"CHAPTER I\n\n\nWhen an American sets out to found a college, he hunts first for a hill.\nJohn Harvard was an Englishman and indifferent to high places. The\nresult is that Harvard has become a university of vast proportions and\nno color. Yale flounders about among the New Haven shops, trying to rise\nabove them. The Harkness Memorial tower is successful; otherwise the\nuniversity smells of trade. If Yale had been built on a hill, it would\nprobably be far less important and much more interesting.\n\nHezekiah Sanford was wise; he found first his hill and then founded his\ncollege, believing probably that any one ambitious enough to climb the\nhill was a man fit to wrestle with learning and, if need be, with Satan\nhimself. Satan was ever before Hezekiah, and he fought him valiantly,\nexorcising him every morning in chapel and every evening at prayers. The\nfirst students of Sanford College learned Latin and Greek and to fear\nthe devil. There are some who declare that their successors learn less.\n\nHezekiah built Sanford Hall, a fine Georgian building, performed the\nduties of trustees, president, dean, and faculty for thirty years, and\nthen passed to his reward, leaving three thousand acres, his library of\nfive hundred books, mostly sermons, Sanford Hall, and a charter that\nopened the gates of Sanford to all men so that they might \"find the true\nlight of God and the glory of Jesus in the halls of this most liberal\ncollege.\"\n\nMore than a century had passed since Hezekiah was laid to rest in\nHaydensville's cemetery. The college had grown miraculously and changed\neven more miraculously. Only the hill and its beautiful surroundings\nremained the same. Indian Lake, on the south of the campus, still\nsparkled in the sunlight; on the east the woods were as virgin as they\nhad been a hundred and fifty years before. Haydensville, still only a\nvillage, surrounded the college on the west and north.\n\nHezekiah's successors had done strange things to his campus. There were\ndozens of buildings now surrounding Sanford Hall, and they revealed all\nthe types of architecture popular since Hezekiah had thundered his last\ndefiance at Satan. There were fine old colonial buildings, their windows\noutlined by English ivy; ponderous Romanesque buildings made of stone,\ngrotesque and hideous; a pseudo-Gothic chapel with a tower of\nsurpassing loveliness; and four laboratories of the purest factory\ndesign. But despite the conglomerate and sometimes absurd\narchitecture--a Doric temple neighbored a Byzantine mosque--the campus\nwas beautiful. Lawns, often terraced, stretched everywhere, and the\ngreat elms lent a dignity to Sanford College that no architect, however\nstupid, could quite efface.\n\nThis first day of the new college year was glorious in the golden haze\nof Indian summer. The lake was silver blue, the long reflections of the\ntrees twisting and bending as a soft breeze ruffled the surface into\ntiny waves. The hills already brilliant with color--scarlet, burnt\norange, mauve, and purple--flamed up to meet the clear blue sky; the\nelms softly rustled their drying leaves; the white houses of the village\nretreated coyly behind maples and firs and elms: everywhere there was\npeace, the peace that comes with strength that has been stronger than\ntime.\n\nAs Hugh Carver hastened up the hill from the station, his two suit-cases\nbanged his legs and tripped him. He could hardly wait to reach the\ncampus. The journey had been intolerably long--Haydensville was more\nthan three hundred miles from Merrytown, his home--and he was wild to\nfind his room in Surrey Hall. He wondered how he would like his\nroom-mate, Peters.... What's his name? Oh, yes, Carl.... The registrar\nhad written that Peters had gone to Kane School.... Must be pretty fine.\nOught to be first-class to room with.... Hugh hoped that Peters wouldn't\nthink that he was too country....\n\nHugh was a slender lad who looked considerably less than his eighteen\nyears. A gray cap concealed his sandy brown hair, which he parted on the\nside and which curled despite all his brushing. His crystalline blue\neyes, his small, neatly carved nose, his sensitive mouth that hid a shy\nand appealing smile, were all very boyish. He seemed young, almost\npathetically young.\n\nPeople invariably called him a nice boy, and he didn't like it; in fact,\nhe wanted to know how they got that way. They gave him the pip, that's\nwhat they did. He guessed that a fellow who could run the hundred in 10:\n2 and out-box anybody in high school wasn't such a baby. Why, he had\noverheard one of the old maid teachers call him sweet. Sweet! Cripes,\nthat old hen made him sick. She was always pawing him and sticking her\nskinny hands in his hair. He was darn glad to get to college where there\nwere only men teachers.\n\nWomen always wanted to get their hands into his hair, and boys liked him\non sight. Many of those who were streaming up the hill before and behind\nhim, who passed him or whom he passed, glanced at his eager face and\nthought that there was a guy they'd like to know.\n\nAn experienced observer would have divided those boys into three groups:\npreparatory school boys, carelessly at ease, well dressed, or, as the\ncollege argot has it, \"smooth\"; boys from city schools, not so well\ndressed perhaps, certainly not so sure of themselves; and country boys,\nmany of them miserably confused and some of them clad in Kollege Kut\nKlothes that they would shamefacedly discard within a week.\n\nHugh finally reached the top of the hill, and the campus was before him.\nHe had visited the college once with his father and knew his way about.\nEager as he was to reach Surrey Hall, he paused to admire the\npseudo-Gothic chapel. He felt a little thrill of pride as he stared in\nawe at the magnificent building. It had been willed to the college by an\nalumnus who had made millions selling rotten pork.\n\nHugh skirted two of the factory laboratories, hurried between the Doric\ntemple and Byzantine mosque, paused five times to direct confused\nclassmates, passed a dull red colonial building, and finally stood\nbefore Surrey Hall, a large brick dormitory half covered by ivy.\n\nHe hurried up-stairs and down a corridor until he found a door with 19\non it. He knocked.\n\n\"What th' hell! Come in.\" The voice was impatiently cheerful.\n\nHugh pushed open the door and entered the room to meet wild\nconfusion--and his room-mate. The room was a clutter of suit-cases,\ntrunks, clothes, banners, unpacked furniture, pillows, pictures,\ngolf-sticks, tennis-rackets, and photographs--dozens of photographs, all\nof them of girls apparently. In the middle of the room a boy was on his\nknees before an open trunk. He had sleek black hair, parted meticulously\nin the center, a slender face with rather sharp features and large black\neyes that almost glittered. His lips were full and very red, almost too\nred, and his cheeks seemed to be colored with a hard blush.\n\n\"Hullo,\" he said in a clear voice as Hugh came in. \"Who are you?\"\n\nHugh flushed slightly. \"I'm Carver,\" he answered, \"Hugh Carver.\"\n\nThe other lad jumped to his feet, revealing, to Hugh's surprise, golf\nknickers. He was tall, slender, and very neatly built.\n\n\"Hell!\" he exclaimed. \"I ought to have guessed that.\" He held out his\nhand. \"I'm Carl Peters, the guy you've got to room with--and God help\nyou.\"\n\nHugh dropped his suit-cases and shook hands. \"Guess I can stand it,\" he\nsaid with a quick laugh to hide his embarrassment. \"Maybe you'll need a\nlittle of God's help yourself.\" Diffident and unsure, he smiled--and\nPeters liked him on the spot.\n\n\"Chase yourself,\" Peters said easily. \"I know a good guy when I see one.\nSit down somewhere--er, here.\" He brushed a pile of clothes off a trunk\nto the floor with one sweep of his arm. \"Rest yourself after climbing\nthat goddamn hill. Christ! It's a bastard, that hill is. Say, your\ntrunk's down-stairs. I saw it. I'll help you bring it up soon's you've\ngot your wind.\"\n\nHugh was rather dazzled by the rapid, staccato talk, and, to tell the\ntruth, he was a little shocked by the profanity. Not that he wasn't used\nto profanity; he had heard plenty of that in Merrytown, but he didn't\nexpect somehow that a college man--that is, a prep-school man--would use\nit. He felt that he ought to make some reply to Peters's talk, but he\ndidn't know just what would do. Peters saved him the trouble.\n\n\"I'll tell you, Carver--oh, hell, I'm going to call you Hugh--we're\ngoing to have a swell joint here. Quite the darb. Three rooms, you know;\na bedroom for each of us and this big study. I've brought most of the\njunk that I had at Kane, and I s'pose you've got some of your own.\"\n\n\"Not much,\" Hugh replied, rather ashamed of what he thought might be\nconsidered stinginess. He hastened to explain that he didn't know what\nCarl would have; so he thought that he had better wait and get his stuff\nat college.\n\n\"That's the bean,\" exclaimed Carl, He had perched himself on the\nwindow-seat. He threw one well shaped leg over the other and gazed at\nHugh admiringly. \"You certainly used the old bean. Say, I've got a hell\nof a lot of truck here, and if you'd a brought much, we'd a been\nswamped.... Say, I'll tell you how we fix this dump.\" He jumped up, led\nHugh on a tour of the rooms, discussed the disposal of the various\npieces of furniture with enormous gusto, and finally pointed to the\nphotographs.\n\n\"Hope you don't mind my harem,\" he said, making a poor attempt to hide\nhis pride.\n\n\"It's some harem,\" replied Hugh in honest awe.\n\nAgain he felt ashamed. He had pictures of his father and mother, and\nthat was all. He'd write to Helen for one right away. \"Where'd you get\nall of 'em? You've certainly got a collection.\"\n\n\"Sure have. The album of hearts I've broken. When I've kissed a girl\ntwice I make her give me her picture. I've forgotten the names of some\nof these janes. I collected ten at Bar Harbor this summer and three at\nChristmas Cove. Say, this kid--\" he fished through a pile of\npictures--\"was the hottest little devil I ever met.\" He passed to Hugh a\ncabinet photograph of a standard flapper. \"Pet? My God!\" He cast his\neyes ceilingward ecstatically.\n\nHugh's mind was a battle-field of disapproval and envy. Carl dazzled and\nconfused him. He had often listened to the recitals of their exploits by\nthe Merrytown Don Juans, but this good-looking, sophisticated lad\nevidently had a technique and breadth of experience quite unknown to\nMerrytown. He wanted badly to hear more, but time was flying and he\nhadn't even begun to unpack.\n\n\"Will you help me bring up my trunk?\" he asked half shyly.\n\n\"Oh, hell, yes. I'd forgotten all about that. Come on.\"\n\nThey spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking, arranging and\nrearranging the furniture and pictures. They found a restaurant and had\ndinner. Then they returned to 19 Surrey and rearranged the furniture\nonce more, pausing occasionally to chat while Carl smoked. He offered\nHugh a cigarette. Hugh explained that he did not smoke, that he was a\nsprinter and that the coaches said that cigarettes were bad for a\nrunner.\n\n\"Right-o,\" said Carl, respecting the reason thoroughly. \"I can't run\nworth a damn myself, but I'm not bad at tennis--not very good, either.\nSay, if you're a runner you ought to make a fraternity easy. Got your\neye on one?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Hugh, \"my father's a Nu Delt.\"\n\n\"The Nu Delts. Phew! High-hat as hell.\" He looked at Hugh enviously.\n\"Say, you certainly are set. Well, my old man never went to college, but\nI want to tell you that he left us a whale of a lot of jack when he\npassed out a couple of years ago.\"\n\n\"What!\" Hugh exclaimed, staring at him in blank astonishment.\n\nIn an instant Carl was on his feet, his flashing eyes dimmed by tears.\n\"My old man was the best scout that ever lived--the best damned old\nscout that ever lived.\" His sophistication was all gone; he was just a\nsmall boy, heartily ashamed of himself and ready to cry. \"I want you to\nknow that,\" he ended defiantly.\n\nAt once Hugh was all sympathy. \"Sure, I know,\" he said softly. Then he\nsmiled and added, \"So's mine.\"\n\nCarl's face lost its lugubriousness in a broad grin. \"I'm a fish,\" he\nannounced. \"Let's hit the hay.\"\n\n\"You said it!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nHugh wrote two letters before he went to bed, one to his mother and\nfather and the other to Helen Simpson. His letter to Helen was very\nbrief, merely a request for her photograph.\n\nThen, his mind in a whirl of excitement, he went to bed and lay awake\ndreaming, thinking of Carl, the college, and, most of all, of Helen and\nhis walk with her the day before.\n\nHe had called on her to say good-by. They had been \"going together\" for\na year, and she was generally considered his girl. She was a pretty\nchild with really beautiful brown hair, which she had foolishly bobbed,\nlively blue eyes, and an absurdly tiny snub nose. She was little, with\nquick, eager hands--a shallow creature who was proud to be seen with\nHugh because he had been captain of the high-school track team. But she\ndid wish that he wasn't so slow. Why, he had kissed her only once, and\nthat had been a silly peck on the cheek. Perhaps he was just shy, but\nsometimes she was almost sure that he was \"plain dumb.\"\n\nThey had walked silently along the country road to the woods that\nskirted the town. An early frost had already touched the foliage with\nscarlet and orange. They sat down on a fallen log, and Hugh gazed at a\nradiant maple-tree.\n\nHelen let her hand drop lightly on his. \"Thinking of me?\" she asked\nsoftly.\n\nHugh squeezed her hand. \"Yes,\" he whispered, and looked at the ground\nwhile he scuffed some fallen leaves with the toe of his shoe.\n\n\"I am going to miss you, Hughie--oh, awfully. Are you going to miss me?\"\n\nHe held her hand tightly and said nothing. He was aware only of her\nhand. His throat seemed to be stopped, choked with something.\n\nA bird that should have been on its way south chirped from a tree near\nby. The sound made Hugh look up. He noticed that the shadows were\nlengthening. He and Helen would have to start back pretty soon or he\nwould be late for dinner. There was still packing to do; his mother had\nsaid that his father wanted to have a talk with him--and through all his\nthoughts there ran like a fiery red line the desire to kiss the girl\nwhose hand was clasped in his.\n\nHe turned slightly toward her. \"Hughie,\" she whispered and moved close\nto him. His heart stopped as he loosened her hand from his and put his\narm around her. With a contented sigh she rested her head on one\nshoulder and her hand on the other. \"Hughie dear,\" she breathed softly.\n\nHe hesitated no longer. His heart was beating so that he could not\nspeak, but he bent and kissed her. And there they sat for half an hour\nmore, close in each other's embrace, speaking no words, but losing\nthemselves in kisses that seemed to have no end.\n\nFinally Hugh realized that darkness had fallen. He drew the yielding\ngirl to her feet and started home, his arm around her. When they reached\nher gate, he embraced her once more and kissed her as if he could never\nlet her go. A light flashed in a window. Frightened, he tried to leave,\nbut she clung to him.\n\n\"I must go,\" he whispered desperately.\n\n\"I'm going to miss you awfully.\" He thought that she was weeping--and\nkissed her again. Then as another window shot light into the yard, he\nforced her arms from around his neck.\n\n\"Good-by, Helen. Write to me.\" His voice was rough and husky.\n\n\"Oh, I will. Good-by--darling.\"\n\nHe walked home tingling with emotion. He wanted to shout; he felt\nsuddenly grown up. Golly, but Helen was a little peach. He felt her arms\naround his neck again, her lips pressed maddeningly to his. For an\ninstant he was dizzy....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs he lay in bed in 19 Surrey thinking of Helen, he tried to summon that\nglorious intoxication again. But he failed. Carl, the college,\nregistration--a thousand thoughts intruded themselves. Already Helen\nseemed far away, a little nebulous. He wondered why....\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nFor the next few days Carl and Hugh did little but wait in line. They\nlined up to register; they lined up to pay tuition; they lined up to\nshake hands with President Culver; they lined up to talk for two quite\nuseless minutes with the freshman dean; they lined up to be assigned\nseats in the commons. Carl suggested that he and Hugh line up in the\nstudy before going to bed so that they would keep in practice. Then they\nhad to attend lectures given by various members of the faculty about\ncollege customs, college manners, college honor, college everything.\nAfter the sixth of them, Hugh, thoroughly weary and utterly confused,\nasked Carl if he now had any idea of what college was.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Carl; \"it's a young ladies' school for very nice boys.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Hugh said desperately, \"if I have to listen to about two more\nawfully noble lectures, I'm going to get drunk. I have a hunch that\ncollege isn't anything like what these old birds say it is. I hope not,\nanyway.\"\n\n\"Course it isn't. Say, why wait for two more of the damn things to kill\nyou off?\" He pulled a flask out of his desk drawer and held it out\ninvitingly.\n\nHugh laughed. \"You told me yourself that that stuff was catgut and that\nyou wouldn't drink it on a bet. Besides, you know that I don't drink. If\nI'm going to make my letter, I've got to keep in trim.\"\n\n\"Right you are. Wish I knew what to do with this poison. If I leave it\naround here, the biddy'll get hold of it, and then God help us. I'll\ntell you what: after it gets dark to-night we'll take it down and poison\nthe waters of dear old Indian Lake.\"\n\n\"All right. Say, I've got to pike along; I've got a date with my faculty\nadviser. Hope I don't have to stand in line.\"\n\nHe didn't have to stand in line--he was permitted to sit--but he did\nhave to wait an hour and a half. Finally a student came out of the inner\noffice, and a gruff voice from within called, \"Next!\"\n\n\"Just like a barber shop,\" flashed across Hugh's mind as he entered the\ntiny office.\n\nAn old-young man was sitting behind a desk shuffling papers. He glanced\nup as Hugh came in and motioned him to a chair beside him. Hugh sat down\nand stared at his feet.\n\n\"Um, let's see. Your name's--what?\"\n\n\"Carver, sir. Hugh Carver.\"\n\nThe adviser, Professor Kane, glanced at some notes. \"Oh, yes, from\nMerrytown High School, fully accredited. Are you taking an A.B. or a\nB.S.?\"\n\n\"I--I don't know.\"\n\n\"You have to have one year of college Latin for a B.S. and at least two\nyears of Greek besides for an A.B.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Hugh was frightened and confused. He knew that his father was an\nA.B., but he had heard the high-school principal say that Greek was\nuseless nowadays. Suddenly he remembered: the principal had advised him\nto take a B.S.; he had said that it was more practical.\n\n\"I guess I'd better take a B.S.,\" he said softly. \"Very well.\" Professor\nKane, who hadn't yet looked at Hugh, picked up a schedule card. \"Any\nmiddle name?\" he asked abruptly.\n\n\"Yes, sir--Meredith.\"\n\nKane scribbled H.M. Carver at the top of the card and then proceeded to\nfill it in rapidly. He hastily explained the symbols that he was using,\nbut he did not say anything about the courses. When he had completed the\nschedule, he copied it on another card, handed one to Hugh, and stuck\nthe other into a filing-box.\n\n\"Anything else?\" he asked, turning his blond, blank face toward Hugh for\nthe first time.\n\nHugh stood up. There were a dozen questions that he wanted to ask. \"No,\nsir,\" he replied. \"Very well, then. I am your regular adviser. You will\ncome to me when you need assistance. Good day.\"\n\n\"Good day, sir,\" and as Hugh passed out of the door, the gruff voice\nbawled, \"Next!\" The boy nearest the door rose and entered the sanctum.\n\nHugh sought the open air and gazed at the hieroglyphics on the card.\n\"Guess they mean something,\" he mused, \"but how am I going to find out?\"\nA sudden fear made him blanch. \"I bet I get into the wrong places. Oh,\ngolly!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen came the upper-classmen, nearly seven hundred of them. The quiet\ncampus became a bedlam of excitement and greetings. \"Hi, Jack. Didya\nhave a good summer?\"... \"Well, Tom, ol' kid, I sure am glad to see you\nback.\"... \"Put her there, ol' scout; it's sure good to see you.\"\nEverywhere the same greetings: \"Didya have a good summer? Glad to see\nyou back.\" Every one called every one else by his first name; every one\nshook hands with astonishing vigor, usually clutching the other fellow\nby the forearm at the same time. How cockily these lads went around the\ncampus! No confusion or fear for them; they knew what to do.\n\nFor the first time Hugh felt a pang of homesickness; for the first time\nhe realized that he wasn't yet part of the college. He clung close to\nCarl and one or two other lads in Surrey with whom he picked up an\nacquaintance, and Carl clung close to Hugh, careful to hide the fact\nthat he felt very small and meek. For the first time _he_ realized that\nhe was just a freshman--and he didn't like it.\n\nThen suddenly the tension, which had been gathering for a day or so,\nbroke. Orders went out from the upper-classmen that all freshmen put on\ntheir baby bonnets, silly little blue caps with a bright orange button.\nFrom that moment every freshman was doomed. Work was their lot, and\nplenty of it. \"Hi, freshman, carry up my trunk. Yeah, you, freshman--you\nwith the skinny legs. You and your fat friend carry my trunk up to the\nfourth floor--and if you drop it, I'll break your fool necks.\"...\n\"Freshman! go down to the station and get my suit-cases. Here are the\nchecks. Hurry back if you know what's good for you.\"... \"Freshman! go\nup to Hill Twenty-eight and put the beds together.\"... \"Freshman! come\nup to my room. I want you to hang pictures.\"\n\nFortunately the labor did not last long, but while it lasted Hugh was\nhustled around as he never had been before. And he loved it. He loved\nhis blue cap and its orange button; he loved the upper-classmen who\ncalled him freshman and ordered him around; he loved the very trunks\nthat he lugged so painfully up-stairs. He was being recognized, merely\nas a janitor, it is true, but recognized; at last he was a part of\nSanford College. Further, one of the men who had ordered him around the\nmost fiercely wore a Nu Delta pin, the emblem of his father's\nfraternity. He ran that man's errands with such speed and willingness\nthat the hero decided that the freshman was \"very, very dumb.\"\n\nThat night Hugh and Carl sat in 19 Surrey and rested their aching bones,\none on a couch, the other in a leather Morris chair.\n\n\"Hot stuff, wasn't it?\" said Hugh, stretching out comfortably.\n\n\"Hot stuff, hell! How do they get that way?\"\n\n\"Never mind; we'll do the ordering next year.\"\n\n\"Right you are,\" said Carl decisively, lighting a cigarette, \"and won't\nI make the little frosh walk.\" He gazed around the room, his face\nbeaming with satisfaction. \"Say, we're pretty snappy here, aren't we?\"\n\nHugh, too, looked around admiringly. The walls were almost hidden by\nbanners, a huge Sanford blanket--Hugh's greatest contribution--Carl's\nKane blanket, the photographs of the \"harem,\" posters of college\nathletes and movie bathing-girls, pipe-racks, and three Maxfield Parrish\nprints.\n\n\"It certainly is fine,\" said Hugh proudly. \"All we need is a barber pole\nand a street sign.\"\n\n\"We'll have 'em before the week is out.\" This with great decision.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nCarl's adviser had been less efficient than Hugh's; therefore he knew\nwhat his courses were, where the classes met and the hours, the names of\nhis instructors, and the requirements other than Latin for a B.S.\ndegree. Carl said that he was taking a B.S. because he had had a year of\nGreek at Kane and was therefore perfectly competent to make full use of\nthe language; he could read the letters on the front doors of the\nfraternity houses.\n\nThe boys found that their courses were the same but that they were in\ndifferent sections. Hugh was in a dilemma; he could make nothing out of\nhis card.\n\n\"Here,\" said Carl, \"give the thing to me. My adviser was a good scout\nand wised me up. This P.C. isn't paper cutting as you might suppose;\nit's gym. You'll get out of that by signing up for track. P.C. means\nphysical culture. Think of that! You can sign up for track any time\nto-morrow down at the gym. And E I, 7 means that you're in English I,\nSection 7; and M is math. You re in Section 3. Lat means Latin, of\ncourse--Section 6. My adviser--he tried pretty hard to be funny--said\nthat G.S. wasn't glorious salvation but general science. That meets in\nthe big lecture hall in Cranston. We all go to that. And H I, 4 means\nthat you are in Section 4 of History I. See? That's all there is to it.\nNow this thing\"--he held up a printed schedule--\"tells you where the\nclasses meet.\"\n\nWith a great deal of labor, discussion, and profanity they finally got a\nschedule made out that meant something to Hugh. He heaved a\nBrobdingnagian sigh of relief when they finished.\n\n\"Well,\" he exclaimed, \"that's that! At last I know where I'm going. You\ncertainly saved my life. I know where all the buildings are; so it ought\nto be easy.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said Carl encouragingly; \"it's easy. Now there's nothing to do\ntill to-morrow until eight forty-five when we attend chapel to the glory\nof the Lord. I think I'll pray to-morrow; I may need it. Christ! I hate\nto study.\"\n\n\"Me, too,\" Hugh lied. He really loved books, but somehow he couldn't\nadmit the fact, which had suddenly become shameful, to Carl. \"Let's go\nto the movies,\" he suggested, changing the subject for safety.\n\n\"Right-o!\" Carl put on his freshman cap and flung Hugh's to him. \"Gloria\nNielsen is there, and she's a pash baby. Ought to be a good fillum.\"\n\nThe Blue and Orange--it was the only movie theater in town--was almost\nfull when the boys arrived. Only a few seats near the front were still\nvacant. A freshman started down the aisle, his \"baby bonnet\" stuck\njauntily on the back of his head.\n\n\"Freshman!\"... \"Kill him!\"... \"Murder the frosh!\" Shouts came from all\nparts of the house, and an instant later hundreds of peanuts shot\nswiftly at the startled freshman. \"Cap! Cap! Cap off!\" There was a panic\nof excitement. Upper-classmen were standing on their chairs to get free\nthrowing room. The freshman snatched off his cap, drew his head like a\nscared turtle down into his coat collar, and ran for a seat. Hugh and\nCarl tucked their caps into their coat pockets and attempted to stroll\nnonchalantly down the aisle. They hadn't taken three steps before the\nbombardment began. Like their classmate, they ran for safety.\n\nThen some one in the front of the theatre threw a peanut at some one in\nthe rear. The fight was on! Yelling like madmen, the students stood on\ntheir chairs and hurled peanuts, the front and rear of the house\nautomatically dividing into enemy camps. When the fight was at its\nhottest, three girls entered.\n\n\"Wimmen! Wimmen!\" As the girls walked down the aisle, infinitely pleased\nwith their reception, five hundred men stamped in time with their\nsteps.\n\nNo sooner were the girls seated than there was a scramble in one corner,\nan excited scuffling of feet. \"I've got it!\" a boy screamed. He stood on\nhis chair and held up a live mouse by its tail. There was a shout of\napplause and then--\"Play catch!\"\n\nThe boy dropped the writhing mouse into a peanut bag, screwed the open\nend tight-closed, and then threw the bag far across the room. Another\nboy caught it and threw it, this time over the girls' heads. They\nscreamed and jumped upon their chairs, holding their skirts, and dancing\nup and down in assumed terror. Back over their heads, back and over,\nagain and again the bagged mouse was thrown while the girls screamed and\nthe boys roared with delight. Suddenly one of the girls threw up her\narm, caught the bag deftly, held it for a second, and then tossed it\ninto the rear of the theater.\n\nCheers of terrifying violence broke loose: \"Ray! Ray! Atta girl! Hot\ndog! Ray, ray!\" And then the lights went out.\n\n\"Moosick! Moosick! Moo-_sick_!\" The audience stamped and roared,\nwhistled and howled. \"Moosick! We want moosick!\"\n\nThe pianist, an undergraduate, calmly strolled down the aisle.\n\n\"Get a move on!\"... \"Earn your salary!\"... \"Give us moosick!\"\n\nThe pianist paused to thumb his nose casually at the entire audience,\nand then amid shouts and hisses sat down at the piano and began to play\n\"Love Nest.\"\n\nImmediately the boys began to whistle, and as the comedy was utterly\nstupid, they relieved their boredom by whistling the various tunes that\nthe pianist played until the miserable film flickered out.\n\nThen the \"feature\" and the fun began. During the stretches of pure\nnarrative, the boys whistled, but when there was any real action they\ntalked. The picture was a melodrama of \"love and hate,\" as the\nadvertisement said.\n\nThe boys told the actors what to do; they revealed to them the secrets\nof the plot. \"She's hiding behind the door, Harold. No, no! Not that\nway. Hey, dumbbell--behind the door.\"... \"Catch him, Gloria; he's only\nshy!\"... \"No, that's not him!