish."
They walked slowly, arm in arm, toward the business section of Hastings,
pausing now and then to laugh joyously over something that appealed to
them as inordinately funny. Once it was a tree, another time a farmer in
a sleigh, and a third time a Ford. Hugh insisted, after laughing until
he wept, that the Ford was the "funniest goddamned thing" he'd ever
seen. Carl agreed with him.
They were both pretty thoroughly drunk by the time they reached the
center of the town, where they intended getting the bus back to
Haydensville. Two girls passed them and smiled invitingly.
"Oh, what peaches," Carl exclaimed.
"Jush--jush--Jush swell," Hugh said with great positiveness, hanging on
to Carl's arm. "They're the shwellest Janes I've ever sheen."
The girls, who were a few feet ahead, turned and smiled again.
"Let's pick them up," Carl whispered loudly.
"Shure," and Hugh started unsteadily to increase his pace.
The girls were professional prostitutes who visited Hastings twice a
year "to get the Sanford trade." They were crude specimens, revealing
their profession to the most casual observer. If Hugh had been sober
they would have sickened him, but he wasn't sober; he was joyously drunk
and the girls looked very desirable.
"Hello, girls," Carl said expansively, taking hold of one girl's arm.
"Busy?"
"Bish-bishy?" Hugh repeated valiantly.
The older "girl" smiled, revealing five gold teeth.
"Of course not," she replied in a hard, flat voice. "Not too busy for
you boys, anyway. Come along with us and we'll make this a big
afternoon."
"Sure," Carl agreed.
"Sh-shure," Hugh stuttered. He reached forward to take the arm of the
girl who had spoken, but at the same instant some one caught him by the
wrist and held him still.
Harry Slade, the star football player and this year's captain, happened
to be in Hastings; he was, in fact, seeking these very girls. He had
intended to pass on when he saw two men with them, but as soon as he
recognized Hugh he paused and then impulsively strode forward.
"Here, Carver," he said sharply. "What are you doing?"
"None--none of you da-damn business," Hugh replied angrily, trying to
shake his wrist free. "Leggo of me or--or I'll--I'll--"
"You won't do anything," 'Slade interrupted. "You're going home with
me."
"Who in hell are you?" one of the girls asked viciously. "Mind your own
damn business."
"You mind yours, sister, or you'll get into a peck of trouble. This
kid's going with me--and don't forget that. Come on, Carver."
Hugh was still vainly trying to twist his wrist free and was muttering,
"Leggo, leggo o' me."
Slade jerked him across the sidewalk. Carl followed expostulating. "Get
the hell out of here, Peters," Slade said angrily, "or I'll knock your
fool block off. You chase off with those rats if you want to, but you
leave Carver with me if you know what's good for you." He shoved Carl
away, and Carl was sober enough to know that Slade meant what he said.
Each girl took him by an arm, and he walked off down the street between
them, almost instantly forgetting Hugh.
Fortunately the street was nearly deserted, and no one had witnessed the
little drama. Hugh began to sob drunkenly. Slade grasped his shoulders
and shook him until his head waggled. "Now, shut up!" Slade commanded
sharply. He took Hugh by the arm and started down the street with him,
Hugh still muttering, "Leggo, leggo o' me."
Slade walked him the whole five miles back to Haydensville, and before
they were half way home Hugh's head began to clear. For a time he felt a
little sick, but the nausea passed, and when they reached the campus he
was quite sober. Not a word was spoken until Hugh unlocked the door of
Surrey 19. Then Slade said: "Go wash your face and head in cold water.
Souse yourself good and then come back; I want to have a talk with you."
Hugh obeyed orders, but with poor grace. He was angry and confused,
angry because his liberty had been interfered with, and confused because
Slade had never paid more than passing attention to him--and for a year
and a half Slade had been his god.
Slade was one of those superb natural athletes who make history for many
colleges. He was big, powerfully built, and moved as easily as a
dancer. His features were good enough, but his brown eyes were dull and
his jaw heavy rather than strong. Hugh had often heard that Slade
dissipated violently, but he did not believe the rumors; he was positive
that Slade could not be the athlete he was if he dissipated. He had been
thrilled every time Slade had spoken to him--the big man of the college,
the one Sanford man who had ever made All American, as Slade had this
year.