\"\n\nThe climactic fight brought shouts of encouragement--to the villain.\n\"Kill him!\"... \"Shoot one to his kidneys!\"... \"Ahhhhh,\" as the villain\nhit the hero in the stomach.... \"Muss his hair. Attaboy!\"... \"Kill the\nskunk!\" And finally groans of despair when the hero won his inevitable\nvictory.\n\nBut it was the love scenes that aroused the greatest ardor and joy. The\nhero was given careful instructions. \"Some neckin', Harold!\"... \"Kiss\nher! Kiss her! Ahhh!\"... \"Harold, Harold, you're getting rough!\"...\n\"She's vamping you, Harold!\"... \"Stop it; Gloria; he's a good boy.\" And\nso on until the picture ended in the usual close-up of the hero and\nheroine silhouetted in a tender embrace against the setting sun. The\nboys breathed \"Ahhhh\" and \"Ooooh\" ecstatically--and laughed. The\nmeretricious melodrama did not fool them, but they delighted in its\nabsurdities.\n\nThe lights flashed on and the crowd filed out, \"wise-cracking\" about the\npicture and commenting favorably on the heroine's figure. There were\nshouts to this fellow or that fellow to come on over and play bridge,\nand suggestions here and there to go to a drug store and get a drink.\n\nHugh and Carl strolled home over the dark campus, both of them radiant\nwith excitement, Hugh frankly so.\n\n\"Golly, I did enjoy that,\" he exclaimed. \"I never had a better time. It\nwas sure hot stuff. I don't want to go to the room; let's walk for a\nwhile.\"\n\n\"Yeah, it was pretty good,\" Carl admitted. \"Nope, I can't go walking;\ngotta write a letter.\"\n\n\"Who to? The harem?\"\n\nCarl hunched his shoulders until his ears touched his coat collar.\n\"Gettin' cold. Fall's here. Nope, not the harem. My old lady.\"\n\nHugh looked at him bewildered. He was finding Carl more and more a\nconundrum. He consistently called his mother his old lady, insisted that\nshe was a damned nuisance--and wrote to her every night. Hugh was\nwriting to his mother only twice a week. It was very confusing....\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nCapwell Chapel--it bore the pork merchant's name as an eternal memorial\nto him--was as impressive inside as out. The stained-glass windows had\nbeen made by a famous New York firm; the altar had been designed by an\neven more famous sculptor. The walls, quite improperly, were adorned\nwith paintings of former presidents, but the largest painting of all--it\nwas fairly Gargantuan--was of the pork merchant, a large, ruddy\ngentleman, whom the artist, a keen observer, had painted\ntruly--complacently porcine, benevolently smug.\n\nThe seniors and juniors sat in the nave, the sophomores on the right\nside of the transept, the freshmen on the left. Hugh gazed upward in awe\nat the dim recesses of the vaulted ceiling, at the ornately carved choir\nwhere gowned students were quietly seating themselves, at the colored\nlight streaming through the beautiful windows, at the picture of the\npork merchant. The chapel bells ceased tolling; rich, solemn tones\nswelled from the organ.\n\nPresident Culver in cap and gown, his purple hood falling over his\nshoulders, entered followed by his faculty, also gowned and hooded. The\nstudents rose and remained standing until the president and faculty were\nseated. The organ sounded a final chord, and then the college chaplain\nrose and prayed--very badly. He implored the Lord to look kindly \"on\nthese young men who have come from near and far to drink from this great\nfount of learning, this well of wisdom.\"\n\nThe prayer over, the president addressed the students. He was a large,\nerect man with iron-gray hair and a rugged intelligent face. Although he\nwas sixty years old, his body was vigorous and free from extra weight.\nHe spoke slowly and impressively, choosing his words with care and\nenunciating them with great distinctness. His address was for the\nfreshmen: he welcomed them to Sanford College, to its splendid\ntraditions, its high ideals, its noble history. He spoke of the famous\nmen it numbered among its sons, of the work they had done for America\nand the world, of the work he hoped future Sanford men, they, the\nfreshmen, would some day do for America and the world. He mentioned\nbriefly the boys from Sanford who had died in the World War \"to make the\nworld safe for democracy,\" and he prayed that their sacrifice had not\nbeen in vain. Finally, he spoke of the chapel service, which the\nstudents were required to attend. He hoped that they would find\ninspiration in it, knowledge and strength. He assured them that the\nservice would always be nonsectarian, that there would never be anything\nin it to offend any one of any race, creed, or religion. With a last\nexhortation to the freshmen to make the most of their great\nopportunities, he ended with the announcement that they would rise and\nsing the sixty-seventh hymn.\n\nHugh was deeply impressed by the speech but disturbed by the students.\nFrom where he sat he got an excellent view of the juniors and seniors.\nThe seniors, who sat in the front of the nave, seemed to be paying\nfairly good attention; but the juniors--many of them, at least--paid no\nattention at all. Some of them were munching apples, some doughnuts, and\nmany of them were reading \"The Sanford News,\" the college's daily paper.\nSome of the juniors talked during the president's address, and once he\nnoticed four of them doubled up as if overcome by laughter. To him the\nservice was a beautiful and impressive occasion. He could not understand\nthe conduct of the upper-classmen. It seemed, to put it mildly,\nirreverent.\n\nEvery one, however, sang the doxology with great vigor, some of the boys\nlifting up a \"whisky\" tenor that made the chapel ring, and to which Hugh\nhappily added his own clear tenor. The benediction was pronounced by the\nchaplain, the seniors marched out slowly in twos, while the other\nstudents and the faculty stood in their places; then the president,\nfollowed by the faculty, passed out of the great doors. When the back of\nthe last faculty gown had disappeared, the under-classmen broke for the\ndoor, pushing each other aside, swearing when a toe was stepped on,\nyelling to each other, some of them joyously chanting the doxology. Hugh\nwas caught in the rush and carried along with the mob, feeling ashamed\nand distressed; this was no way to leave a church.\n\nOnce outside, however, he had no time to think of the chapel service; he\nhad five minutes in which to get to his first class, and the building\nwas across the campus, a good two minutes' walk. He patted his cap to be\nsure that it was firmly on the back of his head, clutched his note-book,\nand ran as hard as he could go, the strolling upper-classmen, whom he\npassed at top speed, grinning after him in tolerant amusement.\n\nHugh was the first one in the class-room and wondered in a moment of\npanic if he was in the right place. He sat down dubiously and looked at\nhis watch. Four minutes left. He would wait two, and then if nobody came\nhe would--he gasped; he couldn't imagine what he would do. How could he\nfind the right class-room? Maybe his class didn't come at this hour at\nall. Suppose he and Carl had made a mistake. If they had, his whole\nschedule was probably wrong. \"Oh, golly,\" he thought, feeling pitifully\nweak, \"won't that be hell? What can I do?\"\n\nAt that moment a countrified-looking youth entered, looking as scared as\nHugh felt. His face was pale, and his voice trembled as he asked\ntimidly, \"Do you know if this is Section Three of Math One?\"\n\nHugh was immediately strengthened. \"I think so,\" he replied. \"Anyhow,\nlet's wait and find out.\"\n\nThe freshman sighed in huge relief, took out a not too clean\nhandkerchief, and mopped his face. \"Criminy!\" he exclaimed as he\nwriggled down the aisle to a seat by Hugh, \"I was sure worried. I\nthought I was in the wrong building, though I was sure that my adviser\nhad told me positively that Math was in Matthew Six.\"\n\n\"I guess we're all right,\" Hugh comforted him as two other freshmen,\nalso looking dubious, entered. They were followed by four more, and then\nby a stampeding group, all of them pop-eyed, all of them in a rush. In\nthe next minute five freshmen dashed in and then dashed out again,\nutterly bewildered, obviously terrified, and not knowing where to go or\nwhat to do. \"Is this Math One, Section Three?\" every man demanded of the\nroom as he entered; and every one yelled, \"Yes,\" or, \"I think so.\"\n\nJust as the bell rang at ten minutes after the hour, the instructor\nentered. It was Professor Kane.\n\n\"This is Mathematics One, Section Three,\" Kane announced in a dry voice.\n\"If there is any one here who does not belong here, he will please\nleave.\" Nobody moved; so he shuffled some cards in his hand and asked\nthe men to answer to the roll-call.\n\n\"Adams, J.H.\"\n\n\"Present, sir.\"\n\nKane looked up and frowned. \"Say 'here,'\" he said severely. \"This is not\na grammar-school.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" stuttered Adams, his face first white then purple. \"Here,\nsir.\"\n\n\"'Here' will do; there is no need of the 'sir.' Allsop, K.E.\"\n\n\"Here\"--in a very faint voice.\n\n\"Speak up!\"\n\n\"Here.\" This time a little louder.\n\nAnd so it went, hardly a man escaping without some admonishment. Hugh's\nthroat went dry; his tongue literally stuck to the roof of his mouth: he\nwas sure that he wouldn't be able to say \"Here\" when it came his turn,\nand he could feel his heart pounding in dreadful anticipation.\n\n\"Carver, H.M.\"\n\n\"Here!\"\n\nThere! it was out! Or had he really said it?\n\nHe looked at the professor in terror, but Kane was already calling,\n\"Dana, R.T.\" Hugh sank back in his chair; he was trembling.\n\nKane announced the text-book, and when Hugh caught the word\n\"trigonometry\" he actually thrilled with joy. He had had trig in high\nschool. Whoops! Would he hit Math I in the eye? He'd knock it for a\ngoal.... Then conscience spoke. Oughtn't he to tell Kane that he had\nalready had trig? He guessed quite rightly that Kane had not understood\nhis high-school credentials, which had given him credit for \"advanced\nmathematics.\" Kane had taken it for granted that that was advanced\nalgebra. Hugh felt that he ought to explain the mistake, but fear of the\narid, impersonal man restrained him. Kane had told him to take Math I;\nand Kane was law.\n\nUnlike most of Hugh's instructors, Kane kept the class the full hour the\nfirst day, seating them in alphabetical order--he had to repeat the\nperformance three times during the week as new men entered the\nclass--lecturing them on the need of doing their problems carefully and\naccurately, and discoursing on the value of mathematics, trigonometry in\nparticular, in the study of science and engineering. Hugh was not\ninterested in science, engineering, or mathematics, but he listened\ncarefully, trying hard to follow Kane's cold discourse. At the end of\nthe hour he told his neighbor as they left the room that he guessed that\nProfessor Kane knew an awful lot, and his neighbor agreed with him.\n\nHugh's other instructors proved less impressive than Kane; in fact, Mr.\nAlling, the instructor in Latin, was altogether disconcerting.\n\n\"Plautus,\" he told the class, \"wrote comedies, farces--not exercises in\ntranslation. He was also, my innocents, occasionally naughty--oh, really\nnaughty. What's worse, he used slang, common every-day slang--the kind\nof stuff that you and I talk. Now, I have an excellent vocabulary of\nslang, obscenity, and profanity; and you are going to hear most of it.\nThink of the opportunity. Don't think that I mean just 'damn' and\n'hell.' They are good for a laugh in a theater any day, but Plautus was\nnot restrained by our modern conventions. _You_ will confine yourselves,\nplease, to English undefiled, but I shall speak the modern equivalent to\na Roman gutter-pup's language whenever necessary. You will find this\ncourse very illuminating--in some ways. And, who knows? you may learn\nsomething not only about Latin but about Rome.\"\n\nHugh thought Mr. Alling was rather flippant and lacking in dignity.\nProfessor Kane was more like a college teacher. Before the term was out\nhe hated Kane with an intensity that astonished him, and he looked\nforward to his Latin classes with an eagerness of which he was almost\nashamed. Plautus in the Alling free and colloquial translations was\nenormously funny.\n\nProfessor Hartley, who gave the history lectures, talked in a bass\nmonotone and never seemed to pause for breath. His words came in a slow\nsteady stream that never rose nor fell nor paused--until the bell rang.\nThe men in the back of the room slept. Hugh was seated near the front;\nso he drew pictures in his note-book. The English instructor talked\nabout punctuation as if it were very unpleasant but almost religiously\nimportant; and what the various lecturers in general science talked\nabout--ten men gave the course--Hugh never knew. In after years all that\nhe could remember about the course was that one man spoke broken English\nand that a professor of physics had made huge bulbs glow with marvelous\ncolors.\n\nHugh had one terrifying experience before he finally got settled to his\nwork. It occurred the second day of classes. He was comfortably seated\nin what he thought was his English class--he had come in just as the\nbell rang--when the instructor announced that it was a class in French.\nWhat was he to do? What would the instructor do if he got up and left\nthe room? What would happen if he didn't report at his English class?\nWhat would happen to him for coming into his English class late? These\nquestions staggered his mind. He was afraid to stay in the French class.\nCautiously he got up and began to tiptoe to the door.\n\n\"Wrong room?\" the instructor asked pleasantly.\n\nHugh flushed. \"Yes, sir.\" He stopped dead still, not knowing what to do\nnext.\n\nHe was a typical rattled freshman, and the class, which was composed of\nsophomores, laughed. Hugh, angry and humiliated, started for the door,\nbut the instructor held up a hand that silenced the class; then he\nmotioned for Hugh to come to his desk.\n\n\"What class are you looking for?\"\n\n\"English One, sir, Section Seven.\" He held out his schedule card,\nreassured by the instructor's kindly manner.\n\nThe instructor looked at the card and then consulted a printed schedule.\n\n\"Oh,\" he said, \"your adviser made a mistake. He got you into the wrong\ngroup list. You belong in Sanders Six.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir.\" Hugh spoke so softly that the waiting class did not\nhear him, but the instructor smiled at the intensity of his thanks. As\nhe left the room, he knew that every one was looking at him; his legs\nfelt as if they were made of wood. It wasn't until he had closed the\ndoor that his knee-joints worked naturally. But the worst was still\nahead of him. He had to go to his English class in Sanders 6. He ran\nacross the campus, his heart beating wildly, his hands desperately\nclenched. When he reached Sanders 6, he found three other freshmen\ngrouped before the door.\n\n\"Is this English One, Section Seven?\" one asked tremulously.\n\n\"I think so,\" whispered the second. \"Do you know?\" he asked, turning to\nHugh.\n\n\"Yes; I am almost sure.\"\n\nThey stood there looking at each other, no one quite daring to enter\nSanders 6, no one quite daring to leave. Suddenly the front door of the\nbuilding slammed. A bareheaded youth rushed up the stairs. He was a\nrepeater; that is, a man who had failed the course the preceding year\nand was taking it over again. He brushed by the scared freshmen, opened\nthe door, and strode into Sanders 6, closing the door behind him.\n\nThe freshmen looked at each other, and then the one nearest the door\nopened it. The four of them filed in silently.\n\nThe class looked up. \"Sit in the back of the room,\" said the instructor.\n\nAnd that was all there was to that. In his senior year Hugh remembered\nthe incident and wondered at his terror. He tried to remember why he had\nbeen so badly frightened. He couldn't; there didn't seem to be any\nreason at all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nAbout a week after the opening of college, Hugh returned to Surrey Hall\none night feeling unusually virtuous and happy. He had worked\nreligiously at the library until it had closed at ten, and he had been\nin the mood to study. His lessons for the next day were all prepared,\nand prepared well. He had strolled across the moon-lit campus, buoyant\nand happy. Some one was playing the organ in the dark chapel; he paused\nto listen. Two students passed him, humming softly,\n\n\n                \"Sanford, Sanford, mother of men,\n                 Love us, guard us, hold us true....\"\n\n\nThe dormitories were dim masses broken by rectangles of soft yellow\nlight. Somewhere a banjo twanged. Another student passed.\n\n\"Hello, Carver,\" he said pleasantly. \"Nice night.\"\n\n\"Oh, hello, Jones. It sure is.\"\n\nThe simple greeting completed his happiness. He felt that he belonged,\nthat Sanford, the \"mother of men,\" had taken him to her heart. The music\nin the chapel swelled, lyric, passionate--up! up! almost a cry. The\nmoonlight was golden between the heavy shadows of the elms. Tears came\ninto the boy's eyes; he was melancholy with joy.\n\nHe climbed the stairs of Surrey slowly, reluctant to reach his room and\nCarl's flippancy. He passed an open door and glanced at the men inside\nthe room.\n\n\"Hi, Hugh. Come in and bull a while.\"\n\n\"Not to-night, thanks.\" He moved on down the hall, feeling a vague\nresentment; his mood had been broken, shattered.\n\nThe door opposite his own room was slightly open. A freshman lived\nthere, Herbert Morse, a queer chap with whom Carl and Hugh had succeeded\nin scraping up only the slightest acquaintance. He was a big fellow,\nfully six feet, husky and quick. The football coach said that he had the\nmakings of a great half-back, but he had already been fired off the\nsquad because of his irregularity in reporting for practice. Except for\nwhat the boys called his stand-offishness--some of them said that he was\ntoo damned high-hat--he was extremely attractive. He had red, almost\ncopper-colored, hair, and an exquisite skin, as delicate as a child's.\nHis features were well carved, his nose slightly aquiline--a magnificent\nlooking fellow, almost imperious; or as Hugh once said to Carl, \"Morse\nlooks kinda noble.\"\n\nAs Hugh placed his hand on the door-knob of No 19, he heard something\nthat sounded suspiciously like a sob from across the hall. He paused and\nlistened. He was sure that he could hear some one crying.\n\n\"Wonder what's wrong,\" he thought, instantly disturbed and sympathetic.\n\nHe crossed the hall and tapped lightly on Morse's door. There was no\nanswer; nor was there any when he tapped a second time. For a moment he\nwas abashed, and then he pushed open the door and entered Morse's room.\n\nIn the far corner Morse was sitting at his, desk, his head buried in his\narms, his shoulders shaking. He was crying fiercely, terribly; at times\nhis whole body jerked in the violence of his sobbing.\n\nHugh stood by the door embarrassed and rather frightened. Morse's grief\nbrought a lump to his throat. He had never seen any one cry like that\nbefore. Something had to be done. But what could he do? He had no right\nto intrude on Morse, but he couldn't let the poor fellow go on suffering\nlike that. As he stood there hesitant, shaken, Morse buried his head\ndeeper in his arms, moaned convulsively, twisting and trembling after a\nseries of sobs that seemed to tear themselves from him. That was too\nmuch for Hugh. He couldn't stand it. Some force outside of him sent him\nacross the room to Morse. He put his hand on a quivering shoulder and\nsaid gently:\n\n\"What is it, Morse? What's the matter?\"\n\nMorse ran his hand despairingly through his red hair, shook his head,\nand made no answer.\n\n\"Come on, old man; buck up.\" Hugh's voice trembled; it was husky with\nsympathy. \"Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.\"\n\nThen Morse looked up, his face stained with tears, his eyes inflamed,\nalmost desperate. He stared at Hugh wonderingly. For an instant he was\nangry at the intrusion, but his anger passed at once. He could not miss\nthe tenderness and sympathy in Hugh's face; and the boy's hand was still\npressing with friendly insistence on his shoulder. There was something\nso boyishly frank, so clean and honest about Hugh that his irritation\nmelted into confidence; and he craved a confidant passionately.\n\n\"Shut the door,\" he said dully, and reached into his trousers pocket for\nhis handkerchief. He mopped his face and eyes vigorously while Hugh was\nclosing the door, and then blew his nose as if he hated it. But the\ntears continued to come, and all during his talk with Hugh he had to\npause occasionally to dry his eyes.\n\nHugh stood awkwardly in the middle of the rug, not knowing whether to\nsit down or not. Morse was clutching his handkerchief in his hand and\nstaring at the floor. Finally he spoke up.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he said in a dead voice, \"there.\"\n\nHugh sank into the chair Morse indicated and then gripped his hands\ntogether. He felt weak and frightened, and absolutely unable to say\nanything. But Morse saved him the trouble.\n\n\"I suppose you think I am an awful baby,\" he began, his voice thick with\ntears, \"but I just can't help it. I--I just can't help it. I don't want\nto cry, but I do.\" And then he added defiantly, \"Go ahead and think I'm\na baby if you want to.\"\n\n\"I don't think you're a baby,\" Hugh said softly; \"I'm just sorry; that's\nall.... I hope I can help.\" He smiled shyly, hopefully.\n\nHis smile conquered Morse. \"You're a good kid, Carver,\" he cried\nimpulsively. \"A darn good kid. I like you, and I'm going to tell you all\nabout it. And I--I--I won't care if you laugh.\"\n\n\"I won't laugh,\" Hugh promised, relieved to think that there was a\npossibility of laughing. The trouble couldn't be so awfully bad.\n\nMorse blew his nose, stuck his handkerchief into his pocket, pulled it\nout again and dabbed his eyes, returned it to his pocket, and suddenly\nstood up.\n\n\"I'm homesick!\" he blurred out. \"I'm--I'm homesick, damned homesick.\nI've been homesick ever since I arrived. I--I just can't stand it.\"\n\nFor an instant Hugh did have a wild desire to laugh. Part of the desire\nwas caused by nervous relief, but part of it was caused by what seemed\nto him the absurdity of the situation: a big fellow like Morse\nblubbering, bawling for home and mother!\n\n\"You can't know,\" Morse went on, \"how awful it is--awful! I want to cry\nall the time. I can't listen in classes. A prof asked me a question\nto-day, and I didn't know what he had been talking about. He asked me\nwhat he had said. I had to say I didn't know. The whole class laughed,\nand the prof asked me why I had come to college. God! I nearly died.\"\n\nHugh's sympathy was all captured again. He knew that he _would_ die if\nhe ever made a fool of himself in the class-room.\n\n\"Gosh!\" he exclaimed. \"What did you say?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I couldn't think of anything. For a minute I thought that my\nhead was going to bust. He quit razzing me and I tried to pay attention,\nbut I couldn't; all I could do was think of home. Lord! I wish I was\nthere!\" He mopped at his eyes and paced up and down the room nervously.\n\n\"Oh, you'll get over that,\" Hugh said comfortingly. \"Pretty soon you'll\nget to know lots of fellows, and then you won't mind about home.\"\n\n\"That's what I keep telling myself, but it don't work. I can't eat or\nsleep. I can't study. I can't do anything. I tell you I've got to go\nhome. I've _got_ to!\" This last with desperate emphasis.\n\nHugh smiled. \"You're all wrong,\" he asserted positively. \"You're just\nlonely; that's all. I bet that you'll be crazy about college in a\nmonth--same as the rest of us. When you feel blue, come in and see\nPeters and me. We'll make you grin; Peters will, anyway. You can't be\nblue around him.\"\n\nMorse sat down. \"You don't understand. I'm not lonely. It isn't that. I\ncould talk to fellows all day long if I wanted to. I don't want to talk\nto 'em. I can't. There's just one person that I want to talk to, and\nthat's my mother.\" He shot the word \"mother\" out defiantly and glared at\nHugh, silently daring him to laugh, which Hugh had sense enough not to\ndo, although he wanted to strongly. The great big baby, wanting his\nmother! Why, he wanted his mother, too, but he didn't cry about it.\n\n\"That's all right,\" he said reassuringly; \"you'll see her Christmas\nvacation, and that isn't very long off.\"\n\n\"I want to see her now!\" Morse jumped to his feet and raised his\nclenched hands above his head. \"Now!\" he roared. \"Now! I've got to. I'm\ngoing home on the midnight.\" He whirled about to his desk and began to\npull open the drawers, piling their contents on the top.\n\n\"Here!\" Hugh rushed to him and clutched his arms. \"Don't do that.\" Morse\nstruggled, angry at the restraining hands, ready to strike them off.\nHugh had a flash of inspiration. \"Think how disappointed your mother\nwill be,\" he cried, hanging on to Morse's arms; \"think of her.\"\n\nMorse ceased struggling. \"She will be disappointed,\" he admitted\nmiserably. \"What can I do?\" There was a world of despair in his\nquestion.\n\nHugh pushed him into the desk-chair and seated himself on the edge of\nthe desk. \"I'll tell you,\" he said. He talked for half an hour, cheering\nMorse, assuring him that his homesickness would pass away, offering to\nstudy with him. At first Morse paid little attention, but finally he\nquit sniffing and looked up, real interest in his face. When Hugh got a\nweak smile out of him, he felt that his work had been done. He jumped\noff the desk, leaned over to slap Morse on the back, and told him that\nhe was a good egg but a damn fool.\n\nMorse grinned. \"You're a good egg yourself,\" he said gratefully. \"You've\nsaved my life.\"\n\nHugh was pleased and blushed. \"You're full of bull.... Remember, we do\nLatin at ten to-morrow.\" He opened the door. \"Good night.\"\n\n\"Good night.\" And Hugh heard as he closed the door. \"Thanks a lot.\"\n\nWhen he opened his own door, he found Carl sitting before a blazing log\nfire. There was no other light in the room. Carl had written his nightly\nletter to the \"old lady,\" and he was a little homesick himself--softened\ninto a tender and pensive mood. He did not move as Hugh sat down in a\nbig chair on the other side of the hearth and said softly, \"Thinking?\"\n\n\"Un-huh. Where you been?\"\n\n\"Across the hall in Morse's room.\" Then as Carl looked up in surprise,\nhe told him of his experience with their red-headed neighbor. \"He'll get\nover it,\" he concluded confidently. \"He's just been lonely.\"\n\nCarl puffed contemplatively at his pipe for a few minutes before\nreplying. Hugh waited, watching the slender boy stretched out in a big\nchair before the fire, his ankles crossed, his face gentle and boyish in\nthe ruddy, flickering light. The shadows, heavy and wavering, played\nmagic with the room; it was vast, mysterious.\n\n\"No,\" said Carl, pausing again to puff his pipe; \"no, he won't get over\nit. He'll go home.\"\n\n\"Aw, shucks. A big guy like that isn't going to stay a baby all his\nlife.\" Hugh was frankly derisive. \"Soon as he gets to know a lot of\nfellows, he'll forget home and mother.\"\n\nCarl smiled vaguely, his eyes dreamy as he gazed into the hypnotizing\nflames. The mask of sophistication had slipped off his face; he was\npleasantly in the control of a gentle mood, a mood that erased the last\nvestige of protective coloring.\n\nHe shook his head slowly. \"You don't understand, Hugh. Morse is sick,\n_sick_--not lonesome. He's got something worse than flu. Nobody can\nstand what he's got.\"\n\nHugh looked at him in bewilderment. This was a new Carl, some one he\nhadn't met before. Gone was the slang flippancy, the hard roughness.\nEven his voice was softened.\n\nCarl knocked his pipe empty on the knob of an andiron, sank deeper into\nhis chair, and began to speak slowly.\n\n\"I think I'm going to tell you a thing or two about myself. We've got to\nroom together, and I--well, I like you. You're a good egg, but you don't\nget me at all. I guess you've never run up against anybody like me\nbefore.\" He paused. Hugh said nothing, afraid to break into Carl's mood.\nHe was intensely curious. He leaned forward and watched Carl, who was\nstaring dreamily into the fire.\n\n\"I told you once, I think,\" he continued, \"that my old man had left us a\nlot of jack. That's true. We're rich, awfully rich. I have my own\naccount and can spend as much as I like. The sky's the limit. What I\ndidn't tell you is that we're _nouveau riche_--no class at all. My old\nman made all his money the first year of the war. He was a\ncommission-merchant, a middleman. Money just rolled in, I guess. He\nbought stocks with it, and they boomed; and he had sense enough to sell\nthem when they were at the top. Six years ago we didn't have hardly\nanything. Now we're rich.\"\n\n\"My old man was a good scout, but he didn't have much education; neither\nhas the old lady. Both of 'em went through grammar-school; that's all.\"\n\n\"Well, they knew they weren't real folks, not regular people, and they\nwanted me to be. See? That's why they sent me to Kane. Well, Kane isn't\nstrong for _nouveau riche_ kids, not by a damn sight. At first old\nSimmonds--he's the head master--wouldn't take me, said that he didn't\nhave room; but my old man begged and begged, so finally Simmonds said\nall right.\"\n\nAgain he paused, and Hugh waited. Carl was speaking so softly that he\nhad trouble in hearing him, but somehow he didn't dare to ask him to\nspeak louder.\n\n\"I sha'n't forget the day,\" Carl went on, \"that the old man left me at\nKane. I was scared, and I didn't want to stay. But he made me; he said\nthat Kane would make a gentleman out of me. I was homesick, homesick as\nhell. I know how Morse feels. I tried to run away three times, but they\ncaught me and brought me back. Cry? I bawled all the time when I was\nalone. I couldn't sleep for weeks; I just laid in bed and bawled. God!\nit was awful. The worst of it was the meals. I didn't know how to eat\nright, you see, and the master who sat at the table with our form would\ncorrect me. I used to want to die, and sometimes I would say that I was\nsick and didn't want any food so that I wouldn't have to go to meals.\nThe fellows razzed the life out of me; some of 'em called me Paddy. The\nreason I came here to Sanford was that no Kane fellows come here. They\ngo mostly to Williams, but some of 'em go to Yale or Princeton.\n\n\"Well, I had four years of that, and I was homesick the whole four\nyears. Oh, I don't mean that they kept after me all the time--that was\njust the first few months--but they never really accepted me. I never\nfelt at home. Even when I was with a bunch of them, I felt lonesome....\nAnd they never made a gentleman out of me, though my old lady thinks\nthey did.\"\n\n\"You're crazy,\" Hugh interrupted indignantly. \"You're as much a\ngentleman as anybody in college.\"\n\nCarl smiled and shook his head. \"No, you don't understand. You're a\ngentleman, but I'm not. Oh, I know all the tricks, the parlor stunts.\nFour years at Kane taught me those, but they're just tricks to me. I\ndon't know just how to explain it--but I know that you're a gentleman\nand I'm not.\"\n\n\"You're just plain bug-house. You make me feel like a fish. Why, I'm\njust from a country high school. I'm not in your class.\" Hugh sat up\nand leaned eagerly toward Carl, gesticulating excitedly.\n\n\"As if that made any difference,\" Carl replied, his voice sharp with\nscorn. \"You see, I'm a bad egg. I drink and gamble and pet. I haven't\ngone the limit yet on--on account of my old lady--but I will.\"\n\nHugh was relieved. He had wondered more than once during the past week\n\"just how far Carl had gone.\" Several times Carl had suggested by sly\ninnuendos that there wasn't anything that he hadn't done, and Hugh had\nfelt a slight disapproval--and considerable envy. His own standards were\nvery high, very strict, but he was ashamed to reveal them.\n\n\"I've never gone the limit either,\" he confessed shyly.\n\nCarl threw back his head and laughed. \"You poor fish; don't you suppose\nI know that?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"How did you know?\" Hugh demanded indignantly. \"I might've. Why, I was\nout with a girl just before I left home and--\"\n\n\"You kissed her,\" Carl concluded for him. \"I don't know how I knew, but\nI did. You're just kinda pure; that's all. I'm not pure at all; I'm just\na little afraid--and I keep thinkin' of my old lady. I've started to\nseveral times, but I've always thought of her and quit.\"\n\nHe sat silent for a minute or two and then continued more gently. \"My\nold lady never came to Kane. She never will come here, either. She wants\nto give me a real chance. See? She knows she isn't a lady--but--but, oh,\nGod, Hugh, she's white, white as hell. I guess I think more of her than\nall the rest of the world put together. That's why I write to her every\nnight. She writes to me every day, too. The letters have mistakes in\nthem, but--but they keep me straight. That is, they have so far. I know,\nthough, that some night I'll be out with a bag and get too much liquor\nin me--and then good-by, virginity.\"\n\n\"You're crazy, Carl. You know you won't.\" Carl rose from the chair and\nstretched hugely. \"You're a good egg, Hugh,\" he said in the midst of a\nyawn, \"but you're a damn fool.\"\n\nHugh started. That was just what he had said to Morse.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe never caught Carl in a confidential mood again. The next morning he\nwas his old flippant self, swearing because he had to study his Latin,\nwhich wasn't \"of any damned use to anybody.\"\n\nIn the following weeks Hugh religiously clung to Morse, helped him with\nhis work, went to the movies with him, inveigled him into going on\nseveral long walks. Morse was more cheerful and almost pathetically\ngrateful. One day, however, Hugh found an unstamped letter on the\nfloor. He opened it wonderingly.\n\n\n       Dear Hugh [he read]. You've been awfully good to me but\n       I can't stand it. I'm going home to-day. Give my regards\n       to Peters. Thanks for all you've done for me.\n\n                                                BERT MORSE.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nFor a moment after reading Morse's letter Hugh was genuinely sorry, but\nalmost immediately he felt irritated and hurt.\n\nHe handed the letter to Carl, who entered just as he finished reading\nit, and exploded: \"The simp! And after I wasted so much time on him.\"\n\nCarl read the letter. \"I told you so.\" He smiled impishly. \"You were the\nwise boy; you _knew_ that he would get over it.\"\n\nHugh should really have felt grateful to Morse. It was only a feeling of\nresponsibility for him that had made Hugh prepare his own lessons. Day\nafter day he had studied with Morse in order to cheer him up; and that\nwas all the studying he had done. Latin and history had little\nopportunity to claim his interest in competition with the excitement\naround him.\n\nCrossing the campus for the first few weeks of college was an adventure\nfor every freshman. He did not know when he would be seized by a howling\ngroup of sophomores and forced to make an ass of himself for their\namusement. Sometimes he was required to do \"esthetic dancing,\" sometimes\nto sing, or, what was more common, to make a speech. And no matter how\nhard he tried, the sophomores were never pleased. If he danced, they\nlaughed at him, guyed him unmercifully, called attention to his legs,\nhis awkwardness, urged him to go faster, insisted that he get some\n\"pash\" into it. If he sang, and the frightened freshman usually sang off\nkey, they interrupted him after a few notes, told him to sing something\nelse, interrupted that, and told him \"for God's sake\" to dance. The\nspeech-making, however, provided the most fun, especially if the\nfreshman was cleverer than his captors. Then there was a battle of wits,\nand if the freshman too successfully defeated his opponents, he was\ndropped into a watering-trough that had stood on the campus for more\nthan a century. Of justice there was none, but of sport there was a\ngreat plenty. The worst scared of the freshmen really enjoyed the\nexperience. By a strange sort of inverted logic, he felt that he was\nsomething of a hero; at least, for a brief time he had occupied the\npublic eye. He had been initiated; he was a Sanford man.\n\nOne freshman, however, found those two weeks harrowing. That was Merton\nBillings, the fat man of the class. Day after day he was captured by the\nsophomores and commanded to dance. He was an earnest youth and entirely\nwithout a sense of humor. Dancing to him was not only hard work but\ndownright wicked. He was a member of the Epworth League, and he took his\nmembership seriously. Even David, he remembered, had \"got in wrong\"\nbecause he danced; and he had no desire to emulate David. Within two\ndays the sophomores discovered his religious ardor, his horror of\ndrinking, smoking, and dancing. So they made him dance while they howled\nwith glee at his bobbing stomach; his short, staggering legs; his red\njowls, jigging and jouncing; his pale blue eyes, protruding excitedly\nfrom their sockets; his lips pressed tight together, periodically\npopping open for breath. He was very funny, very angry, and very much\nashamed. Every night he prayed that he might be forgiven his sin. A\nmonth later when the intensity of his hatred had subsided somewhat, he\nremembered to his horror that he had not prayed that his tormentors be\nforgiven their even greater sin. He rectified the error without delay,\nnot neglecting to ask that the error be forgiven, too.\n\nHugh was forced to sing, to dance, and to make a speech, but he escaped\nthe watering-trough. He thought the fellows were darned nice to let him\noff, and they thought that he was too darned nice to be ducked. Although\nHugh didn't suspect it, he was winning immediate popularity. His shy,\nfriendly smile, his natural modesty, and his boyish enthusiasm were\nmaking a host of friends for him. He liked the \"initiations\" on the\ncampus, but he did not like some of them in the dormitories. He didn't\nmind being pulled out of bed and shoved under a cold shower. He took a\ncold shower every morning, and if the sophomores wanted to give him\nanother one at night--all right, he was willing. He had to confess that\n\"Eliza Crossing the Ice\" had been enormous fun. The freshmen were\ncommanded to appear in the common room in their oldest clothes. Then all\nof them, the smallest lad excepted, got down on their hands and knees,\nforming a circle. The smallest lad, \"Eliza,\" was given a big bucket full\nof water. He jumped upon the back of the man nearest to him and ran\nwildly around the circle, leaping from back to back, the bucket swinging\ncrazily, the water splashing in every direction and over everybody.\n\nHugh liked such \"stunts,\" and he liked putting on a show with three\nother freshmen for the amusement of their peers, but he did object to\nthe vulgarity and cruelty of much that was done.\n\nThe first order the sophomores often gave was, \"Strip, freshman.\" Just\nwhy the freshmen had to be naked before they performed, Hugh did not\nknow, but there was something phallic about the proceedings that\ndisgusted him. Like every athlete, he thought nothing of nudity, but he\nsoon discovered that some of the freshmen were intensely conscious of\nit. True, a few months in the gymnasium cured them of that\nconsciousness, but at first many of them were eternally wrapping towels\nabout themselves in the gymnasium, and they took a shower as if it were\nan act of public shame. The sophomores recognized the timidity that some\nof the freshmen had in revealing their bodies, and they made full\ncapital of it. The shyer the freshman, the more pointed their remarks,\nthe more ingeniously nasty their tricks.\n\n\"I don't mind the razzing myself,\" Hugh told Carl after one particularly\nstrenuous evening, \"but I don't like the things they said to poor little\nWilkins. And when they stripped 'em and made Wilkins read that dirty\nstory to Culver, I wanted to fight\"\n\n\"It was kinda rotten,\" Carl agreed, \"but it was funny.\"\n\n\"It wasn't funny at all,\" Hugh said angrily.\n\nCarl looked at him in surprise. It was the first time that he had seen\nhim aroused.\n\n\"It wasn't funny at all,\" Hugh repeated; \"it was just filthy. I'd 'a'\njust about died if I'd 'a' been in Wilkins's place. The poor kid!\nThey're too damn dirty, these sophomores. I didn't think that college\nmen could be so dirty. Why, not even the bums at home would think of\nsuch things. And I'm telling you right now that there are three of those\nguys that I'm layin' for. Just wait till the class rush. I'm going to\nget Adams, and then I'm going to get Cooper--yes, I'm going to get him\neven if he is bigger'n me--and I'm going to get Dodge. I didn't say\nanything when they made me wash my face in the toilet bowl, but, by God!\nI'm going to get 'em for it.\"\n\nThree weeks later he made good this threat. He was a clever boxer, and\nhe succeeded in separating each of the malefactors from the fighting\nmob. He would have been completely nonplussed if he could have heard\nAdams and Dodge talking in their room after the rush.\n\n\"Who gave you the black eye?\" Adams asked Dodge.\n\n\"That freshman Carver,\" he replied, touching the eye gingerly. \"Who gave\nyou that welt on the chin?\"\n\n\"Carver! And, say, he beat Hi Cooper to a pulp. He's a mess.\"\n\nThey looked at each other and burst out laughing.\n\n\"Lord,\" said Dodge, \"I'm going to pick my freshmen next time. Who'd take\na kid with a smile like his to be a scrapper? He's got the nicest smile\nin college. Why, he looks meek as a lamb.\"\n\n\"You never can tell,\" remarked Adams, rubbing his chin ruefully.\n\nDodge was examining his eye in the mirror. \"No, you never can tell....\nDamn it, I'm going to have to get a beefsteak or something for this lamp\nof mine.\"\n\n\"Say, he ought to be a good man for the fraternity,\" Adams said\nsuddenly.\n\n\"Who?\" Dodge's eye was absorbing his entire attention.\n\n\"Carver, of course. He ought to make a damn good man.\"\n\n\"Yeah--you bet. We've got to rush him sure.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nThe dormitory initiations had more than angered Hugh; they had\ncompletely upset his mental equilibrium: his every ideal of college\nswayed and wabbled. He wasn't a prig, but he had come to Sanford with\nvery definite ideas about the place, and those ideas were already groggy\nfrom the unmerciful pounding they were receiving.\n\nHis father was responsible for his illusions, if one may call them\nillusions. Mr. Carver was a shy, sensitive man well along in his\nfifties, with a wife twelve years his junior. He pretended to cultivate\nhis small farm in Merrytown, but as a matter of fact he lived off of a\ncomfortable income left him by his very capable father. He spent most of\nhis time reading the eighteenth-century essayists, John Donne's poetry,\nthe \"Atlantic Monthly,\" the \"Boston Transcript,\" and playing Mozart on\nhis violin. He did not understand his wife and was thoroughly afraid of\nhis son; Hugh had an animal vigor that at times almost terrified him.\n\nAt his wife's insistence he had a talk with Hugh the night before the\nboy left for college. Hugh had wanted to run when he met his father in\nthe library after dinner for that talk. He loved the gentle, gray-haired\nman with the fine, delicate features and soft voice. He had often wished\nthat he knew his father. Mr. Carver was equally eager to know Hugh, but\nhe had no idea of how to go about getting acquainted with his son.\n\nThey sat on opposite sides of the fireplace, and Mr. Carver gazed\nthoughtfully at the boy. Why hadn't Betty had this talk with Hugh? She\nknew him so much better than he did; they were more like brother and\nsister than mother and son. Why, Hugh called her Betty half the time,\nand she seemed to understand him perfectly.\n\nHugh waited silently. Mr. Carver ran a thin hand through his hair and\nthen sharply desisted; he mustn't let the boy know that he was nervous.\nThen he settled his horn-rimmed pince-nez more firmly on his nose and\nfelt in his waistcoat for a cigar. Why didn't Hugh say something? He\nsnipped the end of the cigar with a silver knife. Slowly he lighted the\ncigar, inhaled once or twice, coughed mildly, and finally found his\nvoice.\n\n\"Well, Hugh,\" he said in his gentle way.\n\n\"Well, Dad.\" Hugh grinned sheepishly. Then they both started; Hugh had\nnever called his father Dad before. He thought of him that way always,\nbut he could never bring himself to dare anything but the more formal\nFather. In his embarrassment he had forgotten himself.\n\n\"I--I--I'm sorry, sir,\" he stuttered, flushing painfully.\n\nMr. Carver laughed to hide his own embarrassment. \"That's all right,\nHugh.\" His smile was very kindly. \"Let it be Dad. I think I like it\nbetter.\"\n\n\"That's fine!\" Hugh exclaimed.\n\nThe tension was broken, and Mr. Carver began to give the dreaded talk.\n\n\"I hardly know what to say to you, Hugh,\" he began, \"on the eve of your\ngoing away to college. There is so much that you ought to know, and I\nhave no idea of how much you know already.\"\n\nHugh thought of all the smutty stories he had heard--and told.\nInstinctively he knew that his father referred to what a local doctor\ncalled \"the facts of life.\"\n\nHe hung his head and said gruffly, \"I guess I know a good deal--Dad.\"\n\n\"That's splendid!\" Mr. Carver felt the full weight of a father's\nresponsibilities lifted from his shoulders. \"I believe Dr. Hanson gave\nyou a talk at school about--er, sex, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" Hugh was picking out the design in the rug with the toe of\nhis shoe and at the same time unconsciously pinching his leg. He pinched\nso hard that he afterward found a black and blue spot, but he never\nknew how it got there.\n\n\"Excellent thing, excellent thing, these talks by medical men.\" He was\nbeginning to feel at ease. \"Excellent thing. I am glad that you are so\nwell informed; you are old enough.\"\n\nHugh wasn't well informed; he was pathetically ignorant. Most of what he\nknew had come from the smutty stories, and he often did not understand\nthe stories that he laughed at most heartily. He was consumed with\ncuriosity.\n\n\"If there is anything you want to know, don't hesitate to ask,\" his\nfather continued. He had a moment of panic lest Hugh would ask\nsomething, but the boy merely shook his head--and pinched his leg.\n\nMr. Carver puffed his cigar in great relief. \"Well,\" he continued, \"I\ndon't want to give you much advice, but your mother feels that I ought\nto tell you a little more about college before you leave. As I have told\nyou before, Sanford is a splendid place, a--er, a splendid place. Fine\nold traditions and all that sort of thing. Splendid place. You will find\na wonderful faculty, wonderful. Most of the professors I had are gone,\nbut I am sure that the new ones are quite as good. Your opportunities\nwill be enormous, and I am sure that you will take advantage of them. We\nhave been very proud of your high school record, your mother and I, and\nwe know that you will do quite as well in college. By the way, I hope\nyou take a course in the eighteenth-century essayists; you will find\nthem very stimulating--Addison especially.\n\n\"I--er, your mother feels that I ought to say something about the\ndissipations of college. I--I'm sure that I don't know what to say. I\nsuppose that there are young men in college who dissipate--remember that\nI knew one or two--but certainly most of them are gentlemen. Crude\nmen--vulgarians do not commonly go to college. Vulgarity has no place in\ncollege. You may, I presume, meet some men not altogether admirable, but\nit will not be necessary for you to know them. Now, as to the\nfraternity....\"\n\nHugh forgot to pinch his leg and looked up with avid interest in his\nface. The Nu Deltas!\n\nMr. Carver leaned forward to stir the fire with a brass poker before he\ncontinued. Then he settled back in his chair and smoked comfortably. He\nwas completely at ease now. The worst was over.\n\n\"I have written to the Nu Deltas about you and told them that I hoped\nthat they would find you acceptable, as I am sure they will. As a\nlegacy, you will be among the first considered.\" For an hour more he\ntalked about the fraternity. Hugh, his embarrassment swallowed by his\ninterest, eagerly asking questions. His father's admiration for the\nfraternity was second only to his admiration for the college, and\nbefore the evening was over he had filled Hugh with an idolatry for\nboth.\n\nHe left his father that night feeling closer to him than he ever had\nbefore. He was going to be a college man like his father--perhaps a Nu\nDelta, too. He wished that they had got chummy before. When he went to\nbed, he lay awake dreaming, thinking sometimes of Helen Simpson and of\nhow he had kissed her that afternoon, but more often of Sanford and Nu\nDelta. He was so deeply grateful to his father for talking to him\nfrankly and telling him everything about college. He was darned lucky to\nhave a father who was a college grad and could put him wise. It was\npretty tough on the fellows whose fathers had never been to college.\nPoor fellows, they didn't know the ropes the way he did....\n\nHe finally fell off to sleep, picturing himself in the doorway of the Nu\nDelta house welcoming his father to a reunion.\n\nThat talk was returning to Hugh repeatedly. He wondered if Sanford had\nchanged since his father's day or if his father had just forgotten what\ncollege was like. Everything seemed so different from what he had been\ntold to expect. Perhaps he was just soft and some of the fellows weren't\nas crude as he thought they were.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nHugh was by no means continuously depressed; as a matter of fact, most\nof the time he was agog with delight, especially over the rallies that\nwere occurring with increasing frequency as the football season\nprogressed. Sometimes the rallies were carefully prepared ceremonies\nheld in the gymnasium; sometimes they were entirely spontaneous.\n\nA group of men would rush out of a dormitory or fraternity house\nyelling, \"Peerade, peerade!\" Instantly every one within hearing would\ndrop his books--or his cards--and rush to the yelling group, which would\nline up in fours and begin circling the campus, the line ever getting\nlonger as more men came running out of the dormitories and fraternity\nhouses. On, on they would go, arm in arm, dancing, singing Sanford\nsongs, past every dormitory on the campus, past every fraternity\nhouse--pausing occasionally to give a cheer, always, however, keeping\none goal in mind, the fraternity house where the team lived during the\nfootball season. Then when the cheer-leaders and the team were heading\nthe procession, the mob would make for the football field, with the cry\nof \"Wood, freshmen, wood!\" ringing down the line.\n\nHugh was always one of the first freshmen to break from the line in his\neagerness to get wood. In an incredibly short time he and his classmates\nhad found a large quantity of old lumber, empty boxes, rotten planks,\nand not very rotten gates. When a light was applied to the clumsy pile\nof wood, the flames leaped up quickly--some one always seemed to have a\nsupply of kerosene ready--and revealed the excited upper-classmen\nsitting on the bleachers.\n\n\"Dance, freshmen, dance!\"\n\nThen the freshmen danced around the fire, holding hands and spreading\ninto an ever widening circle as the fire crackled and the flames leaped\nupward. Slowly, almost impressively, the upper-classmen chanted:\n\n\n                \"Round the fire, the freshmen go,\n                 Freshmen go,\n                 Freshmen go;\n                 Round the fire the freshmen go\n                 To cheer Sanford.\"\n\n\nThe song had a dozen stanzas, only the last line of each being\ndifferent. The freshmen danced until the last verse was sung, which\nended with the Sanford cheer:\n\n\n                \"Closer now the freshmen go,\n                 Freshmen go,\n                 Freshmen go;\n                 Closer now the freshmen go\n                 To cheer--\n\n                 SANFORD!\n                 Sanford! Rah, rah!\n                 Sanford! Sanford!\n                 San--San--San--\n                 San--ford, San--ford--San--FORD!\"\n\n\nWhile the upper-classmen were singing the last stanza the freshmen\nslowly closed in on the dying fire. At the first word of the cheer, they\nstopped, turned toward the grand stand, and joined the cheering. That\nover, they broke and ran for the bleachers, scrambling up the wooden\nstands, shoving each other out of the way, laughing and shouting.\n\nThe football captain usually made a short and very awkward speech, which\nwas madly applauded; perhaps the coach said a few words; two or three\ncheers were given; and finally every one rose, took off his hat if he\nwore one--nearly every one but the freshmen went bareheaded--and sang\nthe college hymn, simply and religiously. Then the crowd broke,\nstraggling in groups across the campus, chatting, singing, shouting to\neach other. Suddenly lights began to flash in the dormitory windows. In\nless than an hour after the first cry of \"Peerade!\" the men were back\nin their rooms, once more studying, talking, or playing cards.\n\nIt was the smoker rallies, though, that Hugh found the most thrilling,\nespecially the last one before the final game of the season, the \"big\ngame\" with Raleigh College. There were 1123 students in Sanford, and\nmore than 1000 were at the rally. A rough platform had been built at one\nend of the gymnasium. On one side of it sat the band, on the other side\nthe Glee Club--and before it the mass of students, smoking cigarettes,\ncorn-cob pipes, and, occasionally, a cigar. The \"smokes\" had been\nfurnished free by a local tobacconist; so everybody smoked violently and\ntoo much. In half an hour it was almost impossible to see the ceiling\nthrough the dull blue haze, and the men in the rear of the gymnasium saw\nthe speakers on the platform dimly through a wavering mist.\n\nThe band played various Sanford songs, and everybody sang. Occasionally\nWayne Gifford, the cheer-leader, leaped upon the platform, raised a\nmegaphone to his mouth, and shouted, \"A regular cheer for Sanford--a\nregular cheer for Sanford.\" Then he lifted his arms above his head,\nflinging the megaphone aside with the same motion, and waited tense and\nrigid until the students were on their feet. Suddenly he turned into a\nmad dervish, twisting, bending, gesticulating, leaping, running back and\nforth across the platform, shouting, and finally throwing his hands\nabove his head and springing high into the air at the concluding\n\"San--FORD!\"\n\nThe Glee Club sang to mad applause; a tenor twanged a ukulele and moaned\nvarious blues; a popular professor told stories, some of them funny,\nmost of them slightly off color; a former cheer-leader told of the\ntriumphs of former Sanford teams--and the atmosphere grew denser and\ndenser, bluer and bluer, as the smoke wreathed upward. The thousand boys\nleaned intently forward, occasionally jumping to their feet to shout and\ncheer, and then sinking back into their chairs, tense and excited. As\neach speaker mounted the platform they shouted: \"Off with your coat! Off\nwith your coat!\" And the speakers, even the professor, had to shed their\ncoats before they were permitted to say a word.\n\nWhen the team entered, bedlam broke loose. Every student stood on his\nchair, waved his arms, slapped his neighbor on the back or hugged him\nwildly, threw his hat in the air, if he had one--and, so great was his\ntraining, keeping an eye on the cheer-leader, who was on the platform\ngoing through a series of indescribable contortions. Suddenly he\nstraightened up, held his hands above his head again, and shouted\nthrough his megaphone: \"A regular cheer for the team--a regular cheer\nfor the team. Make it big--BIG! Ready--!\" Away whirled the megaphone,\nand he went through exactly the same performance that he had used before\nin conducting the regular cheer. Gifford looked like an inspired madman,\nbut he knew exactly what he was doing. The students cheered lustily, so\nlustily that some of them were hoarse the next day. They continued to\nyell after the cheer was completed, ceasing only when Gifford signaled\nfor silence.\n\nThen there were speeches by each member of the team, all\nenthusiastically applauded, and finally the speech of the evening, that\nof the coach, Jack Price. He was a big, compactly built man with regular\nfeatures, heavy blond hair, and pale, cold blue eyes. He threw off his\ncoat with a belligerent gesture, stuck his hands into his trousers\npockets, and waited rigidly until the cheering had subsided. Then he\nbegan:\n\n\"Go ahead and yell. It's easy as hell to cheer here in the gym; but what\nare you going to do Saturday afternoon?\"\n\nHis voice was sharp with sarcasm, and to the shouts of \"Yell! Fight!\"\nthat came from all over the gymnasium, he answered, \"Yeah,\nmaybe--maybe.\" He shifted his position, stepping toward the front of the\nplatform, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets.\n\n\"I've seen a lot of football games, and I've seen lots of rooters, but\nthis is the goddamndest gang of yellow-bellied quitters that I've ever\nseen. What happened last Saturday when we were behind? I'm asking you;\nwhat happened? You quit! Quit like a bunch of whipped curs. God! you're\nyellow, yellow as hell. But the team went on fighting--and it won, won\nin spite of you, won for a bunch of yellow pups. And why? Because the\nteam's got guts. And when it was all over, you cheered and howled and\nserpentined and felt big as hell. Lord Almighty! you acted as if you'd\ndone something.\"\n\nHis right hand came out of his pocket with a jerk, and he extended a\nfighting, clenched fist toward his breathless audience. \"I'll tell you\nsomething,\" he said slowly, viciously; \"the team can't win alone day\nafter to-morrow. _It can't win alone!_ You've got to fight. Damn it!\n_You've got to fight!_ Raleigh's good, damn good; it hasn't lost a game\nthis season--and we've got to win, _win_! Do you hear? We've got to win!\nAnd there's only one way that we can win, and that's with every man back\nof the team. Every goddamned mother's son of you. The team's good, but\nit can't win unless you fight--_fight_!\"\n\nSuddenly his voice grew softer, almost gentle. He held out both hands to\nthe boys, who had become so tense that they had forgotten to smoke.\n\"We've got to win, fellows, for old Sanford. Are you back of us?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" The tension shattered into a thousand yells. The boys leaped on\nthe chairs and shouted until they could shout no more. When Gifford\ncalled for \"a regular cheer for Jack Price\" and then one for the\nteam--\"Make it the biggest you ever gave\"--they could respond with only\na hoarse croak.\n\nFinally the hymn was sung--at least, the boys tried loyally to sing\nit--and they stood silent and almost reverent as the team filed out of\nthe gymnasium.