When he returned to his room from the bath-room, Slade was sitting in a
big chair smoking a cigarette. Hugh walked into his bedroom, combed his
dripping hair, and then came into the study, still angry but feeling a
little sheepish and very curious.
"Well, what is it?" he demanded, sitting down.
"Do you know who those women were?"
"No. Who are they?"
"They're Bessie Haines and Emma Gleeson; at least, that's what they call
themselves, and they're rotten bags."
Hugh had a little quiver of fright, but he felt that he ought to defend
himself.
"Well, what of it?" he asked sullenly. "I don't see as you had any right
to pull me away. You never paid any attention before to me. Why this
sudden interest? How come you're so anxious to guard my purity?"
Slade was embarrassed. He threw his cigarette into the fireplace and
immediately lighted another one. Then he looked at his shoes and
muttered, "I'm a pretty bad egg myself."
"So I've heard." Hugh was frankly sarcastic.
"Well, I am." Slade looked up defiantly. "I guess it's up to me to
explain--and I don't know how to do it. I'm a dumbbell. I can't talk
decently. I flunked English One three times, you know." He hesitated a
moment and then blurted out, "I was looking for those bags myself."
"What?" Hugh leaned forward and stared at him, bewildered and
dumfounded. "_You_ were looking for them?"
"Yeah... You see, I'm a bad egg--always been a bad one with women, ever
since I was a kid. Gotta have one about every so often.... I--I'm not
much."
"But what made you stop me?" Hugh pressed his hand to his temple. His
head was aching, and he could make nothing out of Slade's talk.
"Because--because.... Oh, hell, Carver, I don't know how to explain it.
I'm twenty-four and you're about nineteen and I know a lot that you
don't. I was brought up in South Boston and I ran with a gang. There
wasn't anything rotten that we didn't do.... I've been watching you.
You're different."
"How different?" Hugh demanded. "I want women just as much as you do."
"That isn't it." Slade ran his fingers through his thick black hair and
scowled fiercely at the fireplace. "That isn't it at all. You're--you're
awfully clean and decent. I've been watching you lots--oh, for a year.
You're--you're different," he finished lamely.
Hugh was beginning to understand. "Do you mean," he asked slowly, "that
you want me to keep straight--that--that, well--that you like me that
way better?" He was really asking Slade if he admired him, and Slade got
his meaning perfectly. To Hugh the idea was preposterous. Why, Slade had
made every society on the campus; he had been given every honor that the
students could heap on him--and he envied Hugh, an almost unknown
sophomore. Why, it was ridiculous.
"Yes, that's what I mean; that's what I was trying to get at." For a
minute Slade hesitated; he wasn't used to giving expression to his
confused emotions, and he didn't know how to go about it. "I'd--I'd like
to be like you; that's it. I--I didn't want you to be like me.... Those
women are awful bags. Anything might happen."
"Why didn't you stop Carl Peters, too, then?"
"Peters knows his way about. He can take care of himself. You're
different, though.... You've never been drunk before, have you?"
"No. No, I never have." Hugh's irritation was all gone. He was touched,
deeply touched, by Slade's clumsy admiration, and he felt weak,
emotionally exhausted after his little spree. "It's awfully good of you
to--to think of me that way. I'm--I'm glad you stopped me."
Slade stood up. He felt that he had better be going. He couldn't tell
Hugh how much he liked and admired him, how much he envied him. He was
altogether sentimental about the boy, entirely devoted to him. He had
wanted to talk to Hugh more than Hugh had wanted to talk to him, but he
had never felt that he had anything to offer that could possibly
interest Hugh. It was a strange situation; the hero had put the hero
worshiper on a high, white marble pedestal.
He moved toward the door. "So long," he said as casually as he could.
Hugh jumped up and rushed to him. "I'm awfully grateful to you, Harry,"
he said impulsively. "It was damn white of you. I--I don't know how to
thank you." He held out his hand.
Slade gripped it for a moment, and then, muttering another "So long,"
passed out of the door.