\n\nHugh walked back to Surrey Hall with several men. No one said a word\nexcept a quiet good night as they parted. Carl was in the room when he\narrived. He sank into a chair and was silent for a few minutes.\n\nFinally he said in a happy whisper, \"Wasn't it wonderful, Carl?\"\n\n\"Un-huh. Damn good.\"\n\n\"Gosh, I hope we win. We've _got_ to!\"\n\nCarl looked up, his cheeks redder than usual, his eyes glittering. \"God,\nyes!\" he breathed piously.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe football season lasted from the first of October to the latter part\nof November, and during those weeks little was talked about, or even\nthought about, on the campus but football. There were undergraduates who\nknew the personnel of virtually every football team in the country, the\nteams that had played against each other, their relative merits, the\nvarious scores, the outstanding players of each position. Half the\nstudents at Sanford regularly made out \"All American\" teams, and each\nman was more than willing to debate the quality of his team against that\nof any other. Night after night the students gathered in groups in\ndormitory rooms and fraternity houses, discussing football, football,\nfootball; even religion and sex, the favorite topics for \"bull\nsessions,\" could not compete with football, especially when some one\nmentioned Raleigh College. Raleigh was Sanford's ancient rival; to\ndefeat her was of cosmic importance.\n\nThere was a game every Saturday. About half the time the team played at\nhome; the other games were played on the rivals' fields. No matter how\nfar away the team traveled, the college traveled with it. The men who\nhad the necessary money went by train; a few owned automobiles: but most\nof the undergraduates had neither an automobile nor money for train\nfare. They \"bummed\" their way. Some of them emulated professional\ntramps, and \"rode the beams,\" but most of them started out walking,\ntrusting that kind-hearted motorists would pick them up and carry them\nat least part way to their destination. Although the distances were\nsometimes great, and although many motorists are not kind, there is no\nrecord of any man who ever started for a game not arriving in time for\nthe referee's first whistle. Somehow, by hook or by crook--and it was\noften by crook--the boys got there, and, what is more astonishing, they\ngot back. On Monday morning at 8:45 they were in chapel, usually worn\nand tired, it is true, ready to bluff their way through the day's\nassignments, and damning any instructor who was heartless enough to give\nthem a quiz. Some of them were worn out from really harsh traveling\nexperiences; some of them had more exciting adventures to relate behind\nclosed doors to selected groups of confidants.\n\nFootball! Nothing else mattered. And as the weeks passed, the excitement\ngrew, especially as the day drew near for the Raleigh game, which this\nyear was to be played on the Sanford field. What were Sanford's chances?\nWould Harry Slade, Sanford's great half-back, make All American? \"Damn\nit to hell, he ought to. It'll be a stinkin' shame if he don't.\" Would\nRaleigh's line be able to stop Slade's end runs? Slade! Slade! He was\nthe team, the hope and adoration of the whole college.\n\nThree days before the \"big game\" the alumni began to pour into town,\nmost of them fairly recent graduates, but many of them gray-haired men\nwho boasted that they hadn't missed a Sanford-Raleigh game in thirty\nyears. Hundreds of alumni arrived, filling the two hotels to capacity\nand overrunning the fraternity houses, the students doubling up or\nseeking hospitality from a friend in a dormitory.\n\nIn the little room in the rear of the Sanford Pool and Billiard Parlors\nthere was almost continual excitement. Jim McCarty, the proprietor, a\nbig, jovial, red-faced man whom all the students called Mac, was the\nofficial stake-holder for the college. Bets for any amount could be\nplaced with him. Money from Raleigh flowed into his pudgy hands, and he\nplaced it at the odds offered with eager Sanford takers. By the day of\nthe game his safe held thousands of dollars, most of it wagered at five\nto three, Raleigh offering odds. There was hardly an alumnus who did not\nprove his loyalty to Sanford by visiting Mac's back room and putting\ndown a few greenbacks, at least. Some were more loyal than others; the\nmost loyal placed a thousand dollars--at five to two.\n\nThere was rain for two days before the game, but on Friday night the\nclouds broke. A full moon seemed to shine them away, and the whole\ncampus rejoiced with great enthusiasm. Most of the alumni got drunk to\nshow their deep appreciation to the moon, and many of the undergraduates\nfollowed the example set by their elders.\n\nAll Friday afternoon girls had been arriving, dozens of them, to attend\nthe fraternity dances. One dormitory had been set aside for them, the\nnormal residents seeking shelter in other dormitories. No man ever\nobjected to resigning his room to a girl. He never could tell what he\nwould find when he returned to it Monday morning. Some of the girls left\nstrange mementos....\n\nNo one except a few notorious grinds studied that night. Some of the\nstudents were, of course, at the fraternity dances; some of them sat in\ndormitory rooms and discussed the coming game from every possible angle;\nand groups of them wandered around the campus, peering into the\nfraternity houses, commenting on the girls, wandering on humming a song\nthat an orchestra had been playing, occasionally pausing to give a\n\"regular cheer\" for the moon.\n\nHugh was too much excited to stay in a room; so with several other\nfreshmen he traveled the campus. He passionately envied the dancers in\nthe fraternity houses but consoled himself with the thought, \"Maybe\nI'll be dancing at the Nu Delt house next year.\" Then he had a spasm of\nfright. Perhaps the Nu Delts--perhaps no fraternity would bid him. The\nmoon lost its brilliance; for a moment even the Sanford-Raleigh game was\nforgotten.\n\nThe boys were standing before a fraternity house, and as the music\nceased, Jack Collings suggested: \"Let's serenade them. You lead, Hugh.\"\n\nHugh had a sweet, light tenor voice. It was not at all remarkable, just\nclear and true; but he had easily made the Glee Club and had an\nexcellent chance to be chosen freshman song-leader.\n\nCollings had brought a guitar with him. He handed it to Hugh, who, like\nmost musical undergraduates, could play both a guitar and a banjo. \"Sing\nthat 'I arise from dreams of thee' thing that you were singing the other\nnight. We'll hum.\"\n\nHugh slipped the cord around his neck, tuned the guitar, and then\nthrummed a few opening chords. His heart was beating at double time; he\nwas very happy: he was serenading girls at a fraternity dance. Couples\nwere strolling out upon the veranda, the girls throwing warm wraps over\ntheir shoulders, the men lighting cigarettes and tossing the burnt\nmatches on the lawn. Their white shirt-fronts gleamed eerily in the pale\nlight cast by the Japanese lanterns with which the veranda was hung.\n\nHugh began to sing Shelley's passionate lyric, set so well to music by\nTod B. Galloway. His mother had taught him the song, and he loved it.\n\n\n                \"I arise from dreams of thee\n                 In the first sweet sleep of night,\n                 When the winds are breathing low\n                 And the stars are shining bright.\n                 I arise from dreams of thee,\n                 And a spirit in my feet\n                 Hath led me--who knows how?\n                 To thy chamber-window, Sweet!\"\n\n\nTwo of the boys, who had heard Hugh sing the song before, hummed a soft\naccompaniment. When he began the second verse several more began to hum;\nthey had caught the melody. The couples on the veranda moved quietly to\nthe porch railing, their chatter silent, their attention focused on a\ngroup of dim figures standing in the shadow of an elm. Hugh was singing\nwell, better than he ever had before. Neither he nor his audience knew\nthat the lyric was immortal, but its tender, passionate beauty caught\nand held them.\n\n\n                \"The wandering airs they faint\n                 On the dark, the silent stream--\n                 The champak odors fail\n                 Like sweet-thoughts in a dream;\n                 The nightingale's complaint\n                 It dies upon her heart,\n                 As I must die on thine\n                 O beloved as thou art!\n\n                \"Oh lift me from the grass!\n                 I die, I faint, I fail!\n                 Let thy love in kisses rain\n                 On my cheeks and eyelids pale.\n                 My cheek is cold and white, alas!\n                 My heart beats loud and fast;\n                 Oh! press it close to thine again\n                 Where it will break at last.\"\n\n\nThere was silence for a moment after Hugh finished. The shadows, the\nmoonlight, the boy's soft young voice had moved them all. Suddenly a\ngirl on the veranda cried, \"Bring him up!\" Instantly half a dozen others\nturned to their escorts, insisting shrilly: \"Bring him up. We want to\nsee him.\"\n\nHugh jerked the guitar cord from around his neck, banded the instrument\nto Collings, and tried to run. A burst of laughter went up from the\nfreshmen. They caught him and held him fast until the Tuxedo-clad\nupper-classmen rushed down from the veranda and had him by the arms.\nThey pulled him, protesting and struggling, upon the veranda and into\nthe living-room.\n\nThe girls gathered around him, praising, demanding more. He flushed\nscarlet when one enthusiastic maiden forced her way through the ring,\nlooked hard at him, and then announced positively, \"I think he's sweet.\"\nHe was intensely embarrassed, in an agony of confusion--but very happy.\nThe girls liked his clean blondness, his blushes, his startled smile.\nHow long they would have held him there in the center of the ring while\nthey admired and teased him, there is no telling; but suddenly the\norchestra brought relief by striking up a fox-trot.\n\n\"He's mine!\" cried a pretty black-eyed girl with a cloud of bobbed hair\nand flaming cheeks. Her slender shoulders were bare; her round white\narms waved in excited, graceful gestures; her corn-colored frock was a\ngauzy mist. She clutched Hugh's arm. \"He's mine,\" she repeated shrilly.\n\"He's going to dance with me.\"\n\nHugh's cheeks burned a deeper scarlet. \"My clothes,\" he muttered,\nhesitating.\n\n\"Your clothes! My dear, you look sweet. Take off your cap and dance with\nme.\"\n\nHugh snatched off his cap, his mind reeling with shame, but he had no\ntime to think. The girl pulled him through the crowd to a clear floor.\nAlmost mechanically, Hugh put his arm around her and began to dance. He\n_could_ dance, and the girl had sense enough not to talk. She floated in\nhis arm, her slender body close to his. When the music ceased, she\nclapped her little hands excitedly and told Hugh that he danced\n\"won-der-ful-ly.\" After the third encore she led him to a dark corner in\nthe hall.\n\n\"You're sweet, honey,\" she said softly. She turned her small, glowing\nface up to his. \"Kiss me,\" she commanded.\n\nDazed, Hugh gathered her into his arms and kissed her little red mouth.\nShe clung to him for a minute and then pushed him gently away.\n\n\"Good night, honey,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Good night.\" Hugh's voice broke huskily. He turned and walked rapidly\ndown the hall, upon the veranda, and down the steps. His classmates were\nwaiting for him. They rushed up to him, demanding that he tell them what\nhad happened.\n\nHe told them most of it, especially about the dance; but he neglected to\nmention the kiss. Shyness overcame any desire that he had to strut.\nBesides, there was something about that kiss that made it impossible for\nhim to tell any one, even Carl. When he went to bed that night, he did\nnot think once about the coming football game. Before his eyes floated\nthe girl in the corn-colored frock. He wished he knew her name....\nCloser and closer she came to him. He could feel her cool arms around\nhis neck. \"What a wonderful, wonderful girl! Sweeter than Helen--lots\nsweeter.... She's like the night--and moonlight.... Like moonlight\nand--\" The music of the \"Indian Serenade\" began to thrill through his\nmind:\n\n\n                \"I arise from dreams of thee\n                 In the first sweet sleep of night....\n\n\nOh, she's sweet, sweet--like music and moonlight....\" He fell asleep,\nrepeating \"music and moonlight\" over and over again--\"music and\nmoonlight....\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe morning of the \"big game\" proved ideal, crisp and cold, crystal\nclear. Indian summer was near its close, but there was still something\nof its dreamy wonder in the air, and the hills still flamed with\nglorious autumn foliage. The purples, the mauves, the scarlets, the\nburnt oranges were a little dimmed, a little less brilliant--the leaves\nwere rustling dryly now--but there was beauty in dying autumn, its\nsplendor slowly fading, as there was in its first startling burst of\ncolor.\n\nClasses that Saturday morning were a farce, but they were held; the\nadministration, which the boys damned heartily, insisted upon it. Some\nof the instructors merely took the roll and dismissed their classes,\nfeeling that honor had been satisfied; but others held their classes\nthrough the hour, lecturing the disgusted students on their lack of\ninterest, warning them that examinations weren't as far off as the\nmillennium.\n\nHugh felt that he was lucky; he had only one class--it was with Alling\nin Latin--and it had been promptly dismissed. \"When the day comes,\" said\nAlling, \"that Latin can compete with football, I'll--well, I'll probably\nget a living wage. You had better go before I get to talking about a\nliving wage. It is one of my favorite topics.\" He waved his hand toward\nthe door; the boys roared with delight and rushed out of the room,\nshoving each other and laughing. They ran out of the building; all of\nthem were too excited to walk.\n\nBy half-past one the stands were filled. Most of the girls wore fur\ncoats, as did many of the alumni, but the students sported no such\nluxuries; nine tenths of them wore \"baa-baa coats,\" gray jackets lined\nwith sheep's wool. Except for an occasional banner, usually carried by a\ngirl, and the bright hats of the women, there was little color to the\nscene. The air was sharp, and the spectators huddled down into their\nwarm coats.\n\nThe rival cheering sections, seated on opposite sides of the field,\nalternated in cheering and singing, each applauding the other's efforts.\nThe cheering wasn't very good, and the singing was worse; but there was\na great deal of noise, and that was about all that mattered to either\nside.\n\nA few minutes before two, the Raleigh team ran upon the field. The\nRaleigh cheering section promptly went mad. When the Sanford team\nappeared a minute later, the Sanford cheering section tried its best to\ngo madder, the boys whistling and yelling like possessed demons. Wayne\nGifford brought them to attention by holding his hands above his head.\nHe called for the usual regular cheer for the team and then for a short\ncheer for each member of it, starting with the captain, Sherman\nWalford, and ending with the great half-back, Harry Slade.\n\nSuddenly there was silence. The toss-up had been completed; the teams\nwere in position on the field. Slade had finished building a slender\npyramid of mud, on which he had balanced the ball. The referee held up\nhis hand. \"Are you ready, Sanford?\" Walford signaled his readiness. \"Are\nyou ready, Raleigh?\"\n\nThe shrill blast of the referee's whistle--and the game was on. The\nfirst half was a see-saw up and down the field. Near the end of the half\nRaleigh was within twenty yards of the Sanford line. Shouts of \"Score!\nScore! Score!\" went up from the Raleigh rooters, rhythmic, insistent.\n\"Hold 'em! Hold 'em! Fight! Fight! Fight!\" the Sanford cheering section\npleaded, almost sobbing the words. A forward pass skilfully completed\nnetted Raleigh sixteen yards. \"Fight! Fight! Fight!\"\n\nThe timekeeper tooted his little horn; the half was over. For a moment\nthe Sanford boys leaned back exhausted; then they leaped to their feet\nand yelled madly, while the Raleigh boys leaned back or against each\nother and swore fervently. Within two minutes the tension had departed.\nThe rival cheering sections alternated in singing songs, applauded each\nother vigorously, whistled at a frightened dog that tried to cross the\nfield and nearly lost its mind entirely when called by a thousand\nmasters, waited breathlessly when the cheer-leaders announced the\nresults from other football games that had been telegraphed to the\nfield, applauded if Harvard was losing, groaned if it wasn't, sang some\nmore, relaxed and felt consummately happy.\n\nSanford immediately took the offensive in the second half. Slade was\nconsistently carrying the ball. Twice he brought it within Raleigh's\ntwenty-five-yard line. The first time Raleigh held firm, but the second\ntime Slade stepped back for a drop-kick. The spectators sat silent,\nbreathless. The angle was difficult. Could he make it? Would the line\nhold?\n\nQuite calmly Slade waited. The center passed the ball neatly. Slade\nturned it in his hands, paid not the slightest attention to the mad\nstruggle going on a few feet in front of him, dropped the ball--and\nkicked. The ball rose in a graceful arc and passed safely between the\ngoal-posts.\n\nEvery one, men and women alike, the Raleigh adherents excepted, promptly\nturned into extraordinarily active lunatics. The women waved their\nbanners and shrieked, or if they had no banners, they waved their arms\nand shrieked; the men danced up and down, yelled, pounded each other on\nthe back, sometimes wildly embraced--many a woman was kissed by a man\nshe had never seen before and never would again, nor did she\nobject--Wayne Gifford was turning handsprings, and many of the students\nwere feebly fluttering their hands, voiceless, spent with cheering, weak\nfrom excitement.\n\nEarly in the fourth quarter, however, Raleigh got its revenge, carrying\nthe ball to a touch-down after a series of line rushes. Sanford tried\ndesperately to score again, but its best efforts were useless against\nthe Raleigh defense.\n\nThe final whistle blew; and Sanford had lost. Cheering wildly, tossing\ntheir hats into the air, the Raleigh students piled down from the grand\nstand upon the field. With the cheer-leaders at the head, waving their\nmegaphones, the boys rapidly formed into a long line in uneven groups,\nholding arms, dancing, shouting, winding in and out around the field,\nbetween the goal-posts, tossing their hats over the bars, waving their\nhands at the Sanford men standing despondently in their places--in and\nout, in and out, in the triumphant serpentine. Finally they paused, took\noff their hats, cheered first their own team, then the Sanford team, and\nthen sang their hymn while the Sanford men respectfully uncovered,\nsilent and despairing.\n\nWhen the hymn was over, the Sanford men quietly left the grand stand,\nquietly formed into a long line in groups of fours, quietly marched to\nthe college flagpole in the center of the campus. A Sanford banner was\nflying from the pole, a blue banner with an orange S. Wayne Gifford\nloosened the ropes. Down fluttered the banner, and the boys reverently\ntook off their hats. Gifford caught the banner before it touched the\nground and gathered it into his arms. The song-leader stepped beside\nhim. He lifted his hand, sang a note, and then the boys sang with him,\nhuskily, sadly, some of them with tears streaming down their cheeks:\n\n\n                \"Sanford, Sanford, mother of men,\n                 Love us, guard us, hold us true.\n                 Let thy arms enfold us;\n                 Let thy truth uphold us.\n                 Queen of colleges, mother of men--\n                 Alma mater, Sanford--hail!\n                 Alma mater--Hail!--Hail!\"\n\n\nSlowly the circle broke into small groups that straggled wearily across\nthe campus. Hugh, with two or three others, was walking behind two young\nprofessors--one of them, Alling, the other, Jones of the economics\ndepartment. Hugh was almost literally broken-hearted; the defeat lay on\nhim like an awful sorrow that never could be lifted. Every inch of him\nached, but his despair was greater than his physical pain. The sharp,\nclear voice of Jones broke into his half-deadened consciousness.\n\n\"I can't understand all this emotional excitement,\" said Jones crisply.\n\"A football game is a football game, not a national calamity. I enjoy\nthe game myself, but why weep over it? I don't think I ever saw anything\nmore absurd than those boys singing with tears running into their\nmouths.\"\n\nShocked, the boys looked at each other. They started to make angry\nremarks but paused as Alling spoke.\n\n\"Of course, what you say, Jones, is quite right,\" he remarked calmly,\n\"quite right. But, do you know, I pity you.\"\n\n\"Alling's a good guy,\" Hugh told Carl later; \"he's human.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nAfter the Sanford-Raleigh game, the college seemed to be slowly dying.\nThe boys held countless post-mortems over the game, explaining to each\nother just how it had been lost or how it could have been won. They\nwatched the newspapers eagerly as the sport writers announced their\nchoice for the so-called All American team. If Slade was on the team,\nthe writer was conceded to \"know his dope\"; if Slade wasn't, the writer\nwas a \"dumbbell.\" But all this pseudo-excitement was merely picking at\nthe covers; there was no real heart in it. Gradually the football talk\ndied down; freshmen ceased to write themes about Sanford's great\nfighting spirit; sex and religion once more became predominant at the\n\"bull sessions.\"\n\nStudies, too, began to find a place in the sun. Hour examinations were\ncoming, and most of the boys knew that they were miserably prepared.\nLights were burning in fraternity houses and dormitories until late at\nnight, and mighty little of their glow was shed on poker parties and\ncrap games. The college had begun to study.\n\nWhen Hugh finally calmed down and took stock, he was horrified and\nfrightened to discover how far he was behind in all his work. He had\ndone his lessons sketchily from day to day, but he really knew nothing\nabout them, and he knew that he didn't. Since Morse's departure, he had\nloafed, trusting to luck and the knowledge he had gained in high school.\nSo far he had escaped a summons from the dean, but he daily expected\none, and the mere thought of hour examinations made him shiver. He\nstudied hard for a week, succeeding only in getting gloriously confused\nand more frightened. The examinations proved to be easier than he had\nexpected; he didn't fail in any of them, but he did not get a grade\nabove a C.\n\nThe examination flurry passed, and the college was left cold. Nothing\nseemed to happen. The boys went to the movies every night, had a peanut\nfight, talked to the shadowy actors; they played cards, pool, and\nbilliards, or shot craps; Saturday nights many of them went to a dance\nat Hastings, a small town five miles away; they held bull sessions and\ndiscussed everything under the sun and some things beyond it; they\nattended a performance of Shaw's \"Candida\" given by the Dramatic Society\nand voted it a \"wet\" show; and, incidentally, some of them studied. But,\nall in all, life was rather tepid, and most of the boys were merely\nmarking time and waiting for Christmas vacation.\n\nFor Hugh the vacation came and went with a rush. It was glorious to get\nhome again, glorious to see his father and mother, and, at first,\nglorious to see Helen Simpson. But Helen had begun to pall; her kisses\nhardly compensated for her conversation. She gave him a little feeling\nof guilt, too, which he tried to argue away. \"Kissing isn't really\nwrong. Everybody pets; at least, Carl says they do. Helen likes it\nbut...\" Always that \"but\" intruded itself. \"But it doesn't seem quite\nright when--I don't really love her.\" When he kissed her for the last\ntime before returning to college, he had a distinct feeling of relief:\nwell, that would be off his mind for a while, anyway.\n\nIt was a sober, quiet crowd of students--for the first time they were\nstudents--that returned to their desks after the vacation. The final\nexaminations were ahead of them, less than a month away; and those\nexaminations hung over their heads like the relentless, glittering blade\nof a guillotine. The boys studied. \"College life\" ceased; there was a\nbrief period of education.\n\nOf course, they did not desert the movies, and the snow and ice claimed\nthem. Part of Indian Lake was scraped free of snow, and every clear\nafternoon hundreds of boys skated happily, explaining afterward that\nthey had to have some exercise if they were going to be able to study.\nOn those afternoons the lake was a pretty sight, zestful, alive with\ncolor. Many of the men wore blue sweaters, some of them brightly colored\nMackinaws, all of them knitted toques. As soon as the cold weather\narrived, the freshmen had been permitted to substitute blue toques with\norange tassels for their \"baby bonnets.\" The blue and orange stood out\nvividly against the white snow-covered hills, and the skates rang\nsharply as they cut the glare ice.\n\nThere was snow-shoeing, skiing, and sliding \"to keep a fellow fit so\nthat he could do good work in his exams,\" but much as the boys enjoyed\nthe winter sports, a black pall hung over the college as the examination\nperiod drew nearer and nearer. The library, which had been virtually\ndeserted all term, suddenly became crowded. Every afternoon and evening\nits big tables were filled with serious-faced lads earnestly bending\nover books, making notes, running their fingers through their hair,\noccasionally looking up with dazed eyes, or twisting about miserably.\n\nThe tension grew greater and greater. The upper-classmen were quiet and\nbusinesslike, but most of the freshmen were frankly terrified. A few of\nthem packed their trunks and slunk away, and a few more openly scorned\nthe examinations and their frightened classmates; but they were the\nexceptions. All the buoyancy seemed gone out of the college; nothing was\nleft but an intense strain. The dormitories were strangely quiet at\nnight. There was no playing of golf in the hallways, no rolling of bats\ndown the stairs, no shouting, no laughter; a man who made any noise was\nin danger of a serious beating. Even the greetings as the men passed\neach other on the campus were quiet and abstracted. They ceased to cut\nclasses. Everybody attended, and everybody paid close attention even to\nthe most tiresome instructors.\n\nStudious seniors began to reap a harvest out of tutoring sections. The\nmeetings were a dollar \"a throw,\" and for another dollar a student could\nget a mimeographed outline of a course. But the tutoring sections were\nonly for the \"plutes\" or the athletes, many of whom were subsidized by\nfraternities or alumni. Most of the students had to learn their own\nlessons; so they often banded together in small groups to make the task\nless arduous, finding some relief in sociability.\n\nThe study groups, quite properly called seminars, would have shocked\nmany a worthy professor had he been able to attend one; but they were\ntruly educative, and to many students inspiring. The professor had\nplanted the seed of wisdom with them; it was at the seminars that they\ntried honestly, if somewhat hysterically and irreverently, to make it\ngrow.\n\nHugh did most of his studying alone, fearing that the seminars would\ndegenerate into bull sessions, as many of them did; but Carl insisted\nthat he join one group that was going \"to wipe up that goddamned\nEnglish course to-night.\"\n\nThere were only five men at the seminar, which met in Surrey 19, because\nPudge Jamieson, who was \"rating\" an A in the course and was therefore an\nauthority, said that he wouldn't come if there were any more. Pudge, as\nhis nickname suggests, was plump. He was a round-faced, jovial youngster\nwho learned everything with consummate ease, wrote with great fluency\nand sometimes real beauty, peered through his horn-rimmed spectacles\namusedly at the world, and read every \"smut\" book that he could lay his\nhands on. His library of erotica was already famous throughout the\ncollege, his volumes of Balzac's \"Droll Stories,\" Rabelais complete,\n\"Mlle. de Maupin,\" Burton's \"Arabian Nights,\" and the \"Decameron\" being\nin constant demand. He could tell literally hundreds of dirty stories,\nalways having a new one on tap, always looking when he told it like a\ncomplacent cherub.\n\nThere were two other men in the seminar. Freddy Dickson, an earnest,\nanemic youth, seemed to be always striving for greater acceleration and\nnever gaining it; or as Pudge put it, \"The trouble with Freddy is that\nhe's always shifting gears.\" Larry Stillwell, the last man, was a dark,\nhandsome youth with exceedingly regular features, pomaded hair parted in\nthe center and shining sleekly, fine teeth, and rich coloring: a\n\"smooth\" boy who prided himself on his conquests and the fact that he\nnever got a grade above a C in his courses. There was no man in the\nfreshman class with a finer mind, but he declined to study, declaring\nfirmly that he could not waste his time acquiring impractical tastes for\nuseless arts.\n\n\"Now everybody shut up,\" said Pudge, seating himself in a big chair and\nlaboriously crossing one leg over the other. \"Put some more wood on the\nfire, Hugh, will you?\"\n\nHugh stirred up the fire, piled on a log or so, and then returned to his\nchair, hoping against belief that something really would be accomplished\nin the seminar. All the boys, he excepted, were smoking, and all of them\nwere lolling back in dangerously comfortable attitudes.\n\n\"We've got to get going,\" Pudge continued, \"and we aren't going to get\nanything done if we just sit around and bull. I'm the prof, and I'm\ngoing to ask questions. Now, don't bull. If you don't know, just say,\n'No soap,' and if you do know, shoot your dope.\" He grinned. \"How's that\nfor a rime?\"\n\n\"Atta boy!\" Carl exclaimed enthusiastically.\n\n\"Shut up! Now, the stuff we want to get at to-night is the poetry. No use\nspending any time on the composition. My prof said that we would have\nto write themes in the exam, but we can't do anything about that here.\nYou're all getting by on your themes, anyway, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" the listening quartet answered in unison, Larry Stillwell adding\ndubiously, \"Well, I'm getting C's.\"\n\n\"Larry,\" said Carl in cold contempt, \"you're a goddamn liar. I saw a B\non one of your themes the other day and an A on another. What are you\nalways pulling that low-brow stuff for?\"\n\nLarry had the grace to blush. \"Aw,\" he explained in some confusion, \"my\nprof's full of hooey. He doesn't know a C theme from an A one. He makes\nme sick. He--\"\n\n\"Aw, shut up!\" Freddy Dickson shouted. \"Let's get going; let's get\ngoing. We gotta learn this poetry. Damn! I don't know anything about it.\nI didn't crack the book till two days ago.\"\n\nPudge took charge again. \"Close your gabs, everybody,\" he commanded\nsternly. \"There's no sense in going over the prose lit. You can do that\nbetter by yourselves. God knows I'm not going to waste my time telling\nyou bone-heads what Carlyle means by a hero. If you don't know Odin from\nMohammed by this time, you can roast in Dante's hell for all of me. Now\nlisten; the prof said that they were going to make us place lines, and,\nof course, they'll expect us to know what the poems are about. Hell!\nhow some of the boys are going to fox 'em.\" He paused to laugh. \"Jim\nHicks told me this afternoon that 'Philomela' was by Shakspere.\" The\nother boys did not understand the joke, but they all laughed heartily.\n\n\"Now,\" he went on, \"I'll give you the name of a poem, and then you tell\nme what it's about and who wrote it.\"\n\nHe leafed rapidly through an anthology. \"Carl, who wrote 'Kubla Khan'?\"\n\nCarl puffed his pipe meditatively. \"I'm going to fox you, Pudge,\" he\nsaid, frankly triumphant; \"I know. Coleridge wrote it. It seems to be\nabout a Jew who built a swell joint for a wild woman or something like\nthat. I can't make much out of the damn thing.\"\n\n\"That's enough. Smack for Carl,\" said Pudge approvingly. \"Smack\" meant\nthat the answer was satisfactory. \"Freddy, who wrote 'La Belle Dame sans\nMerci'?\"\n\nFreddy twisted in his chair, thumped his head with his knuckles, and\nfinally announced with a groan of despair, \"No soap.\"\n\n\"Hugh?\"\n\n\"No soap.\"\n\n\"Larry?\"\n\n\"Well,\" drawled Larry, \"I think Jawn Keats wrote it. It's one of those\nbedtime stories with a kick. A knight gets picked up by a jane. He puts\nher on his prancing steed and beats it for the tall timber. Keats isn't\nvery plain about what happened there, but I suspect the worst. Anyhow,\nthe knight woke up the next morning with an awful rotten taste in his\nmouth.\"\n\n\"Smack for Larry. Your turn, Carl. Who wrote 'The West Wind'?\"\n\n\"You can't get me on that boy Masefield, Pudge. I know all his stuff.\nThere isn't any story; it's just about the west wind, but it's a goddamn\ngood poem. It's the cat's pajamas.\"\n\n\"You said it, Carl,\" Hugh chimed in, \"but I like 'Sea Fever' better.\n\n\n                \"I must go down to the seas again,\n                 To the lonely sea and the sky....\n\n\nGosh! that's hot stuff. 'August, 1914''s a peach, too.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" agreed Larry languidly; \"I got a great kick when the prof read\nthat in class. Masefield's all right. I wish we had more of his stuff\nand less of Milton. Lord Almighty, how I hate Milton! What th' hell do\nthey have to give us that tripe for?\"\n\n\"Oh, let's get going,\" Freddy pleaded, running a nervous hand through\nhis mouse-colored hair. \"Shoot a question, Pudge.\"\n\n\"All right, Freddy.\" Pudge tried to smile wickedly but succeeded only in\nlooking like a beaming cherub. \"Tell us who wrote the 'Ode on\nIntimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.'\nCripes! what a title!\"\n\nFreddy groaned. \"I know that Wadsworth wrote it, but that is all that I\ndo know about it.\"\n\n\"Wordsworth, Freddy,\" Carl corrected him. \"Wordsworth. Henry W.\nWordsworth.\"\n\n\"Gee, Carl, thanks. I thought it was William.\"\n\nThere was a burst of laughter, and then Pudge explained. \"It is William,\nFreddy. Don't let Peters razz you. Just for that, Carl, you tell what\nit's about.\"\n\n\"No soap,\" said Carl decisively.\n\n\"I know,\" Hugh announced, excited and pleased.\n\n\"Shoot!\"\n\n\"Well, it's this reincarnation business. Wordsworth thought you lived\nbefore you came on to this earth, and everything was fine when you were\na baby but it got worse when you got older. That's about all. It's kinda\nbugs, but I like some of it.\"\n\n\"It isn't bugs,\" Pudge contradicted flatly; \"it's got sense. You do lose\nsomething as you grow older, but you gain something, too. Wordsworth\nadmits that. It's a wonderful poem, and you're dumbbells if you can't\nsee it.\" He was very serious as he turned the pages of the book and laid\nhis pipe on the table at his elbow. \"Now listen. This stanza has the\ndope for the whole poem.\" He read the famous stanza simply and\neffectively:\n\n\n                \"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;\n                 The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,\n                   Hath had elsewhere its setting\n                     And cometh from afar;\n                     Not in entire forgetfulness,\n                     And not in utter nakedness,\n                 But trailing clouds of glory do we come\n                         From God who is our home:\n                 Heaven lies about us in our infancy!\n                 Shades of the prison house begin to close\n                         Upon the growing Boy,\n                 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,\n                         He sees it in his joy;\n                 The Youth who daily farther from the east\n                   Must travel, still is Nature's priest,\n                      And by the vision splendid\n                      Is on his way attended;\n                 At length the Man perceives it die away,\n                 And fade into the light of common day.\"\n\n\nThere was a moment's silence when he finished, and then Hugh said\nreverently: \"That is beautiful. Read the last stanza, will you, Pudge?\"\n\nSo Pudge read the last stanza, and then the boys got into an argument\nover the possible truth of the thesis of the poem. Freddy finally\nbrought them back to the task in hand with his plaintive plea, \"We've\ngotta get going.\" It was two o'clock in the morning when the seminar\nbroke up, Hugh admitting to Carl after their visitors departed that he\nhad not only learned a lot but that he had enjoyed the evening heartily.\n\nThe college grew quieter and quieter as the day for the examinations\napproached. There were seminars on everything, even on the best way to\nprepare cribs. Certain students with low grades and less honor would\nsomehow gravitate together and discuss plans for \"foxing the profs.\"\nOpinions differed. One man usually insisted that notes in the palm of\nthe left hand were safe from detection, only to be met by the objection\nthat they had to be written in ink, and if one's hand perspired, \"and it\nwas sure as hell to,\" nothing was left but an inky smear. Another held\nthat a fellow could fasten a rubber band on his forearm and attach the\nnotes to those, pulling them down when needed and then letting them snap\nback out of sight into safety. \"But,\" one of the conspirators was sure\nto object, \"what th' hell are you going to do if the band breaks?\" Some\nof them insisted that notes placed in the inside of one's goloshes--all\nthe students wore them but took them off in the examination-room--could\nbe easily read. \"Yeah, but the proctors are wise to that stunt.\" And so\n_ad infinitum_. Eventually all the \"stunts\" were used and many more. Not\nthat all the students cheated. Everything considered, the percentage of\ncheaters was not great, but those who did cheat usually spent enough\ntime evolving ingenious methods of preparing cribs and in preparing them\nto have learned their lessons honestly and well.\n\nThe night before the first examinations the campus was utterly quiet.\nSuddenly bedlam broke loose. Somehow every dormitory that contained\nfreshmen became a madhouse at the same time. Hugh and Carl were in\nSurrey 19 earnestly studying. Freddy Dickson flung the door open and\nshouted hysterically, \"The general science exam's out!\"\n\nHugh and Carl whirled around in their desk-chairs.\n\n\"What?\" They shouted together.\n\n\"Yeah! One of the fellows saw it. A girl that works at the press copied\ndown the exam and gave it to him.\"\n\n\"What fellow? Where's the exam?\"\n\n\"I don't know who the guy is, but Hubert Manning saw the exam.\"\n\nHugh and Carl were out of their chairs in an instant, and the three boys\nrushed out of Surrey in search of Manning. They found him in his room\ntelling a mob of excited classmates that he hadn't seen the exam but\nthat Harry Smithson had. Away went the crowd in search of Smithson, Carl\nand Hugh and Freddy in the midst of the excited, chattering lads.\nSmithson hadn't seen the exam, but he had heard that Puddy McCumber had\na copy.... Freshmen were running up and down stairs in the dormitories,\nshouting, \"Have you seen the exam?\" No, nobody had seen the exam, but\nsome of the boys had been told definitely what the questions were going\nto be. No two seemed to agree on the questions, but everybody copied\nthem down and then rushed on to search for a _bona fide_ copy. They\nhurried from dormitory to dormitory, constantly shouting the same\nquestion, \"Have you seen the exam?\" There were men in every dormitory\nwith a new list of questions, which were hastily scratched into\nnote-books by the eager seekers. Until midnight the excitement raged;\nthen the campus quieted down as the freshmen began to study the long\nlists of questions.\n\n\"God!\" said Carl as he scanned his list hopelessly, \"these damn\nquestions cover everything in the course and some things that I know\ndamn well weren't in it. What a lot of nuts we were. Let's go to bed.\"\n\n\"Carl,\" Hugh wailed despondently, \"I'm going to flunk that exam. I can't\nanswer a tenth of these questions. I can't go to bed; I've got to study.\nOh, Lord!\"\n\n\"Don't be a triple-plated jackass. Come on to bed. You'll just get woozy\nif you stay up any longer.\"\n\n\"All right,\" Hugh agreed wearily. He went to bed, but many of the boys\nstayed up and studied, some of them all night.\n\nThe examinations were held in the gymnasium. Hundreds of class-room\nchairs were set in even rows. Nothing else was there, not even the\ngymnasium apparatus. A few years earlier a wily student had sneaked into\nthe gymnasium the night before an examination and written his notes on a\ndumbbell hanging on the wall. The next day he calmly chose the seat in\nfront of the dumbbell--and proceeded to write a perfect examination. The\nannotated dumbbell was found later, and after that the walls were\nstripped clean of apparatus before the examinations began.\n\nAt a few minutes before nine the entire freshman class was grouped\nbefore the doors of the gymnasium, nervously talking, some of them\nglancing through their notes, others smoking--some of them so rapidly\nthat the cigarettes seemed to melt, others walking up and down,\nmuttering and mumbling; all of them so excited, so tense that they\nhardly knew what they were doing. Hugh was trying to think of a dozen\nanswers to questions that popped into his head, and he couldn't think of\nanything.\n\nSuddenly the doors were thrown open. Yelling, shoving each other about,\nfairly dancing in their eagerness and excitement, the freshmen rushed\ninto the gymnasium. Hugh broke from the mob as quickly as possible,\nhurried to a chair, and snatched up a copy of the examination that was\nlying on its broad arm. At the first glance he thought that he could\nanswer all the questions; a second glance revealed four that meant\nnothing to him. For a moment he was dizzy with hope and despair, and\nthen, all at once, he felt quite calm. He pulled off his goloshes and\nprepared to go to work.\n\nWithin three minutes the noise had subsided. There was a rustling as the\nboys took off their baa-baa coats and goloshes, but after that there was\nno sound save the slow steps of the proctors pacing up and down the\naisle. Once Hugh looked up, thinking desperately, almost seizing an idea\nthat floated nebulous and necessary before him. A proctor that he knew\ncaught his eye and smiled fatuously. Hugh did not smile back. He could\nhave cried in his fury. The idea was gone forever.\n\nSome of the students began to write immediately; some of them leaned\nback and stared at the ceiling; some of them chewed their pencils\nnervously; some of them leaned forward mercilessly pounding a knee; some\nof them kept running one or both hands through their hair; some of them\nwrote a little and then paused to gaze blankly before them or to tap\ntheir teeth with a pen or pencil: all of them were concentrating with an\nintensity that made the silence electric.\n\nThat proctor's idiotic smile had thrown Hugh's thoughts into what\nseemed hopeless confusion, but a small incident almost immediately\nbrought order and relief. The gymnasium cat was wandering around the\nrear of the gymnasium. It attracted the attention of several of the\nstudents--and of a proctor. Being very careful not to make any noise, he\npicked up the cat and started for the door. Almost instantly every\nstudent looked up; and then the stamping began. Four hundred freshmen\nstamped in rhythm to the proctor's steps. He Hushed violently, tried\nvainly to look unconcerned, and finally disappeared through the door\nwith the cat. Hugh had stamped lustily and laughed in great glee at the\nproctor's confusion; then he returned to his work, completely at ease,\nhis nervousness gone.\n\nOne hour passed, two hours. Still the freshmen wrote; still the proctors\npaced up and down. Suddenly a proctor paused, stared intently at a youth\nwho was leaning forward in his chair, walked quickly to him, and picked\nup one of his goloshes. The next instant he had a piece of paper in his\nhand and was, walking down the gymnasium after beckoning to the boy to\nfollow him. The boy shoved his feet into his goloshes, pulled on his\nbaa-baa coat, and, his face white and strained, marched down the aisle.\nThe proctor spoke a few words to him at the door. He nodded, opened the\ndoor, left the gymnasium--and five hours later the college.\n\nThus the college for ten days: the better students moderately calm, the\nothers cramming information into aching heads, drinking unbelievable\nquantities of coffee, sitting up, many of them, all night, attending\nseminars or tutoring sessions, working for long hours in the library,\nfinally taking the examination, only to start a new nerve-racking grind\nin preparation for the next one.\n\nIf a student failed in a course, he received a \"flunk notice\" from the\nregistrar's office within four days after the examination, so that four\ndays after the last examination every student knew whether he had passed\nhis courses or not. All those who failed to pass three courses were, as\nthe students put it, \"flunked out,\" or as the registrar put it, \"their\nconnection with the college was severed.\" Some of the flunkees took the\nnews very casually, packed their trunks, sold their furniture, and\ndeparted; others frankly wept or hastened to their instructors to plead\nvainly that their grades be raised: all of them were required to leave\nHaydensville at once.\n\nHugh passed all of his courses but without distinction. His B in\ntrigonometry did not give him great satisfaction inasmuch as he had\nreceived an A in exactly the same course in high school; nor was he\nparticularly proud of his B in English, since he knew that with a\nlittle effort he could have \"pulled\" an A. The remainder of his grades\nwere C's and D's, mostly D's. He felt almost as much ashamed as Freddy\nDickson, who somehow hadn't \"got going\" and had been flunked out. Carl\nreceived nothing less than a C, and his record made Hugh more ashamed of\nhis own. Carl never seemed to study, but he hadn't disgraced himself.\n\nHugh spent many bitter hours thinking about his record. What would his\nfolks think? Worse, what would they _say?_ Finally he wrote to them:\n\n\n\n       Dear Mother and Dad:\n\n       I have just found out my grades. I think that they will\n       be sent to you later. Well, I didn't flunk out but my\n       record isn't so hot. Only two of my grades are any good.\n       I got a B in English and Math but the others are all C's\n       and D's. I know that you will be ashamed of me and I'm\n       awfully sorry. I've thought of lots of excuses to write\n       to you, but I guess I won't write them. I know that I\n       didn't study hard enough. I had too much fun.\n\n       I promise you that I'll do better next time. I know that\n       I can. Please don't scold me.\n\n                                Lots of love,\n                                                HUGH\n\n\nAll that his mother wrote in reply was, \"Of course, you will do better\nnext time.\" The kindness hurt dreadfully. Hugh wished that she had\nscolded him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nThe college granted a vacation of three days between terms, but Hugh did\nnot go home, nor did many of the other undergraduates. There was\nexcitement in the air; the college was beginning to stew and boil again.\nFraternity rushing was scheduled for the second week of the new term.\n\nThe administration strictly prohibited the rushing of freshmen the first\nterm; and, in general, the fraternities respected the rule. True, the\nfraternity men were constantly visiting eligible freshmen, chatting with\nthem, discussing everything with them except fraternities. That subject\nwas barred.\n\nHugh and Carl received a great many calls from upper-classmen the first\nterm, and Hugh had been astonished at Carl's reticence and silence.\nCarl, the flippant, the voluble, the \"wise-cracker,\" lost his tongue the\nminute a man wearing a fraternity pin entered the room. Hugh was forced\nto entertain the all-important guest. Carl never explained how much he\nwanted to make a good fraternity, not any fraternity, only a _good_ one;\nnor did he explain that his secret studying the first term had been\ninspired by his eagerness to be completely eligible. A good fraternity\nwould put the seal of aristocracy on him; it would mean everything to\nthe \"old lady.\"\n\nFor the first three nights of the rushing season the fraternities held\nopen house for all freshmen, but during the last three nights no\nfreshman was supposed to enter a fraternity house unless Invited.\n\nThe first three nights found the freshmen traveling in scared groups\nfrom fraternity house to fraternity house, sticking close together\nunless rather vigorously pried apart by their hosts. Everybody was\nintroduced to everybody else; everybody tried rather hopelessly to make\nconversation, and nearly everybody smoked too much, partly because they\nwere nervous and partly because the \"smokes\" were free.\n\nIt was the last three nights that counted. Both Hugh and Carl received\ninvitations from most of the fraternities, and they stuck together,\nreligiously visiting them all. Hugh hoped that they would \"make\" the\nsame fraternity and that that fraternity would be Nu Delta. They were\ntogether so consistently during the rushing period that the story went\naround the campus that Carver and Peters were \"going the same way,\" and\nthat Carver had said that he wouldn't accept a bid from any fraternity\nunless it asked Peters, too.\n\nHugh heard the story and couldn't understand it. Everybody seemed to\ntake it for granted that he would be bid. Why didn't they take it\nequally for granted that Carl would be bid as well? He thought perhaps\nit was because he was an athlete and Carl wasn't; but the truth was, of\ncourse, that the upper-classmen perceived the _nouveau riche_ quality in\nCarl quite as clearly as he did himself. He knew that his money and the\nfact that he had gone to a fashionable prep school would bring him bids,\nbut would they be from the right fraternities? That was the\nall-important question.\n\nThose last three days of rushing were nerve-racking. At night the\ninvited freshmen--and that meant about two thirds of the class--were at\nthe fraternity houses until eleven; between classes and during every\nfree hour they were accosted by earnest fraternity men, each presenting\nthe superior merits of his fraternity. The fraternity men were wearier\nthan the freshmen. They sat up until the small hours every morning\ndiscussing the freshmen they had entertained the night before.\n\nHugh was in a daze. Over and over he heard the same words with only\nslight variations. A fraternity man would slap a fat book with an\nexcited hand and exclaim: \"This is 'Baird's Manual,' the final authority\non fraternities, and it's got absolutely all the dope. You can see where\nwe stand. Sixty chapters! You don't join just this one, y' understand;\nyou join all of 'em. You're welcome wherever you go.\" Or, if the number\nof chapters happened to be small, \"Baird's Manual\" was referred to\nagain. \"Only fifteen chapters, you see. We don't take in new chapters\nevery time they ask. We're darned careful to know what we're signing up\nbefore we take anybody in.\" The word \"aristocratic\" was carefully\navoided, but it was just as carefully suggested.\n\nIt seemed to Hugh that he was shown a photograph of every fraternity\nhouse in the country. \"Look,\" he would be told by his host, \"look at\nthat picture to the right of the fireplace. That's our house at Cornell.\nIsn't it the darb? And look at that one. It's our house at California.\nSome palace. They've got sunken gardens. I was out there last year to\nour convention. The boys certainly gave us a swell time.\"\n\nAll this through a haze of tobacco smoke and over the noise of a jazz\norchestra and the chatter of a dozen similar conversations. Hugh was\nexcited but not really interested. The Nu Deltas invited him to their\nhouse every evening, but they were not making a great fuss over him.\nPerhaps they weren't going to give him a bid.... Well, he'd go some\nother fraternity. No, he wouldn't, either. Maybe the Nu Delta's would\nbid him later after he'd done something on the track.\n\nAlthough actual pledging was not supposed to be done until Saturday\nnight, Hugh was receiving what amounted to bids all that day and the\nnight before. Several times groups of fraternity men got into a room,\nclosed the door, and then talked to him until he was almost literally\ndizzy. He was wise enough not to make any promises. His invariable\nanswer was: \"I don't know yet. I won't know until Saturday night.\"\n\nCarl was having similar experiences, but neither of them had been talked\nto by Nu Deltas. The president of the chapter, Merle Douglas, had said\nto Hugh in passing, \"We've got our eye on you, Carver,\" and that was all\nthat had been said. Carl did not have even that much consolation. But he\nwasn't so much interested in Nu Delta as Hugh was; Kappa Zeta or Alpha\nSigma would do as well. Both of these fraternities were making violent\nefforts to get Hugh, but they were paying only polite attention to Carl.\n\nOn Friday night Hugh was given some advice that he had good reason to\nremember in later years. At the moment it did not interest him a great\ndeal.\n\nHe had gone to the Delta Sigma Delta house, not because he had the\nslightest interest in that fraternity but because the Nu Deltas had not\nurged him to remain with them. The Delta Sigma Deltas welcomed him\nenthusiastically and turned him over to their president, Malcolm Graham,\na tall serious senior with sandy hair and quiet brown eyes.\n\n\"Will you come up-stairs with me, Carver? I want to have a talk with\nyou,\" he said simply.\n\nHugh hesitated. He didn't mind being talked _to_, but he was heartily\nsick of being talked _at_.\n\nGraham noticed his hesitation and smiled. \"Don't worry; I'm not going to\nshanghai you, and I'm not going to jaw you to death, either.\"\n\nHugh smiled in response. \"I'm glad of that,\" he said wearily. \"I've been\njawed until I don't know anything.\"\n\n\"I don't doubt it. Come on; let's get away from this racket.\" He took\nHugh by the arm and led him up-stairs to his own room, which was\npleasantly quiet and restful after the noise they had left.\n\nWhen they were both seated in comfortable chairs, Graham began to talk.\n\"I know that you are being tremendously rushed, Carver, and I know that\nyou are going to get a lot of bids, too. I've been watching you all\nthrough this week, and you seem dazed and confused to me, more confused\neven than the average freshman. I think I know the reason.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Hugh demanded eagerly.\n\n\"I understand that your father is a Nu Delt.\"\n\nHugh nodded.\n\n\"And you're afraid that they aren't going to bid you.\"\n\nHugh was startled. \"How did you know?\" He never thought of denying the\nstatement.\n\n\"I guessed it. You were obviously worried; you visited other\nfraternities; and you didn't seem to enjoy the attention that you were\ngetting. I'll tell you right now that you are worrying about nothing;\nthe Nu Delts will bid you. They are just taking you for granted; that's\nall. You are a legacy, and you have accepted all their invitations to\ncome around. If you had stayed away one night, there would have been a\nwhole delegation rushing around the campus to hunt you up.\"\n\nHugh relaxed. For the time being he believed Graham implicitly.\n\n\"Now,\" Graham went on, \"it's the Nu Delts that I want to talk about. Oh,\nI'm not going to knock them,\" he hastened to add as Hugh eyed him\nsuspiciously. \"I know that you have heard plenty of fraternities\nknocking each other, but I am sure that you haven't heard any knocking\nin this house.\"\n\n\"No I haven't,\" Hugh admitted.\n\n\"Well, you aren't going to, either. The Nu Delts are much more important\nthan we are. They are stronger locally, and they've got a very powerful\nnational organization. But I don't think that you have a very clear\nnotion about the Nu Delts or us or any other fraternity. I heard you\ntalking about fraternities the other night, and, if you will forgive me\nfor being awfully frank, you were talking a lot of nonsense.\"\n\nHugh leaned forward eagerly. He wasn't offended, and for the first time\nthat week he didn't feel that he was being rushed.\n\n\"Well, you have a lot of sentimental notions about fraternities that are\nall bull; that's all. You think that the brothers are really brothers,\nthat they stick by each other and all that sort of thing. You seem to\nthink, too, that the fraternities are democratic. They aren't, or there\nwouldn't be any fraternities. You don't seem to realize that\nfraternities are among other things political organizations, fighting\neach other on the campus for dear life. You've heard fraternities this\nweek knocking each other. Well, about nine tenths of what's been said is\neither lies or true of every fraternity on the campus. These\nfraternities aren't working together for the good of Sanford; they're\nworking like hell to ruin each other. You think that you are going to\nlike every man in the fraternity you join. You won't. You'll hate some\nof them.\"\n\nHugh was aroused and indignant. \"If you feel that way about it, why do\nyou stay in a fraternity?\"\n\nGraham smiled gravely. \"Don't get angry, please. I stay because the\nfraternity has its virtues as well as its faults. I hated the fraternity\nthe first two years, and I'm afraid that you're going to, too. You see,\nI had the same sort of notions you have--and it hurt like the devil when\nthey were knocked into a cocked hat. The fraternity is a pleasant club:\nit gets you into campus activities; and it gives you a social life in\ncollege that you can't get without it. It isn't very important to most\nmen after they graduate. Just try to raise some money from the alumni\nsome time, and you'll find out. Some of them remain undergraduates all\ntheir lives, and they think that the fraternity is important, but most\nof them hardly think of it except when they come back to reunions.\nThey're more interested in their clubs or the Masons or something of\nthat sort.\"\n\n\"My father hasn't remained an undergraduate all his life, but he's\ninterested in the Nu Delts,\" Hugh countered vigorously.\n\n\"I suppose he is,\" Graham tactfully admitted, \"but you'll find that most\nmen aren't. But that doesn't matter. You aren't an alumnus yet; you're a\nfreshman, and a fraternity is a darn nice thing to have around while you\nare in college.