Hugh was more confused than ever and grew steadily more confused as the
days passed. He couldn't understand why Slade, frankly unchaste himself,
should consider his chastity so important. He was genuinely glad that
Slade had rescued him, genuinely grateful, but his confusion about all
things sexual was more confounded. The strangest thing was that when he
told Carl about Slade's talk, Carl seemed to understand perfectly,
though he never offered a satisfactory explanation.
"I know how he feels," Carl said, "and I'm awfully glad he butted in and
pulled you away. I'd hate to see you messing around with bags like that
myself, and if I hadn't been drunk I wouldn't have let you. I'm more
grateful to him than you are. Gee! I'd never have forgiven myself," he
concluded fervently.
* * * * *
Just when the Incident was beginning to occupy less of Hugh's thoughts,
it was suddenly brought back with a crash. He came home from the
gymnasium one afternoon to find Carl seated at his desk writing. He
looked up when Hugh came in, tore the paper into fragments, and tossed
them info the waste-basket.
"Guess I'd better tell you," he said briefly. "I was just writing a note
to you."
"To me? Why?"
Carl pointed to his suit-case standing by the center-table.
"That's why."
"Going away on a party?"
"My trunk left an hour ago. I'm going away for good." Carl's voice was
husky, and he spoke with an obvious effort.
Hugh walked quickly to the desk. "Why, old man, what's the matter?
Anything wrong with your mother? You're not sick, are you?"
Carl laughed, briefly, bitterly. "Yes, I'm sick all right. I'm sick."
Hugh, worried, looked at him seriously. "Why, what's the matter? I
didn't know that you weren't feeling well."
Carl looked at the rug and muttered, "You remember those rats we picked
up in Hastings?"
"Yes?"
"Well, I know of seven fellows they've sent home."
"What!" Hugh cried, his eyes wide with horror. "You don't mean that
you--that you--"
"I mean exactly that," Carl replied in a low, flat voice. He rose and
moved to the other side of the room. "I mean exactly that; and Doc
Conners agrees with me," he added sarcastically. Then more softly, "He's
got to tell the dean. That's why I'm going home."
Hugh was swept simultaneously by revulsion and sympathy. "God, I'm
sorry," he exclaimed. "Oh, Carl, I'm so damn sorry."
Carl was standing by Hugh's desk, his hands clenched, his lips
compressed. "Keep my junk," he said unevenly, "and sell anything you
want to if you live in the house next year."
"But you'll be back?"
"No, I won't come back--I won't come back." He was having a hard time
to keep back the tears and bit his trembling lip mercilessly. "Oh,
Hugh," he suddenly cried, "what will my mother say?"
Hugh was deeply distressed, but he was startled by that "my mother." It
was the first time he had ever heard Carl speak of his mother except as
the "old lady."
"She will understand," he said soothingly.
"How can she? How can she? God, Hugh, God!" He buried his face in his
hands and wept bitterly. Hugh put his arm around his shoulder and tried
to comfort him, and in a few minutes Carl was in control of himself
again. He dried his eyes with his handkerchief.
"What a fish I am!" he said, trying to grin. "A goddamn fish." He looked
at his watch. "Hell, I've got to be going if I'm going to make the five
fifteen," He picked up his suit-case and held out his free hand.
"There's something I want to say to you, Hugh, but I guess I'll write
it. Please don't come to the train with me." He gripped Hugh's hand hard
for an instant and then was out of the door and down the hall before
Hugh had time to say anything.
Two days afterward the letter came. The customary "Dear brother" and
"Fraternally yours" were omitted.
Dear Hugh:
I've thought of letters yards long but I'm not going to
write them. I just want to say that you are the finest
thing that ever happened to me outside of my mother, and
I respect you more than any fellow I've ever known. I'm
ashamed because I started you drinking and I hope you'll
stop it. I feel toward you the way Harry Slade does,
only more I guess. You've done an awful lot for me.
I want to ask a favor of you. Please leave women alone.
Keep straight, please. You don't know how much I want
you to do that.
Thanks for all you've done for me.
CARL.
Hugh's eyes filled with tears when he read that letter. Carl seemed a
tragic figure to him, and he missed him dreadfully. Poor old Carl! What
hell it must have been to tell his mother! "And he wants me to keep
straight. By God, I will.... I'll try to, anyhow."