\n\n\"What I am going to say now,\" he continued, hesitating, \"is pretty\ntouchy, and I hope that you won't be offended. I have been trying to\nimpress on you that the fraternity is most important while you are in\ncollege, and, believe me, it's damned important. A fellow has a hell of\na time if he gets into the wrong fraternity.... I am sure that you are\ngoing to get a lot of bids. Don't choose hastily. Spend to-morrow\nthinking the various bunches over--and choose the one that has the\nfellows that you like best, no matter what its standing on the campus\nis. Be sure that you like the fellows; that is all-important. We want\nyou to come to us. I think that you would fit in here, but I am not\ngoing to urge you. Think us over. If you like us, accept our bid; if you\ndon't, go some fraternity where you do like the fellows. And that's my\nwarning about the Nu Delts. Be sure that you like the fellows, or most\nof them, anyway, before you accept their bid. Have you thought them\nover?\"\n\n\"No,\" Hugh admitted, \"I haven't.\"\n\nHe didn't like Graham's talk; he thought that it was merely very clever\nrushing. He did Graham an injustice. Graham had been strongly attracted\nto Hugh and felt sure that he would be making a serious mistake if he\njoined Nu Delta. Hugh's reaction, however, was natural. He had been\nrushed in dozens of ingenious ways for a week; he had little reason,\ntherefore, to trust Graham or anybody else.\n\nGraham stood up. \"I have a feeling, Carver,\" he said slowly, \"that I\nhave flubbed this talk. I am sure that you'll know some day that I was\nreally disinterested and wanted to do my best for you.\"\n\nHugh was softened--and smiled shyly as he lifted himself out of his\nchair. \"I know you did,\" he said with more gratitude in his voice than\nhe quite felt, \"and I'm very grateful, but I'm so woozy now that I\ndon't know what to think.\"\n\n\"I don't wonder. To tell you the truth, I am, too. I haven't got to bed\nearlier than three o'clock any night this week, and right now I hardly\ncare if we pledge anybody to-morrow night.\" He continued talking as they\nwalked slowly down the stairs. \"One more bit of advice. Don't go\nanywhere else to-night. Go home to bed, and to-morrow think over what\nI've told you. And,\" he added, holding out his hand, \"even if you don't\ncome our way, I hope I see a lot of you before the end of the term.\"\n\nHugh clasped his hand. \"You sure will. Thanks a lot. Good night.\"\n\n\"Good night.\"\n\nHugh did go straight to his room and tried to think, but the effort met\nwith little success. He wanted desperately to receive a bid from Nu\nDelta, and if he didn't--well, nothing else much mattered. Graham's\nassertion that Nu Delta would bid him no longer brought him any comfort.\nWhy should Graham know what Nu Delta was going to do?\n\nShortly after eleven Carl came in and threw himself wearily into a\nchair. For a few minutes neither boy said anything; they stared into the\nfire and frowned. Finally Carl spoke.\n\n\"I can go Alpha Sig if I want,\" he said softly.\n\nHugh looked up. \"Good!\" he exclaimed, honestly pleased. \"But I hope we\ncan both go Nu Delt. Did they come right out and bid you?\"\n\n\"Er--no. Not exactly. It's kinda funny.\" Carl obviously wanted to tell\nsomething and didn't know how to go about it.\n\n\"What do you mean 'funny'? What happened?\"\n\nCarl shifted around in his chair nervously, filled his pipe, lighted it,\nand then forgot to smoke.\n\n\"Well,\" he began slowly, \"Morton--you know that Alpha Sig, Clem Morton,\nthe senior--well, he got me off into a corner to-night and talked to me\nquite a while, shot me a heavy line of dope. At first I didn't get him\nat all. He was talking about how they needed new living-room furniture\nand that sort of thing. Finally I got him. It's like this--well, it's\nthis way: they need money. Oh, hell! Hugh, don't you see? They want\nmoney--and they know I've got it. All I've got to do is to let them know\nthat I'll make the chapter a present of a thousand or two after\ninitiation--and I can be an Alpha Sig.\"\n\nHugh was sitting tensely erect and staring at Carl dazedly.\n\n\"You mean,\" he asked slowly, \"that they want you to buy your way in?\"\n\nCarl gave a short, hard laugh. \"Well, nobody said anything vulgar like\nthat, Hugh, but you've got the big idea.\"\n\n\"The dirty pups! The goddamn stinkers! I hope you told Morton to go\nstraight to hell.\" Hugh jumped up and stood over Carl excitedly.\n\n\"Keep your shirt on, Hugh. No, I didn't tell him to go to hell. I didn't\nsay anything, but I know that all I've got to do to get an Alpha Sig bid\nto-morrow night is to let Morton know that I'd like to make the chapter\na present. And I'm not sure--but I think maybe I'll do it.\"\n\n\"What!\" Hugh cried. \"You wouldn't, Carl! You know damn well you\nwouldn't.\" He was almost pleading.\n\n\"Hey, quit yelling and sit down.\" He got up, shoved Hugh back into his\nchair, and then sat down again. \"I want to make one of the Big Three;\nI've got to. I don't believe that either Nu Delt or Kappa Zete is going\nto bid me. See? This is my only chance--and I think that I'm going to\ntake it.\" He spoke deliberately, staring pensively into the fire.\n\n\"I don't see how you can even think of such a thing,\" Hugh said in\npainful wonderment. \"Why, I'd rather never join a fraternity than buy\nmyself into one.\"\n\n\"You aren't me.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not you. Listen, Carl.\" Hugh turned in his chair and faced\nCarl, who kept his eyes on the dying fire. \"I'm going to say something\nawfully mean, but I hope you won't get mad.... You remember you told\nme once that you weren't a gentleman. I didn't believe you, but if you\nbuy yourself into that--that bunch of--of gutter-pups, I'll--I'll--oh,\nhell, Carl, I'll have to believe it.\" He was painfully embarrassed, very\nmuch in earnest, and dreadfully unhappy.\n\n\"I told you that I wasn't a gentleman,\" Carl said sullenly. \"Now you\nknow it.\"\n\n\"I don't know anything of the sort. I'll never believe that you could do\nsuch a thing.\" He stood up again and leaned over Carl, putting his hand\non his shoulder. \"Listen, Carl,\" he said soberly, earnestly, \"I promise\nthat I won't go Nu Delt or any other fraternity unless they take you,\ntoo, if you'll promise me not to go Alpha Sig.\"\n\nCarl looked up wonderingly. \"What!\" he exclaimed. \"You'll turn down Nu\nDelt if they don't bid me, too?\"\n\n\"Yes, Nu Delt or Kappa Zete or any other bunch. Promise me,\" he urged;\n\"promise me.\"\n\nCarl understood the magnitude of the sacrifice offered, and his eyes\nbecame dangerously soft. \"God! you're white, Hugh,\" he whispered\nhuskily, \"white as hell. You go Nu Delt if they ask you--but I promise\nyou that I won't go Alpha Sig even if they bid me without pay.\" He held\nout his hand, and Hugh gripped it hard. \"I promise,\" he repeated, \"on my\nword of honor.\"\n\nAt seven o'clock Saturday evening every freshman who had any reason at\nall to think that he would get a bid--and some that had no\nreason--collected in nervous groups in the living-room of the Union. At\nthe stroke of seven they were permitted to move up to a long row of\ntables which were covered with large envelopes, one for every freshman.\nThey were arranged in alphabetical order, and in an incredibly short\ntime each man found the one addressed to him. Some of the envelopes were\nstuffed with cards, each containing the freshman's name and the name of\nthe fraternity bidding him; some of them contained only one or two\ncards--and some of them were empty. The boys who drew empty envelopes\ninstantly left the Union without a word to anybody; the others tried to\nfind a free space where they could scan their cards unobserved. They\nwere all wildly excited and nervous. One glance at the cards, and their\nfaces either lighted with joy or went white with disappointment.\n\nHugh found ten cards in his envelope--and one of them had Nu Delta\nwritten on it. His heart leaped; for a moment he thought that he was\ngoing to cry. Then he rushed around the Union looking for Carl. He found\nhim staring at a fan of cards, which he was holding like a hand of\nbridge.\n\n\"What luck?\" Hugh cried.\n\nCarl handed him the cards. \"Lamp those,\" he said, \"and then explain.\nThey've got me stopped.\"\n\nHe had thirteen bids, one from every fraternity in good standing,\nincluding the so-called Big Three.\n\nWhen Hugh saw the Nu Delta card he yelled with delight.\n\n\"I got a Nu Delt, too.\" His voice was trembling with excitement. \"You'll\ngo with me, won't you?\"\n\n\"Of course, Hugh. But I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Oh, what's the dif? Let's go.\"\n\nHe tucked his arm in Carl's, and the two of them passed out of the Union\non their way to the Nu Delta house. Later both of them understood.\n\nCarl's good looks, his excellent clothes, his money, and the fact that\nhe had been to an expensive preparatory school were enough to insure him\nplenty of bids even if he had been considerably less of a gentleman than\nhe was.\n\nAlready the campus was ringing with shouts as freshmen entered\nfraternity houses, each freshman being required to report at once to the\nfraternity whose bid he was accepting.\n\nWhen Carl and Hugh walked up the Nu Delta steps, they were seized by\nwaiting upper-classmen and rushed into the living-room, where they were\nreceived with loud cheers, slapped on the back, and passed around the\nroom, each upper-classman shaking hands with them so vigorously that\ntheir hands hurt for an hour afterward. What pleasant pain! Each new\narrival was similarly received, but the excitement did not last long.\nBoth the freshmen and the upper-classmen were too tired to keep the\nenthusiasm at the proper pitch. At nine o'clock the freshmen were sent\nhome with orders to report the next evening at eight.\n\nCarl and Hugh, proudly conscious of the pledge buttons in the lapels of\ntheir coats, walked slowly across the campus, spent and weary, but\nexquisitely happy.\n\n\"They bid me on account of you,\" Carl said softly. \"They didn't think\nthey could get you unless they asked me, too.\"\n\n\"No,\" Hugh replied, \"you're wrong. They took you for yourself. They knew\nyou would go where I did, and they were sure that I would go their way.\"\n\nHugh was quite right. The Nu Deltas had felt sure of both of them and\nhad not rushed them harder because they were too busy to waste any time\non certainties.\n\nCarl stopped suddenly. \"God, Hugh,\" he exclaimed. \"Just suppose I had\noffered the Alpha Sigs that cash. God!\"\n\n\"Aren't you glad you didn't?\" Hugh asked happily.\n\n\"Glad? Glad? Boy, I'm bug-house. And,\" he added softly, \"I know the lad\nI've got to thank.\"\n\n\"Aw, go to hell.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe initiation season lasted two weeks, and the neophytes found that the\ndormitory initiations had been merely child's play. They had to account\nfor every hour, and except for a brief time allowed every day for\nstudying, they were kept busy making asses of themselves for the\ndelectation of the upper-classmen.\n\nIn the Nu Delta house a freshman had to be on guard every hour of the\nday up to midnight. He was forced to dress himself in some outlandish\ncostume, the more outlandish the better, and announce every one who\nentered or left the house. \"Mr. Standish entering,\" he would bawl, or,\n\"Mr. Kerwin leaving.\" If he bawled too loudly, he was paddled; if he\ndidn't bawl loudly enough, he was paddled; and if there was no fault to\nbe found with his bawling; he was paddled anyway. Every freshman had to\nsupply his own paddle, a broad, stout oak affair sold at the cooperative\nstore at a handsome profit.\n\nIf a freshman reported for duty one minute late, he was paddled; if he\nreported one minute early, he was paddled. There was no end to the\npaddling. \"Assume the angle,\" an upper-classman would roar. The\nunfortunate freshman then humbly bent forward, gripped his ankles with\nhis hands--and waited. The worst always happened. The upper-classman\nbrought the paddle down with a resounding whack on the seat of the\nfreshman's trousers.\n\n\"Does it hurt?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nAnother resounding whack. \"_What?_\"\n\n\"No--no, sir.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, if it doesn't hurt, I might as well give you another one.\"\nAnd he gave him another one.\n\nA freshman was paddled if he forgot to say \"sir\" to an upper-classman;\nhe was paddled if he neglected to touch the floor with his fingers every\ntime he passed through a door in the fraternity house; he was paddled if\nhe laughed when an upper-classman told a joke, and he was paddled if he\ndidn't laugh; he was paddled if he failed to return from an errand in an\ninconceivably short time: he was paddled for every and no reason, but\nmainly because the upper-classmen, the sophomores particularly, got\nboundless delight out of doing the paddling.\n\nEvery night a freshman stood on the roof of the Nu Delta house and\nannounced the time every fifteen seconds. \"One minute and fifteen\nseconds after nine, and all's well in the halls of Nu Delta; one minute\nand thirty seconds after nine, and all's well in the halls of Nu Delta;\none minute and forty-five seconds after nine, and all's well in the\nhalls of Nu Delta,\" and so on for an hour. Then he was relieved by\nanother freshman, who took up the chant.\n\nNightly the freshmen had to entertain the upper-classmen, and if the\nentertainment wasn't satisfactory, as it never was, the entertainers\nwere paddled. They had to run races, shoving pennies across the floor\nwith their noses. The winner was paddled for going too fast--\"Didn't he\nhave any sense of sportsmanship?\"--and the loser was paddled for going\ntoo slow. Most of the freshmen lost skin off their noses and foreheads;\nall of them shivered at the sight of a paddle. By the end of the first\nweek they were whispering to each other how many blisters they had on\ntheir buttocks.\n\nIt was a bitterly cold night in late February when the Nu Deltas took\nthe freshmen for their \"walk.\" They drove in automobiles fifteen miles\ninto the country and then left the freshmen to walk back. It was four\no'clock in the morning when the miserable freshmen reached the campus,\nhalf frozen, unutterably weary, but thankful that the end of the\ninitiation was at hand.\n\nHugh was thankful for another thing; the Nu Deltas did not brand. He had\nnoticed several men in the swimming-pool with tiny Greek letters branded\non their chests or thighs. The branded ones seemed proud of their\npermanent insignia, but the idea of a fraternity branding its members\nlike beef-cattle was repugnant to Hugh. He told Carl that he was darn\nglad the Nu Deltas were above that sort of thing, and, surprisingly,\nCarl agreed with him.\n\nThe next night they were formally initiated. The Nu Delta house seemed\nstrangely quiet; levity was strictly prohibited. The freshmen were given\nwhite robes such as the upper-classmen were wearing, the president\nexcepted, who wore a really handsome robe of blue and silver.\n\nThen they marched up-stairs to the \"goat room.\" Once there, the\npresident mounted a dais; a \"brother\" stood on each side of him. Hugh\nwas so much impressed by the ritual, the black hangings of the room, the\nfraternity seal over the dais, the ornate chandelier, the long speeches\nof the president and his assistants, that he failed to notice that many\nof the brothers were openly bored.\n\nEventually each freshman was led forward by an upper-classman. He knelt\non the lowest step of the dais and repeated after the president the oath\nof allegiance. Then one of the assisting brothers whispered to him the\npassword and taught him the \"grip,\" a secret and elaborate method of\nshaking hands, while the other pinned the jeweled pin to his vest.\n\nWhen each freshman had been received into the fraternity, the entire\nchapter marched in twos down-stairs, singing the fraternity song. The\ninitiation was over; Carl and Hugh were Nu Delts.\n\nThe whole ceremony had moved Hugh deeply, so deeply that he had hardly\nbeen able to repeat the oath after the president. He thought the ritual\nvery beautiful, more beautiful even than the Easter service at church.\nHe left the Nu Delta house that night feeling a deeper loyalty for the\nfraternity than he had words to express. He and Carl walked back to\nSurrey 19 in silence. Neither was capable of speech, though both of them\nwanted to give expression to their emotion in some way. They reached\ntheir room.\n\n\"Well,\" said Hugh shyly, \"I guess I'll go to bed.\"\n\n\"Me, too.\" Then Carl moved hesitatingly to where Hugh was standing. He\nheld out his hand and grinned, but his eyes were serious.\n\n\"Good night--brother.\"\n\nTheir hands met in the sacred grip.\n\n\"Good night--brother.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nTo Hugh the remainder of the term was simply a fight to get an\nopportunity to study. The old saying, \"if study interferes with college,\ncut out study,\" did not appeal to him. He honestly wanted to do good\nwork, but he found that the chance to do it was rare. Some one always\nseemed to be in his room eager to talk; there was the fraternity meeting\nto attend every Monday night; early in the term there was at least one\nhockey or basketball game a week; later there were track meets, baseball\ngames, and tennis matches; he had to attend Glee Club rehearsals twice a\nweek; he ran every afternoon either in the gymnasium or on the cinder\npath; some one always seduced him into going to the movies; he was\nconstantly being drawn into bull sessions; there was an occasional\nconcert: and besides all these distractions, there was a fraternity\ndance, the excitement of Prom, a trip to three cities with the Glee\nClub, and finally a week's vacation at home at Easter.\n\nWorst of all, none of his instructors was inspiring. He had been\nassigned to a new section in Latin, and in losing Alling he lost the one\nreally enjoyable teacher he had had. The others were conscientious,\nmore or less competent, but there was little enthusiasm in their\nteaching, nothing to make a freshman eager either to attend their\nclasses or to study the lessons they assigned. They did not make the\nacquiring of knowledge a thrilling experience; they made it a duty--and\nHugh found that duty exceedingly irksome.\n\nHe attended neither the fraternity dance nor the Prom. He had looked\nforward enthusiastically to the \"house dance,\" but after he had, along\nwith the other men in his delegation, cleaned the house from garret to\nbasement, he suddenly took to his bed with grippe. He groaned with\ndespair when Carl gave him glowing accounts of the dance and the\n\"janes.\" Carl for once, however, was circumspect; he did not tell Hugh\nall that happened. He would have been hard put to explain his own\nreticence, but although he thought \"the jane who got pie-eyed\" had been\nenormously funny, he decided not to tell Hugh about her or the pie-eyed\nbrothers.\n\nNo freshman was allowed to attend the Prom, but along with the other men\nwho weren't \"dragging women\" Hugh walked the streets and watched the\ngirls. There was a tea-dance at the fraternity house during Prom week.\nHugh said that he got a great kick out of it, but, as a matter of fact,\nhe remained only a short time; there was a hectic quality to both the\ngirls and the talk that confused him. For some reason he didn't like the\natmosphere; and he didn't know why. His excuse to the brothers and to\nhimself for leaving early was that he was in training and not supposed\nto dance.\n\nTrack above all things was absorbing his interest. He could hardly think\nof anything else. He lay awake nights dreaming of the race he would run\nagainst Raleigh. Sanford had three dual track meets a year, but the\nfirst two were with small colleges and considered of little importance.\nOnly a point winner in the Raleigh meet was granted his letter.\n\nHugh won the hundred in the sophomore-freshman meet and in a meet with\nthe Raleigh freshmen, so that he was given his class numerals. He did\nnothing, however, in the Raleigh meet; he was much too nervous to run\nwell, breaking three times at the mark. He was set back two yards and\nwas never able to regain them. For a time he was bitterly despondent,\nbut he soon cheered up when he thought of the three years ahead of him.\n\nSpring brought first rain and slush and then the \"sings.\" There was a\nfine stretch of lawn in the center of the campus, and on clear nights\nthe students gathered there for a sing, one class on each side of the\nlawn. First the seniors sang a college song, then the juniors, then the\nsophomores, and then the freshmen. After each song, the other classes\ncheered the singers, except when the sophomores and freshmen sang: they\nalways \"razzed\" each other. Hugh led the freshmen, and he never failed\nto get a thrill out of singing a clear note and hearing his classmates\ntake it up.\n\nAfter each class had sung three or four songs, the boys gathered in the\ncenter of the lawn, sang the college hymn, gave a cheer, and the sing\nwas over.\n\nOn such nights, however, the singing really continued for hours. The\nGlee Club often sang from the Union steps; groups of boys wandered arm\nin arm around the campus singing; on every fraternity steps there were\nyouths strumming banjos and others \"harmonizing\": here, there,\neverywhere young voices were lifted in song--not joyous nor jazzy but\nplaintive and sentimental. Adeline's sweetness was extolled by unsure\nbarytones and \"whisky\" tenors; and the charms of Rosie O'Grady were\nchanted in \"close harmony\" in every corner of the campus:\n\n\n                \"Sweet Rosie O'Grady,\n                 She's my pretty rose;\n                 She's my pretty lady,\n                 As every one knows.\n                 And when we are married,\n                 Oh, how happy we'll be,\n                 For I love sweet Rosie O'Grady\n                 And Rosie O'Grady loves me.\"\n\n\nHugh loved those nights: the shadows of the elms, the soft spring\nmoonlight, the twanging banjos, the happy singing. He would never, so\nlong as he lived, hear \"Rosie O'Grady\" without surrendering to a tender,\nsentimental mood; that song would always mean the campus and singing\nyouth.\n\nSuddenly examinations threw their baleful influence over the campus\nagain. Once more the excitement, but not so great this time, the\ncramming, the rumors of examinations \"getting out,\" the seminars, the\ntutoring sections, the nervousness, the fear.\n\nHugh, however, was surer of himself than he had been the first term, and\nalthough he had no reason to be proud of the grades he received, he was\nnot particularly ashamed of them.\n\nHe and Carl left the same day but by different trains. They had agreed\nto room together again in Surrey 19; so they didn't feel that the\nparting for the summer was very important.\n\n\"You'll write, won't you, old man?\"\n\n\"Sure, Hugh--surest thing you know. Say, it don't seem possible that our\nfreshman year's over already. Why, hell, Hugh, we're sophomores.\"\n\n\"So we are! What do you know about that?\" Hugh's eyes shone. \"Gosh!\"\n\nCarl looked at his watch. \"Hell, I've got to beat it.\" He picked up his\nsuit-case, dropped it, shook hands vigorously with Hugh, snatched up his\nsuit-case, and was off with a final, \"Good-by, Hugh, old boy,\" sounding\nbehind him.\n\nHugh settled back into a chair. He had half an hour to wait.\n\n\"A sophomore.... Gosh!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nHugh spent the summer at home, working on the farm, reading a little,\nand occasionally visiting a lake summer resort a few miles away. Helen\nhad left Merrytown to attend a secretarial school in a neighboring city,\nand Hugh was genuinely glad to find her gone when he returned from\ncollege. Helen was becoming not only a bore but a problem. Besides, he\nmet a girl at Corley Lake, the summer resort, whom he found much more\nfascinating. For a month or two he thought that he was in love with\nJanet Harton. Night after night he drove to Corley Lake in his father's\ncar, sometimes dancing with Janet in the pavilion, sometimes canoeing\nwith her on the lake, sometimes taking her for long rides in the car,\nbut often merely wandering through the pines with her or sitting on the\nshore of the lake and staring at the rippling water.\n\nJanet was small and delicate; she seemed almost fragile. She did\neverything daintily--like a little girl playing tea-party. Her hands and\nfeet were exquisitely small, her features childlike and indefinite,\nexcept her little coral mouth, which was as clearly outlined with color\nas a doll's and as mobile as a fluttering leaf. She had wide blue eyes\nand hair that was truly golden. Strangely, she had not bobbed it but\nwore it bound into a shining coil around her head.\n\nHugh wrote a poem to her. It began thus:\n\n\n                Maiden with the clear blue eyes,\n                Lady with the golden hair,\n                Exquisite child, serenely wise,\n                Sweetly tender, morning fair.\n\n\nHe wasn't sure that it was a very good poem; there was something\nreminiscent about the first line, and he was dubious about \"morning\nfair.\" He had, however, studied German for a year in high school, and he\nguessed that if _morgenschoen_ was all right in German it was all right\nin English, too.\n\nThey rarely talked. Hugh was content to sit for hours with the delicate\nchild nestling in his arm, her hand lying passive and cool in his. She\nmade him feel very strong and protective. Nights, he dreamed of doing\nbrave deeds for her, of saving her from terrible dangers. At first her\nvague, fleeting kisses thrilled him, but as the weeks went by and his\npassion grew, he found them strangely unsatisfying.\n\nWhen she cuddled her lovely head in the hollow of his shoulder, he\nwould lean forward and whisper: \"Kiss me, Janet. Kiss me.\" Obediently\nshe would turn her face upward, her little mouth pursed into a coral\nbud, but if he held her too tightly or prolonged the kiss, she pushed\nhim away or turned her face. Then he felt repelled, chilled. She kissed\nhim much as she kissed her mother every night, and he wanted--well he\ndidn't quite know what he did want except that he didn't want to be\nkissed _that_ way.\n\nFinally he protested. \"What's the matter, Janet?\" he asked gently.\n\"Don't you love me?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" she answered calmly in her small flute-like voice; \"of\ncourse I love you, but you are so rough. You mustn't kiss me hard like\nthat; it isn't nice.\"\n\nNice! Hugh felt as if she had slapped his face. Then he knew that she\ndidn't understand at all. He tried to excuse her by telling himself that\nshe was just a child--she was within a year of his own age--and that she\nwould love him the way he did her when she grew older; but down in his\nheart he sensed the fact that she wasn't capable of love, that she\nmerely wanted to be petted and caressed as a child did. The shadows and\nthe moonlight did not move her as they did him, and she thought that he\nwas silly when he said that he could hear a song in the night breeze.\nShe had said that his poem was very pretty. That was all. Well, maybe\nit wasn't a very good poem, but it had--well, it had--it had something\nin it that wasn't just pretty.\n\nHe began to visit the lake less often and to wish that September and the\nopening of college would arrive. When the day finally came to return, he\nwas almost as much excited as he had been the year before. Gosh! it\nwould be good to see Carl again. The bum had written only once. Yeah,\nand Pudge Jamieson, too, and Larry Stillwell, and Bill Freeman,\nand--yes, by golly! Merton Billings. He'd be glad to see old Fat\nBillings. He wondered if Merton was as fat as ever and as pure. And all\nthe brothers at the Nu Delta house. He'd been too busy to get really\nacquainted with them last year; but this year, by gosh, he'd get to know\nall of them. It certainly would be great to be back and be a sophomore\nand make the little frosh stand around.\n\nHe didn't carry his suit-case up the hill this time; he checked it and\nsent a freshman for it later. When he arrived at Surrey 19 Carl was\nalready there--and he was kneeling before a trunk when Hugh walked into\nthe room. Both of them instantly remembered the identical scene of the\nyear before.\n\nCarl jumped to his feet. \"Hullo--who are you?\" he demanded, his face\nbeaming.\n\nHugh pretended to be frightened and shy. \"I'm Hugh Carver. I--I guess\nI'm going to room with you.\"\n\n\"You sure are!\" yelled Carl, jumping over the trunk and landing on Hugh.\n\"God! I'm glad to see you. Put it there.\" They shook hands and stared at\neach other with shining eyes.\n\nThen they began to talk, interrupting each other, gesticulating,\noccasionally slapping each other violently on the back or knee, shouting\nwith laughter as one of them told of a summer experience that struck\nthem as funny. They were both so glad to get back to college, so glad to\nsee each other, that they were almost hysterical. And when they left\nSurrey 19 arm in arm on their way to the Nu Delta house \"to see the\nbrothers,\" their cup of bliss was full to the brim and running over.\n\n\"Criminy, the ol' campus sure does look good,\" said Hugh ecstatically.\n\"Watch the frosh work.\" He was suddenly reminded of something. \"Hey,\nfreshman!\" he yelled at a big, red-faced youngster who was to be\nfull-back on the football team a year hence.\n\nThe freshman came on a run. \"Yes--yes, sir?\"\n\n\"Here's a check. Take it down to the station and get my suit-case. Take\nit up to Surrey Nineteen and put it in the room. The door's open. Hurry\nup now; I'm going to want it pretty soon.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. I'll hurry.\" And the freshman was off running.\n\nHugh and Carl grinned at each other, linked arms again, and continued\ntheir way across the campus. When they entered the Nu Delta house a\nshout went up. \"Hi, Carl! Hi, Hugh! Glad to see you back. Didya have a\ngood summer? Put it there, ol' kid\"--and they shook hands, gripping each\nother's forearm at the same time.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHugh tried hard to become a typical sophomore and failed rather badly.\nHe retained much of the shyness and diffidence that gives the freshman\nhis charm, and he did not succeed very well in acquiring the swagger,\nthe cocky, patronizing manner, the raucous self-assurance that\ncharacterize the true sophomore.\n\nHe found, too, that he couldn't lord it over the freshmen very well, and\nat times he was nothing less than a renegade to his class. He was\nconstantly giving freshmen correct information about their problems, and\nduring the dormitory initiations he more than once publicly objected to\nsome \"stunt\" that seemed to him needlessly insulting to the initiates.\nBecause he was an athlete, his opinion was respected, and quite\nunintentionally he won several good friends among the freshmen. His\nobjections had all been spontaneous, and he was rather sorry about them\nafterward. He felt that he must be soft, that he ought to be able to\nstand anything that anybody else could. Further, he felt that there\nmust be something wrong with his sense of humor; things that struck lots\nof his classmates as funny seemed merely disgusting to him.\n\nHe wanted very much to tell Carl about Janet, but for several weeks the\nopportunity did not present itself. There was too much excitement about\nthe campus; the mood of the place was all wrong, and Hugh, although he\ndidn't know it, was very sensitive to moods and atmosphere.\n\nFinally one night in October he and Carl were seated in their big chairs\nbefore the fire. They had been walking that afternoon, and Hugh had been\nswept outside of himself by the brilliance of the autumn foliage. He was\nemotionally and physically tired, feeling that vague, melancholy\nhappiness that comes after an intense but pleasant experience. Carl\nleaned back to the center-table and switched off the study light.\n\n\"Pleasanter with just the firelight,\" he said quietly. He, too, had\nsomething that he wanted to tell, and the less light the better.\n\nHugh sighed and relaxed comfortably into his chair. The shadows were\nthick and mysterious behind them; the flames leaped merrily in the\nfireplace. Both boys sat silent, staring into the fire.\n\nFinally Hugh spoke.\n\n\"I met a girt this summer, Carl,\" he said softly.\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Little peach. Awf'lly pretty. Dainty, you know. Awf'lly\ndainty--like a little kid. You know.\"\n\nCarl had slumped down into his chair. He was smoking his pipe and\nstaring pensively at the flames. \"Un-huh. Go on.\"\n\n\"Well, I fell pretty hard. She was so--er, dainty. She always reminded\nme of a little girl playing lady. She had golden hair and blue eyes, the\nbluest eyes I've ever seen; oh, lots bluer than mine, lots bluer. And\nlittle bits of hands and feet.\"\n\nCarl continued to puff his pipe and stare at the fire. \"Pet?\" he asked\ndreamily.\n\n\"Uh-huh. Yeah, she petted--but she was kinda funny--cold, you know, and\nkinda scared. Gee, Carl, I was crazy about her. I--I even wrote her a\npoem. I guess it wasn't very good, but I don't think she knew what it\nwas about. I guess I'm off her now, though. She's too cold. I don't want\na girl to fall over me--my last girl did that--but, golly, Carl, Janet\ndidn't understand. I don't think she knows anything about love.\"\n\n\"Some of 'em don't,\" Carl remarked philosophically, slipping deeper into\nhis chair. \"They just pet.\"\n\n\"That's the way she was. She liked me to hold her and kiss her just as\nlong as I acted like a big brother, but, criminy, when I felt that soft\nlittle thing in my arms, I didn't feel like a big brother; I loved her\nlike hell.... She was awfully sweet,\" he added regretfully; \"I wish she\nwasn't so cold.\"\n\n\"Hard luck, old man,\" said Carl consolingly, \"hard luck. Guess you\npicked an iceberg.\"\n\nFor a few minutes the room was quiet except for the crackling of the\nfire, which was beginning to burn low. The shadows were creeping up on\nthe boys; the flames were less merry.\n\nCarl took his pipe out of his mouth and drawled softly, \"I had better\nluck.\"\n\nHugh pricked up his ears. \"You haven't really fallen in love, have you?\"\nhe demanded eagerly. Carl had often said that he would never fall in\nlove, that he was \"too wise\" to women.\n\n\"No, I didn't fall in love; nothing like that. I met a bunch of janes\ndown at Bar Harbor. Some of them I'd known before, but I met some new\nones, too. Had a damn good time. Some of those janes certainly could\nneck, and they were ready for it any time. Gee, if the old lady hadn't\nbeen there, I'd a been potted about half the time. As it was, I drank\nenough gin and Scotch to float a battle-ship. Well, the old lady had to\ngo to New York on account of some business; so I went down to Christmas\nCove to visit some people I know there. Christmas Cove's a nice place;\nnot so high-hat as Bar Harbor, but still it's a nice place.\"\n\nHugh felt that Carl was leaving the main track, and he hastened to\nshunt him back. \"Sure,\" he said in cheerful agreement; \"sure it is--but\nwhat happened?\"\n\n\"What happened? Oh--oh, yes!\" Carl brought himself back to the present\nwith an obvious effort. \"Sure, I'll tell you what happened. Well, there\nwas a girl there named Elaine Marston. She wasn't staying with the folks\nI was, but they knew her, so I saw a lot of her. See?\"\n\n\"Sure.\" Hugh wished he would hurry up. Carl didn't usually wander all\nover when telling a story. This must be something special.\n\n\"Well, I saw lots of her. Lots. Pretty girl, nice family and everything,\nbut she liked her booze and she liked to pet. Awful hot kid. Well, one\nnight we went to a dance, and between dances we had a lot of gin I had\nbrought with me. Good stuff, too. I bought it off a guy who brought it\ndown from Canada himself. Where was I? Oh, yes, at the dance. We both\ngot pie-eyed; I was all liquored up, and I guess she was, too. After the\ndance was over, I dared her to walk over to South Bristol--that's just\nacross the island, you know--and then walk back again. Well, we hadn't\ngone far when we decided to sit down. We were both kinda dizzy from the\ngin. You have to go through the woods, you know, and it's dark as hell\nin there at night.... We sat down among some ferns and I began to pet\nher. Don't know why--just did.... Oh, hell! what's the use of going\ninto details? You can guess what happened.\"\n\nHugh sat suddenly erect. \"You didn't--\"\n\nCarl stood up and stretched. \"Yeah,\" he yawned, \"I did it. Lots of times\nafterwards.\"\n\nHugh was dazed. He didn't know what to think. For an instant he was\nshocked, and then he was envious. \"Wonder if Janet would have gone the\nwhole way,\" flitted across his mind. He instantly dismissed the\nquestion; he felt that it wasn't fair to Janet. But Carl? Gosh!\n\nCarl yawned again. \"Great stuff,\" he said nonchalantly. \"Sleepy as hell.\nGuess I'll hit the hay.\" He eyed Hugh suspiciously. \"You aren't shocked,\nare you? You don't think I'm a moral leper or anything like that?\" He\nattempted to be light but wasn't altogether successful.\n\n\"Of course not.\" Hugh denied the suggestion vehemently, and yet down in\nhis heart he felt a keen disappointment. He hardly knew why he was\ndisappointed, but he was. \"Going to bed?\" he asked as casually as he\ncould.\n\n\"Yeah. Good night.\"\n\n\"Good night, old man.\"\n\nEach boy went to his own bedroom, Hugh to go to bed and think Carl's\nstory over. It thrilled him, and he envied Carl, and yet--and yet he\nwished Carl hadn't done it. It made him and Carl different--sorta not\nthe same; no that wasn't it. He didn't know just what the trouble was,\nbut there was a sharp sting of disillusionment that hurt. He would have\nbeen more confused had he known what was happening in Carl's room.\n\nCarl had walked into his own bedroom, lighted the light, and closed the\ndoor. Then he walked to the dresser and stared at himself in the mirror,\nstared a long time as if the face were somehow new to him.\n\nThere was a picture of the \"old lady\" on the dresser. It caught his eye,\nand he flinched. It seemed to look at him reproachfully. He thought of\nhis mother, and he thought of how he had bluffed Hugh. He had cried\nafter his first experience with the girl.\n\nHe looked again into the mirror. \"You goddamn hypocrite,\" he said\nsoftly; \"you goddamn hypocrite.\" His lip curled in contempt at his\nimage.\n\nHe began to undress rapidly. The eyes of the \"old lady\" in the picture\nseemed to follow him around the room. The thought of her haunted him.\nDesperately, he switched out the light.\n\nOnce in bed, he rolled over on his stomach and buried his face in the\npillow. \"God!\" he whispered. \"God!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nSanford defeated Raleigh this year in football, and for a time the\ncollege was wild with excitement and delight. Most of the free lumber in\nHaydensville was burned in a triumphant bonfire, and many of the\nundergraduates celebrated so joyously with their winnings that they\nlooked sadly bedraggled for several days afterward.\n\nThe victory was discussed until the boys were thoroughly sick of it, and\nthen they settled down to a normal life, studying; playing pool,\nbilliards, and cards; going to the movies, reading a little, and holding\nbull sessions.\n\nHugh attended many bull sessions. Some of them he found interesting, but\nmany of them were merely orgies of filthy talk, the participants vying\nwith one another in telling the dirtiest stories; and although Hugh was\nnot a prig, he was offended by a dirty story that was told merely for\nthe sake of its dirt. Pudge Jamieson's stories were smutty, but they\nwere funny, too, and he could send Hugh into paroxysms of laughter any\ntime that he chose.\n\nOne night in late November Hugh was in Gordon Ross's room in Surrey\nalong with four others. Ross was a senior, a quiet man with gray eyes,\nrather heavy features, and soft brown hair. He was considerably older\nthan the others, having worked for several years before he came to\ncollege. He listened to the stories that were being told, occasionally\nsmiled, but more often studied the group curiously.\n\nThe talk became exceedingly nasty, and Hugh was about to leave in\ndisgust when the discussion suddenly turned serious.\n\n\"Do you know,\" said George Winsor abruptly, \"I wonder why we hold these\nsmut sessions. I sit here and laugh like a fool and am ashamed of myself\nhalf the time. And this isn't the only smut session that's going on\nright now. I bet there's thirty at least going on around the campus. Why\nare we always getting into little groups and covering each other with\nfilth? College men are supposed to be gentlemen, and we talk like a lot\nof gutter-pups.\" Winsor was a sophomore, a fine student, and thoroughly\npopular. He looked like an unkempt Airedale. His clothes, even when new,\nnever looked neat, and his rusty hair refused to lie flat. He had an\neager, quick way about him, and his brown eyes were very bright and\nlively.\n\n\"Yes, that's what I want to know,\" Hugh chimed in, forgetting all about\nhis desire to leave. \"I'm always sitting in on bull sessions, but I\nthink they re rotten. About every so often I make up my mind that I\nwon't take part in another one, and before I know it somebody's telling\nme the latest and I'm listening for all I'm worth.\"\n\n\"That's easy,\"' Melville Burbank answered. He was a junior with a\nbrilliant record. \"You're merely sublimating your sex instincts, that's\nall. If you played around with cheap women more, you wouldn't be\nthinking about sex all the time and talking smut.\"\n\n\"You're crazy!\" It was Keith Nutter talking, a sophomore notorious for\nhis dissipations. \"Hell, I'm out with bags all the time, as you damn\nwell know. My sex instincts don't need sublimating, or whatever you call\nit, and I talk smut as much as anybody--more than some.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you're just naturally dirty,\" Burbank said, his voice edged\nwith sarcasm. He didn't like Nutter. The boy seemed gross to him.\n\n\"Go to hell! I'm no dirtier than anybody else.\" Nutter was not only\nangry but frankly hurt. \"The only difference between me and the rest of\nyou guys is that I admit that I chase around with rats, and the rest of\nyou do it on the sly. I'm no hypocrite.\"\n\n\"Oh, come off, Keith,\" Gordon Ross said quietly; \"you're not fair. I\nadmit that lots of the fellows are chasing around with rats on the sly,\nbut lots of them aren't, too. More fellows go straight around this\ncollege than you think. I know a number that have never touched a woman.\nThey just hate to admit they're pure, that's all; and you take their\nbluff for the real thing.\"\n\n\"You've got to show me.\" Nutter was almost sullen. \"I admit that I'm no\nangel, but I don't believe that I'm a damn bit worse than the average.\nBesides, what's wrong about it, anyhow? It's just as natural as eating,\nand I don't see where there is anything worse about it.\"\n\nGeorge Winsor stood up and leaned against the mantel. He ran his fingers\nthrough his hair until it stood grotesquely on end. \"Oh, that's the old\nargument. I've heard it debated in a hundred bull sessions. One fellow\nsays it's all wrong, and another fellow says it's all right, and you\nnever get anywhere. I want somebody to tell me what's wrong about it and\nwhat's right. God knows you don't find out in your classes. They have\nDoc Conners give those smut talks to us in our freshman year, and a\ndevil of a lot of good they do. A bunch of fellows faint and have to be\nlugged out, and the Doc gives you some sickening details about venereal\ndiseases, and that's as far as you get. Now, I'm all messed up about\nthis sex business, and I'll admit that I'm thinking about it all the\ntime, too. Some fellows say it's all right to have a woman, and some\nfellows say it's all wrong, but I notice none of them have any use for a\nwoman who isn't straight.\"\n\nAll of the boys were sitting in easy-chairs except Donald Ferguson, who\nwas lying on the couch and listening in silence. He was a handsome youth\nwith Scotch blue eyes and sandy hair. Women were instantly attracted by\nhis good looks, splendid physique, slow smile, and quiet drawl.\n\nHe spoke for the first time. \"The old single-standard fight,\" he said,\npropping his head on his hand. \"I don't see any sense in scrapping about\nthat any more. We've got a single standard now. The girls go just as\nfast as the fellows.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's not so,\" Hugh exclaimed. \"Girls don't go as far as fellows.\"\n\nFerguson smiled pleasantly at Hugh and drawled; \"Shut up, innocent; you\ndon't know anything about it. I tell you the old double standard has\ngone all to hell.\"\n\n\"You're exaggerating, Don, just to get Hugh excited,\" Ross said in his\nquiet way. \"There are plenty of decent girls. Just because a lot of them\npet on all occasions isn't any reason to say that they aren't straight.\nI'm older than you fellows, and I guess I've had a lot more experience\nthan most of you. I've had to make my own way since I was a kid, and\nI've bumped up against a lot of rough customers. I worked in a lumber\ncamp for a year, and after you've been with a gang like that for a\nwhile, you'll understand the difference between them and college\nfellows. Those boys are bad eggs. They just haven't any morals, that's\nall. They turn into beasts every pay night; and bad as some of our\ncollege parties are, they aren't a circumstance to a lumber town on pay\nnight.\"\n\n\"That's no argument,\" George Winsor said excitedly, taking his pipe out\nof his mouth and gesticulating with it. \"Just because a lumberjack is a\nbeast is no reason that a college man is all right because he's less of\na beast. I tell you I get sick of my own thoughts, and I get sick of the\ncollege when I hear about some things that are done. I keep straight,\nand I don't know why I do, I despise about half the fellows that chase\naround with rats, and sometimes I envy them like hell. Well, what's the\nsense in me keeping straight? What's the sense in anybody keeping\nstraight? Fellows that don't seem to get along just as well as those\nthat do. What do you think, Mel? You've been reading Havelock Ellis and\na lot of ducks like that.\"\n\nBurbank tossed a cigarette butt into the fire and gazed into the flames\nfor a minute before speaking, his homely face serious and troubled. \"I\ndon't know what to think,\" he replied slowly. \"Ellis tells about some\nthings that make you fairly sick. So does Forel. The human race can be\nawfully rotten. I've been thinking about it a lot, and I'm all mixed up.\nSometimes life just doesn't seem worth living to me, what with the filth\nand the slums and the greed and everything. I've been taking a course\nin sociology, and some of the things that Prof Davis has been telling us\nmake you wonder why the world goes on at all. Some poet has a line\nsomewhere about man's inhumanity to man, and I find myself thinking\nabout that all the time. The world's rotten as hell, and I don't see how\nanything can be done about it. I don't think sometimes that it's worth\nliving in. I can understand why people commit suicide.\" He spoke softly,\ngazing into the fire.\n\nHugh had given him rapt attention. Suddenly he spoke up, forgetting his\nresolve not to say anything more after Ferguson had called him\n\"innocent.\" \"I think you're wrong, Mel,\" he said positively. \"I was\nreading a book the other day called 'Lavengro.' It's all about Gipsies.\nWell, this fellow Lavengro was all busted up and depressed; he's just\nabout made up his mind to commit suicide when he meets a friend of his,\na Gipsy. He tells the Gipsy that he's going to bump himself off, that he\ndoesn't see anything in life to live for. Then the Gipsy answers him.\nGee, it hit me square in the eye, and I memorized it on the spot. I\nthink I can say it. He says: 'There's night and day, brother, both sweet\nthings; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's\nlikewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would\nwish to die?' I think that's beautiful,\" he added simply, \"and I think\nit's true, too.\"\n\n\"Good for you, Hugh,\" Ross said quietly.\n\nHugh blushed with pleasure, but he was taken back by Nutter's vigorous\nrejoinder. \"Bunk!\" he exclaimed. \"Hooey! The sun, moon, and stars, and\nall that stuff sounds pretty, but it isn't life. Life's earning a\nliving, and working like hell, and women, and pleasure. The 'Rubaiyat'\n's the only poem--if you're going to quote poetry. That's the only poem\nI ever saw that had any sense to it.\n\n\n          \"Come, Beloved, fill the Cup that clears\n           To-day of past Regrets and future Fears.\n           To-morrow? Why, To-morrow I may be\n           Myself with Yesterday's seven thousand Years.\n\n\nYou bet. You never can tell when you're going to be bumped off, and so\nyou might just as well have a good time while you can. You damn well\ndon't know what's coming after you kick the bucket.\"\n\n\"Good stuff, the 'Rubaiyat,'\" said Ferguson lazily. He was lying on his\nback staring at the ceiling. \"I bet I've read it a hundred times. When\nthey turn down an empty glass for me, it's going to be _empty_. I don't\nknow what I'm here for or where I'm going or why. 'Into this world and\nwhy not knowing,' and so on. My folks sent me to Sunday-school and\nbrought me up to be a good little boy. I believed just about everything\nthey told me until I came to college. Now I know they told me a lot of\ndamned lies. And I've talked with a lot of fellows who've had the same\nexperience.... Anybody got a butt?\"\n\nBurbank, who was nearest to him, passed him a package of cigarettes.\nFerguson extracted one, lighted it, blew smoke at the ceiling, and then\nquietly continued, drawling lazily: \"Most fellows don't tell their folks\nanything, and there's no reason why they should, either. Our folks lie\nto us from the time we are babies. They lie to us about birth and God\nand life. My folks never told me the truth about anything. When I came\nto college I wasn't very innocent about women, but I was about\neverything else. I believed that God made the world in six days the way\nthe Bible says, and that some day the world was coming to an end and\nthat we'd all be pulled up to heaven where Christ would give us the\nonce-over. Then he'd ship some of us to hell and give the good ones\nharps. Well, since I've found out that all that's hooey I don't believe\nin much of anything.\"\n\n\"I suppose you are talking about evolution,\" said Ross. \"Well, Prof\nHumbert says that evolutions hasn't anything to do with the Bible--He\nsays that science is science and that religion is religion and that the\ntwo don't mix. He says that he holds by evolution but that that doesn't\nmake Christ's philosophy bad.\"\n\n\"No,\" Burbank agreed, \"it doesn't make it bad; but that isn't the point.\nI've read the Bible, which I bet is more than the rest of you can say,\nand I've read the Sermon on the Mount a dozen times. It's darn good\nsense, but what good does it do? The world will never practice Christ's\nphilosophy. The Bible says, 'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly\nupward,' and, believe me, that's damn true. If people would be pure and\ngood, then Christ's philosophy would work, but they aren't pure and\ngood; they aren't made pure and good, they're made selfish, and bad:\nthey're made, mind you, made full of evil and lust. I tell you it's all\nwrong. I've been reading and reading, and the more I read the more I'm\nconvinced that we're all rotten--and that if there is a god he made us\nrotten.\"\n\n\"You're wrong!\" They all turned toward Winsor, who was still standing by\nthe fireplace; even Ferguson rolled over and looked at the excited boy.\n\"You're wrong,\" he repeated, \"all wrong. I admit all that's been said\nabout parents. They do cheat us just as Don said. I never tell my folks\nanything that really matters, and I don't know any other fellows that\ndo, either. I suppose there are some, but I don't know them. And I admit\nthat there is sin and vice, but I don't admit that Christ's philosophy\nis useless. I've read the Sermon on the Mount, too. That's about all of\nthe Bible that I have read, but I've read that; and I tell you you're\nall wrong. There is enough good in man to make that philosophy\npractical. Why, there is more kindness and goodness around than we know\nabout. We see the evil, and we know we have lusts and--and things, but\nwe do good, too. And Hugh was right when he talked a while ago about the\nbeauty in the world. There's lots of it, lots and lots of it. There's\nbeautiful poetry and beautiful music and beautiful scenery; and there\nare people who appreciate all of it. I tell you that in spite of\neverything life is worth living. And I believe in Christ's philosophy,\ntoo. I don't know whether He is the son of God or not--I think that He\nmust be--but that doesn't make any difference. Look at the wonderful\ninfluence He has had.\"\n\n\"Rot,\" said Burbank calmly, \"absolute rot. There has never been a good\ndeed done in His name; just the Inquisition and the what-do-you-call-'ems\nin Russia. Oh, yes, pogroms--and wars and robbing people. Christianity\nis just a name; there isn't any such thing. And most of the professional\nChristians that I've seen are damn fools. I tell you, George, it's all\nwrong. We're all in the dark, and I don't believe the profs know any more\nabout it than we do.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, they do,\" Hugh exclaimed; \"they must. Think of all the\nstudying they've done.\"\n\n\"Bah.\" Burbank was contemptuous. \"They've read a lot of books, that's\nall. Most of them never had an idea in their lives. Oh, I know that\nsome of them think; if they didn't, I'd leave college to-morrow. It's\nmen like Davis and Maxwell and Henley and Jimpson who keep me here. But\nmost of the profs can't do anything more than spout a few facts that\nthey've got out of books. No, they don't know any more about it than we\ndo. We don't know why we're here or where we're going or what we ought\nto do while we are here. And we get into groups and tell smutty stories\nand talk about women and religion, and we don't know any more than when\nwe started. Think of all the talk that goes on around this college about\nsex. There's no end to it. Some of the fellows say positively there's no\nsense in staying straight; and a few, damn few, admit that they think a\nfellow ought to leave women alone, but most of them are in a muddle.\"\n\nHe rose and stretched. \"I've got to be going--philosophy quiz\nto-morrow.\" He smiled. \"I don't agree with Nutter, and I don't agree\nwith George, and I don't agree with you, Don; and the worst of it is\nthat I don't agree with myself. You fellows can bull about this some\nmore if you want to; I've got to study.\"\n\n\"No, they can't,\" said Ross. \"Not here, anyway. I've got to study, too.\nThe whole of you'll have to get out.\"\n\nThe boys rose and stretched. Ferguson rolled lazily off the couch.\n\"Well,\" he said with a yawn, \"this has been very edifying. I've heard\nit all before in a hundred bull sessions, and I suppose I'll hear it all\nagain. I don't know why I've hung around. There's a little dame that\nI've got to write a letter to, and, believe me, she's a damn sight more\ninteresting than all your bull.\" He strolled out of the door, drawling a\nslow \"good night\" over his shoulder.\n\nHugh went to his room and thought over the talk. He was miserably\nconfused. Like Ferguson he had believed everything that his father and\nmother--and the minister--had told him, and he found himself beginning\nto discard their ideas. There didn't seem to be any ideas to put in the\nplace of those he discarded. Until Carl's recent confidence he had\nbelieved firmly in chastity, but he discovered, once the first shock had\nworn off, that he liked Carl the unchaste just as much as he had Carl\nthe chaste. Carl seemed neither better nor worse for his experience.\n\nHe was lashed by desire; he was burning with curiosity--and yet, and yet\nsomething held him back. Something--he hardly knew what it was--made him\navoid any woman who had a reputation for moral laxity. He shrank from\nsuch a woman--and desired her so intensely that he was ashamed.\n\nLife was suddenly becoming very complicated, more complicated, it\nseemed, every day. With other undergraduates he discussed women and\nreligion endlessly, but he never reached any satisfactory conclusions.\nHe wished that he knew some professor that he could talk to. Surely some\nof them must know the answers to his riddles....\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nHugh wasn't troubled only by religion and sex; the whole college was\ndisturbing his peace of mind: all of his illusions were being ruthlessly\nshattered. He had supposed that all professors were wise men, that their\nknowledge was almost limitless, and he was finding that many of the\nundergraduates were frankly contemptuous of the majority of their\nteachers and that he himself was finding inspiration from only a few of\nthem. He went to his classes because he felt that he had to, but in most\nof them he was confused or bored. He learned more in the bull sessions\nthan he did in the class-room, and men like Ross and Burbank were\nteaching him more than his instructors.\n\nFurther, Nu Delta was proving a keen disappointment. More and more he\nfound himself thinking of Malcolm Graham's talk to him during the\nrushing season of his freshman year. He often wished that Graham were\nstill in college so that he could go to him for advice. The fraternity\nwas not the brotherhood that he had dreamed about; it was composed of\nseveral cliques warring with each other, never coalescing into a single\ngroup except to contest the control of a student activity with some\nother fraternity. There were a few \"brothers\" that Hugh liked, but most\nof them were not his kind at all. Many of them were athletes taken into\nthe fraternity because they were athletes and for no other reason, and\nalthough Hugh liked two of the athletes--they were really splendid\nfellows--he was forced to admit that three of them were hardly better\nthan thugs, cheap muckers with fine bodies. Then there were the snobs,\nusually prep school men with more money than they could handle wisely,\nutterly contemptuous of any man not belonging to a fraternity or of one\nbelonging to any of the lesser fraternities. These were the \"smooth\nboys,\" interested primarily in clothes and \"parties,\" passing their\ncourses by the aid of tutors or fraternity brothers who happened to\nstudy.\n\nHugh felt that he ought to like all of his fraternity brothers, but, try\nas he would, he disliked the majority of them. Early in his sophomore\nyear he knew that he ought to have \"gone\" Delta Sigma Delta, that that\nfraternity contained a group of men whom he liked and respected, most of\nthem, at least. They weren't prominent in student activities, but they\nwere earnest lads as a whole, trying hard to get something out of\ncollege.\n\nThe Nu Delta meetings every Monday night were a revelation to him. The\nbrothers were openly bored; they paid little or no attention to the\nbusiness before them. The president was constantly calling for order\nand not getting it. During the rushing season in the second term,\ninterest picked up. Freshmen were being discussed. Four questions were\ninevitably asked. Did the freshman have money? Was he an athlete? Had he\ngone to a prep school? What was his family like?\n\nHugh had been very much attracted by a lad named Parker. He was a\ncharming youngster with a good mind and beautiful manners. In general,\nonly bad manners were _au fait_ at Sanford; so Parker was naturally\nconspicuous. Hugh proposed his name for membership to Nu Delta.\n\n\"He's a harp,\" said a brother scornfully. \"At any rate, he's a\nCatholic.\"\n\nThat settled that. Only Protestants were eligible to Nu Delta at\nSanford, although the fraternity had no national rule prohibiting\nmembers of other religions.\n\nThe snobbery of the fraternity cut Hugh deeply. He was a friendly lad\nwho had never been taught prejudice. He even made friends with a Jewish\nyouth and was severely censured by three fraternity brothers for that\nfriendship. He was especially taken to task by Bob Tucker, the\npresident.\n\n\"Look here, Hugh,\" Tucker said sternly, \"you've got to draw the line\nsomewhere. I suppose Einstein is a good fellow and all that, but you've\nbeen running around with him a lot. You've even brought him here\nseveral times. Of course, you can have anybody in your room you want,\nbut we don't want any Jews around the house. I don't see why you had to\npick him up, anyway. There's plenty of Christians in college.\"\n\n\"He's a first-class fellow,\" Hugh replied stubbornly, \"and I like him. I\ndon't see why we have to be so high-hat about Jews and Catholics. Most\nof the fraternities take in Catholics, and the Phi Thetas take in Jews;\nat least, they've got two. They bid Einstein, but he turned them down;\nhis folks don't want him to join a fraternity. And Chubby Elson told me\nthat the Theta Kappas wanted him awfully, but they have a local rule\nagainst Jews.\"\n\n\"That doesn't make any difference,\" Tucker said sharply. \"We don't want\nhim around here. Because some of the fraternities are so damn\nbroad-minded isn't any reason that we ought to be. I don't see that\ntheir broad-mindedness is getting them anything. We rate about ten times\nas much as the Phi Thetas or the Theta Kappas, and the reason we do is\nthat we are so much more exclusive.\"\n\nHugh wanted to mention the three Nu Delta thugs, but he wisely\nrestrained himself. \"All right,\" he said stubbornly, \"I won't bring\nEinstein around here again, and I won't bring Parker either. But I'll\nsee just as much of them as I want to. My friends are my friends, and\nif the fraternity doesn't like them, it can leave them alone. I pledged\nloyalty to the fraternity, but I'll be damned if I pledged my life to\nit.\" He got up and started for the door, his blue eyes dark with anger.\n\"I hate snobs,\" he said viciously, and departed.\n\nAfter rushing season was over, he rarely entered that fraternity house,\nchumming mostly with Carl, but finding friends in other fraternities or\namong non-fraternity men. He was depressed and gloomy, although his\ngrades for the first term had been respectable. Nothing seemed very much\nworth while, not even making his letter on the track. He was gradually\ntaking to cigarettes, and he had even had a nip or two out of a flask\nthat Carl had brought to the room. He had read the \"Rubaiyat,\" and it\nmade a great impression on him. He and Carl often discussed the poem,\nand more and more Hugh was beginning to believe in Omar's philosophy. At\nleast, he couldn't answer the arguments presented in Fitzgerald's\nbeautiful quatrains. The poem both depressed and thrilled him. After\nreading it, he felt desperate--and ready for anything, convinced that\nthe only wise course was to take the cash and let the credit go. He was\nmuch too young to hear the rumble of the distant drum. Sometimes he was\nsure that there wasn't a drum, anyway.\n\nHe was particularly blue one afternoon when Carl rushed into the room\nand urged him to go to Hastings, a town five miles from Haydensville.\n\n\"Jim Pearson's outside with his car,\" Carl said excitedly, \"and he'll\ntake us down. He's got to come right back--he's only going for some\nbooze--but we needn't come back if we don't want to. We'll have a drink\nand give Hastings the once-over. How's to come along?\"\n\n\"All right,\" Hugh agreed indifferently and began to pull on his baa-baa\ncoat. \"I'm with you. A shot of gin might jazz me up a little.\"\n\nOnce in Hastings, Pearson drove to a private residence at the edge of\nthe town. The boys got out of the car and filed around to the back door,\nwhich was opened to their knock by a young man with a hatchet face and\nhard blue eyes.\n\n\"Hello, Mr. Pearson,\" he said with an effort to be pleasant. \"Want some\ngin?\"\n\n\"Yes, and some Scotch, too, Pete--if you have it. I'll take two quarts\nof Scotch and one of gin.\"\n\n\"All right.\" Pete led the way down into the cellar, switching on an\nelectric light when he reached the foot of the stairs. There was a small\nbar in the rear of the dingy, underground room, a table or two, and\ndozens of small boxes stacked against the wall.\n\nIt was Hugh's first visit to a bootlegger's den, and he was keenly\ninterested. He had a high-ball along with Carl and Pearson; then took\nanother when Carl offered to stand treat. Pearson bought his three\nquarts of liquor, paid Pete, and departed alone, Carl and Hugh having\ndecided to have another drink or two before they returned to\nHaydensville. After a second high-ball Hugh did not care how many he\ndrank and was rather peevish when Carl insisted that he stop with a\nthird. Pete charged them eight dollars for their drinks, which they\ncheerfully paid, and then warily climbed the stairs and stumbled out\ninto the cold winter air.\n\n\"Brr,\" said Carl, buttoning his coat up to his chin; \"it's cold as\nhell.\"\n\n\"So 'tis,\" Hugh agreed; \"so 'tis. So 'tis. That's pretty. So 'tis, so\n'tis, so 'tis. Isn't that pretty, Carl?\"\n\n\"Awful pretty. Say it again.\"\n\n\"So 'tis. So 'tish. So--so--so. What wush it, Carl?\"\n\n\"So 'tis.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. So 'tish.\"\n\nThey walked slowly, arm in arm, toward the business section of Hastings,\npausing now and then to laugh joyously over something that appealed to\nthem as inordinately funny. Once it was a tree, another time a farmer in\na sleigh, and a third time a Ford. Hugh insisted, after laughing until\nhe wept, that the Ford was the \"funniest goddamned thing\" he'd ever\nseen. Carl agreed with him.\n\nThey were both pretty thoroughly drunk by the time they reached the\ncenter of the town, where they intended getting the bus back to\nHaydensville. Two girls passed them and smiled invitingly.\n\n\"Oh, what peaches,\" Carl exclaimed.\n\n\"Jush--jush--Jush swell,\" Hugh said with great positiveness, hanging on\nto Carl's arm. \"They're the shwellest Janes I've ever sheen.\"\n\nThe girls, who were a few feet ahead, turned and smiled again.\n\n\"Let's pick them up,\" Carl whispered loudly.\n\n\"Shure,\" and Hugh started unsteadily to increase his pace.\n\nThe girls were professional prostitutes who visited Hastings twice a\nyear \"to get the Sanford trade.\" They were crude specimens, revealing\ntheir profession to the most casual observer. If Hugh had been sober\nthey would have sickened him, but he wasn't sober; he was joyously drunk\nand the girls looked very desirable.\n\n\"Hello, girls,\" Carl said expansively, taking hold of one girl's arm.\n\"Busy?\"\n\n\"Bish-bishy?\" Hugh repeated valiantly.\n\nThe older \"girl\" smiled, revealing five gold teeth.\n\n\"Of course not,\" she replied in a hard, flat voice. \"Not too busy for\nyou boys, anyway. Come along with us and we'll make this a big\nafternoon.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Carl agreed.\n\n\"Sh-shure,\" Hugh stuttered. He reached forward to take the arm of the\ngirl who had spoken, but at the same instant some one caught him by the\nwrist and held him still.\n\nHarry Slade, the star football player and this year's captain, happened\nto be in Hastings; he was, in fact, seeking these very girls. He had\nintended to pass on when he saw two men with them, but as soon as he\nrecognized Hugh he paused and then impulsively strode forward.\n\n\"Here, Carver,\" he said sharply. \"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"None--none of you da-damn business,\" Hugh replied angrily, trying to\nshake his wrist free. \"Leggo of me or--or I'll--I'll--\"\n\n\"You won't do anything,\" 'Slade interrupted. \"You're going home with\nme.\"\n\n\"Who in hell are you?\" one of the girls asked viciously. \"Mind your own\ndamn business.\"\n\n\"You mind yours, sister, or you'll get into a peck of trouble. This\nkid's going with me--and don't forget that. Come on, Carver.\"\n\nHugh was still vainly trying to twist his wrist free and was muttering,\n\"Leggo, leggo o' me.\"\n\nSlade jerked him across the sidewalk. Carl followed expostulating. \"Get\nthe hell out of here, Peters,\" Slade said angrily, \"or I'll knock your\nfool block off. You chase off with those rats if you want to, but you\nleave Carver with me if you know what's good for you.\" He shoved Carl\naway, and Carl was sober enough to know that Slade meant what he said.\nEach girl took him by an arm, and he walked off down the street between\nthem, almost instantly forgetting Hugh.\n\nFortunately the street was nearly deserted, and no one had witnessed the\nlittle drama. Hugh began to sob drunkenly. Slade grasped his shoulders\nand shook him until his head waggled. \"Now, shut up!\" Slade commanded\nsharply. He took Hugh by the arm and started down the street with him,\nHugh still muttering, \"Leggo, leggo o' me.\"\n\nSlade walked him the whole five miles back to Haydensville, and before\nthey were half way home Hugh's head began to clear. For a time he felt a\nlittle sick, but the nausea passed, and when they reached the campus he\nwas quite sober. Not a word was spoken until Hugh unlocked the door of\nSurrey 19. Then Slade said: \"Go wash your face and head in cold water.\nSouse yourself good and then come back; I want to have a talk with you.\"\n\nHugh obeyed orders, but with poor grace. He was angry and confused,\nangry because his liberty had been interfered with, and confused because\nSlade had never paid more than passing attention to him--and for a year\nand a half Slade had been his god.\n\nSlade was one of those superb natural athletes who make history for many\ncolleges. He was big, powerfully built, and moved as easily as a\ndancer. His features were good enough, but his brown eyes were dull and\nhis jaw heavy rather than strong. Hugh had often heard that Slade\ndissipated violently, but he did not believe the rumors; he was positive\nthat Slade could not be the athlete he was if he dissipated. He had been\nthrilled every time Slade had spoken to him--the big man of the college,\nthe one Sanford man who had ever made All American, as Slade had this\nyear.\n\nWhen he returned to his room from the bath-room, Slade was sitting in a\nbig chair smoking a cigarette. Hugh walked into his bedroom, combed his\ndripping hair, and then came into the study, still angry but feeling a\nlittle sheepish and very curious.\n\n\"Well, what is it?\" he demanded, sitting down.\n\n\"Do you know who those women were?\"\n\n\"No. Who are they?\"\n\n\"They're Bessie Haines and Emma Gleeson; at least, that's what they call\nthemselves, and they're rotten bags.\"\n\nHugh had a little quiver of fright, but he felt that he ought to defend\nhimself.\n\n\"Well, what of it?\" he asked sullenly. \"I don't see as you had any right\nto pull me away. You never paid any attention before to me. Why this\nsudden interest? How come you're so anxious to guard my purity?\"\n\nSlade was embarrassed. He threw his cigarette into the fireplace and\nimmediately lighted another one. Then he looked at his shoes and\nmuttered, \"I'm a pretty bad egg myself.\"\n\n\"So I've heard.\" Hugh was frankly sarcastic.\n\n\"Well, I am.\" Slade looked up defiantly. \"I guess it's up to me to\nexplain--and I don't know how to do it. I'm a dumbbell. I can't talk\ndecently. I flunked English One three times, you know.\" He hesitated a\nmoment and then blurted out, \"I was looking for those bags myself.\"\n\n\"What?\" Hugh leaned forward and stared at him, bewildered and\ndumfounded. \"_You_ were looking for them?\"\n\n\"Yeah... You see, I'm a bad egg--always been a bad one with women, ever\nsince I was a kid. Gotta have one about every so often.... I--I'm not\nmuch.\"\n\n\"But what made you stop me?\" Hugh pressed his hand to his temple. His\nhead was aching, and he could make nothing out of Slade's talk.\n\n\"Because--because.... Oh, hell, Carver, I don't know how to explain it.\nI'm twenty-four and you're about nineteen and I know a lot that you\ndon't. I was brought up in South Boston and I ran with a gang. There\nwasn't anything rotten that we didn't do.... I've been watching you.\nYou're different.\"\n\n\"How different?\" Hugh demanded. \"I want women just as much as you do.\"\n\n\"That isn't it.\" Slade ran his fingers through his thick black hair and\nscowled fiercely at the fireplace. \"That isn't it at all. You're--you're\nawfully clean and decent. I've been watching you lots--oh, for a year.\nYou're--you're different,\" he finished lamely.\n\nHugh was beginning to understand. \"Do you mean,\" he asked slowly, \"that\nyou want me to keep straight--that--that, well--that you like me that\nway better?\" He was really asking Slade if he admired him, and Slade got\nhis meaning perfectly. To Hugh the idea was preposterous. Why, Slade had\nmade every society on the campus; he had been given every honor that the\nstudents could heap on him--and he envied Hugh, an almost unknown\nsophomore. Why, it was ridiculous.\n\n\"Yes, that's what I mean; that's what I was trying to get at.\" For a\nminute Slade hesitated; he wasn't used to giving expression to his\nconfused emotions, and he didn't know how to go about it. \"I'd--I'd like\nto be like you; that's it. I--I didn't want you to be like me.... Those\nwomen are awful bags. Anything might happen.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you stop Carl Peters, too, then?\"\n\n\"Peters knows his way about. He can take care of himself. You're\ndifferent, though.... You've never been drunk before, have you?\"\n\n\"No. No, I never have.\" Hugh's irritation was all gone. He was touched,\ndeeply touched, by Slade's clumsy admiration, and he felt weak,\nemotionally exhausted after his little spree. \"It's awfully good of you\nto--to think of me that way. I'm--I'm glad you stopped me.\"\n\nSlade stood up. He felt that he had better be going. He couldn't tell\nHugh how much he liked and admired him, how much he envied him. He was\naltogether sentimental about the boy, entirely devoted to him. He had\nwanted to talk to Hugh more than Hugh had wanted to talk to him, but he\nhad never felt that he had anything to offer that could possibly\ninterest Hugh. It was a strange situation; the hero had put the hero\nworshiper on a high, white marble pedestal.\n\nHe moved toward the door. \"So long,\" he said as casually as he could.\n\nHugh jumped up and rushed to him. \"I'm awfully grateful to you, Harry,\"\nhe said impulsively. \"It was damn white of you. I--I don't know how to\nthank you.\" He held out his hand.\n\nSlade gripped it for a moment, and then, muttering another \"So long,\"\npassed out of the door.\n\nHugh was more confused than ever and grew steadily more confused as the\ndays passed. He couldn't understand why Slade, frankly unchaste himself,\nshould consider his chastity so important. He was genuinely glad that\nSlade had rescued him, genuinely grateful, but his confusion about all\nthings sexual was more confounded. The strangest thing was that when he\ntold Carl about Slade's talk, Carl seemed to understand perfectly,\nthough he never offered a satisfactory explanation.\n\n\"I know how he feels,\" Carl said, \"and I'm awfully glad he butted in and\npulled you away. I'd hate to see you messing around with bags like that\nmyself, and if I hadn't been drunk I wouldn't have let you. I'm more\ngrateful to him than you are. Gee! I'd never have forgiven myself,\" he\nconcluded fervently.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJust when the Incident was beginning to occupy less of Hugh's thoughts,\nit was suddenly brought back with a crash. He came home from the\ngymnasium one afternoon to find Carl seated at his desk writing. He\nlooked up when Hugh came in, tore the paper into fragments, and tossed\nthem info the waste-basket.\n\n\"Guess I'd better tell you,\" he said briefly. \"I was just writing a note\nto you.\"\n\n\"To me? Why?\"\n\nCarl pointed to his suit-case standing by the center-table.\n\n\"That's why.\"\n\n\"Going away on a party?\"\n\n\"My trunk left an hour ago. I'm going away for good.\" Carl's voice was\nhusky, and he spoke with an obvious effort.\n\nHugh walked quickly to the desk. \"Why, old man, what's the matter?\nAnything wrong with your mother? You're not sick, are you?\"\n\nCarl laughed, briefly, bitterly. \"Yes, I'm sick all right. I'm sick.\"\n\nHugh, worried, looked at him seriously. \"Why, what's the matter? I\ndidn't know that you weren't feeling well.\"\n\nCarl looked at the rug and muttered, \"You remember those rats we picked\nup in Hastings?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Well, I know of seven fellows they've sent home.\"\n\n\"What!\" Hugh cried, his eyes wide with horror. \"You don't mean that\nyou--that you--\"\n\n\"I mean exactly that,\" Carl replied in a low, flat voice. He rose and\nmoved to the other side of the room. \"I mean exactly that; and Doc\nConners agrees with me,\" he added sarcastically. Then more softly, \"He's\ngot to tell the dean. That's why I'm going home.\"\n\nHugh was swept simultaneously by revulsion and sympathy. \"God, I'm\nsorry,\" he exclaimed. \"Oh, Carl, I'm so damn sorry.\"\n\nCarl was standing by Hugh's desk, his hands clenched, his lips\ncompressed. \"Keep my junk,\" he said unevenly, \"and sell anything you\nwant to if you live in the house next year.\"\n\n\"But you'll be back?\"\n\n\"No, I won't come back--I won't come back.\" He was having a hard time\nto keep back the tears and bit his trembling lip mercilessly. \"Oh,\nHugh,\" he suddenly cried, \"what will my mother say?\"\n\nHugh was deeply distressed, but he was startled by that \"my mother.\" It\nwas the first time he had ever heard Carl speak of his mother except as\nthe \"old lady.\"\n\n\"She will understand,\" he said soothingly.\n\n\"How can she? How can she? God, Hugh, God!\" He buried his face in his\nhands and wept bitterly. Hugh put his arm around his shoulder and tried\nto comfort him, and in a few minutes Carl was in control of himself\nagain. He dried his eyes with his handkerchief.\n\n\"What a fish I am!\" he said, trying to grin. \"A goddamn fish.\" He looked\nat his watch. \"Hell, I've got to be going if I'm going to make the five\nfifteen,\" He picked up his suit-case and held out his free hand.\n\"There's something I want to say to you, Hugh, but I guess I'll write\nit. Please don't come to the train with me.\" He gripped Hugh's hand hard\nfor an instant and then was out of the door and down the hall before\nHugh had time to say anything.\n\nTwo days afterward the letter came. The customary \"Dear brother\" and\n\"Fraternally yours\" were omitted.\n\n\n       Dear Hugh:\n\n       I've thought of letters yards long but I'm not going to\n       write them. I just want to say that you are the finest\n       thing that ever happened to me outside of my mother, and\n       I respect you more than any fellow I've ever known. I'm\n       ashamed because I started you drinking and I hope you'll\n       stop it. I feel toward you the way Harry Slade does,\n       only more I guess. You've done an awful lot for me.\n\n       I want to ask a favor of you. Please leave women alone.\n       Keep straight, please. You don't know how much I want\n       you to do that.\n\n       Thanks for all you've done for me.\n\n                                                CARL.\n\n\nHugh's eyes filled with tears when he read that letter. Carl seemed a\ntragic figure to him, and he missed him dreadfully. Poor old Carl! What\nhell it must have been to tell his mother! \"And he wants me to keep\nstraight. By God, I will.... I'll try to, anyhow.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nHugh's depression was not continuous by any means. He was much too young\nand too healthy not to find life an enjoyable experience most of the\ntime. Disillusionment followed disillusionment, each one painful and\ndispiriting in itself, but they came at long enough intervals for him to\nfind a great deal of pleasure in between.\n\nAlso, for the first time since he had been transferred from Alling's\nsection in Latin, he was taking genuine interest in a course. Having\ndecided to major in English, he found that he was required to take a\ncomposition course the second half of his sophomore year. His instructor\nwas Professor Henley, known as Jimmie Henley among the students, a man\nin his middle thirties, spare, neat in his dress, sharp with his tongue,\napt to say what he thought in terms so plain that not even the stupidest\nundergraduate could fail to understand him. His hazel-brown eyes were\ncapable of a friendly twinkle, but they had a way of darkening suddenly\nand snapping that kept his students constantly on the alert. There was\nlittle of the professor about him but a great deal of the teacher.\n\nHugh went to his first conference with him not entirely easy in his\nmind. Henley had a reputation for \"tearing themes to pieces and making a\nfellow feel like a poor fish.\" Hugh had written his themes hastily, as\nhe had during his freshman year, and he was afraid that Henley might\ndiscover evidences of that haste.\n\nHenley was leaning back in his swivel chair, his feet on the desk, a\nbrier pipe in his mouth, as Hugh entered the cubbyhole of an office.\nDown came the feet with a bang.\n\n\"Hello, Carver,\" Henley said cheerfully. \"Come in and sit down while I\ngo through your themes.\" He motioned to a chair by the desk. Hugh\nmuttered a shy \"hello\" and sat down, watching Henley expectantly and\nrather uncomfortably.\n\nHenley picked up three themes. Then he turned his keen eyes on Hugh.\n\"I've already read these. Lazy cuss, aren't you?\" he asked amiably.\n\nHugh flushed. \"I--I suppose so.\"\n\n\"You know that you are; no supposing to it.\" He slapped the desk lightly\nwith the themes. \"First drafts, aren't they?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" Hugh felt his cheeks getting warmer.\n\nHenley smiled. \"Thanks for not lying. If you had lied, this conference\nwould have ended right now. Oh, I wouldn't have told you that I thought\nyou were lying; I would simply have made a few polite but entirely\ninsincere comments about your work and let you go. Now I am going to\ntalk to you frankly and honestly.\"\n\n\"I wish you would,\" Hugh murmured, but he wasn't at all sure that he\nwished anything of the sort.\n\nHenley knocked the ashes out of his pipe into a metal tray, refilled it,\nlighted it, and then puffed meditatively, gazing at Hugh with kind but\nspeculative eyes.\n\n\"I think you have ability,\" he began slowly. \"You evidently write with\ngreat fluency and considerable accuracy, and I can find poetic touches\nhere and there that please me. But you are careless, abominably\ncareless, lazy. Whatever virtues there are in your themes come from a\nnatural gift, not from any effort you made to say the thing in the best\nway. Now, I'm not going to spend anytime discussing these themes in\ndetail; they aren't worth it.\"\n\nHe pointed his pipe at Hugh. \"The point is exactly this,\" he said\nsternly. \"I'll never spend any time discussing your themes so long as\nyou turn in hasty, shoddy work. I can see right now that you can get a C\nin this course without trying. If that's all you want, all right, I'll\ngive it to you--and let it go at that. The Lord knows that I have enough\nto do without wasting time on lazy youngsters who haven't sense enough\nto develop their gifts. If you continue to turn in themes like these,\nI'll give you C's or D's on them and let you dig your own shallow grave\nby yourself. But If you want to try to write as well as you can, I'll\ngive you all the help in my power. Not one minute can you have so long\nas you don't try, but you can have hours if you do try. Furthermore, you\nwill find writing a pleasure if you write as well as you can, but you\nwon't get any sport just scribbling off themes because you have to.\"\n\nHe paused to toss the three themes across the desk to Hugh, who was\nwatching him with astonishment. No instructor had ever talked to him\nthat way before.\n\n\"You can rewrite these themes if you want to,\" Henley went on. \"I\nhaven't graded them, and I'll reserve the grades for the rewritten\nthemes; and if I find that you have made a real effort, I'll discuss\nthem in detail with you. What do you say?\"\n\n\"I'd like to rewrite them,\" Hugh said softly. \"I know they are rotten.\"\n\n\"No, they aren't rotten. I've got dozens that are worse. That isn't the\npoint. They aren't nearly so good as you can make them, and only your\nbest work is acceptable to me. Now show me what you can do with them,\nand then we'll tear them to shreds in regular fashion.\" He turned to his\ndesk and smiled at Hugh, who, understanding that the conference was\nover, stood up and reached for the themes. \"I'll be interested in\nseeing what you can do with those,\" Henley concluded. \"Every one of them\nhas a good idea. Go to it--and get them back in a week.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Thanks very much.\"\n\n\"Right-o. Good-by.\"\n\n\"Good-by, sir,\" and Hugh left the office determined to rewrite those\nthemes so that \"they'd knock Jimmie Henley's eye out.\" They didn't do\nexactly that, but they did interest him, and he spent an hour and a half\ndiscussing them with Hugh.\n\nThat was merely the first of a series of long conferences. Sometimes\nHenley and Hugh discussed writing, but often they talked about other\nsubjects, not as instructor and student but as two men who respected\neach other's mind. Before the term was out Henley had invited Hugh to\nhis home for dinner and to meet Mrs. Henley. Hugh was enormously\nflattered and, for some reason, stimulated to do better work. He found\nhis talks with Henley really exciting, and he expressed his opinions to\nhim as freely and almost as positively as he did to his classmates. He\ntold his friends that Jimmie Henley was human, not like most profs. And\nhe worked at his writing as he had never worked at anything, running\nexcepted, since he had been in college.\n\nThe students never knew what to expect from Henley in the class-room.\nSometimes he read themes and criticized them; sometimes he discussed\nbooks that he had been reading; sometimes he read poetry, not because\ncontemporary poetry was part of the course but because he happened to\nfeel like reading it that morning; sometimes he discoursed on the art of\nwriting; and sometimes he talked about anything that happened to be\noccupying his mind. He made his class-room an open forum, and the\nstudents felt free to interrupt him at any time and to disagree with\nhim. Usually they did disagree with him and afterward wrote violent\nthemes to prove that he was wrong. That was exactly what Henley wanted\nthem to do, and the more he could stir them up the better satisfied he\nwas.\n\nOne morning, however, he talked without interruption. He didn't want to\nbe interrupted, and the boys were so taken back by his statements that\nthey could find no words to say anything.\n\nThe bell rang. Henley called the roll, stuck his class-book into his\ncoat pocket, placed his watch on the desk; then leaned back and looked\nthe class over.\n\n\"Your themes are making me sick,\" he began, \"nauseated. I have a fairly\nstrong stomach, but there is just so much that I can stand--and you have\npassed the limit. There is hardly a man in this class who hasn't written\nat least one theme on the glory that is Sanford. As you know, I am a\nSanford man myself, and I have my share of affection for the college,\nbut you have reached an ecstasy of chauvinism that makes Chauvin's\naffection for Napoleon seem almost like contempt.\n\n\"In the last batch of themes I got five telling me of the perfection of\nSanford: Sanford is the greatest college in the country; Sanford has the\nbest athletes, the finest equipment, the most erudite faculty, the most\nperfect location, the most loyal alumni, the strongest spirit--the most\nsuperlative everything. Nonsense! Rot! Bunk! Sanford hasn't anything of\nthe sort, and I who love it say so. Sanford is a good little college,\nbut it isn't a Harvard, a Yale, or a Princeton, or, for that matter, a\nDartmouth or Brown; and those colleges still have perfection ahead of\nthem. Sanford has made a place for itself in the sun, but it will never\nfind a bigger place so long as its sons do nothing but chant its praises\nand condemn any one as disloyal who happens to mention its very numerous\nfaults.\n\n\"Well, I'm going to mention some of those faults, not all of them by any\nmeans, just those that any intelligent undergraduate ought to be able to\nsee for himself.\n\n\"In the first place, this is supposed to be an educational institution;\nit is endowed for that purpose and it advertises itself as such. And you\nmen say that you come here to get an education. But what do you really\ndo? You resist education with all your might and main, digging your\nheels into the gravel of your own ignorance and fighting any attempt to\nteach you anything every inch of the way. What's worse, you aren't\ncontent with your own ignorance; you insist that every one else be\nignorant, too. Suppose a man attempts to acquire culture, as some of\nthem do. What happens? He is branded as wet. He is a social leper.\n\n\"Wet! What currency that bit of slang has--and what awful power. It took\nme a long time to find out what the word meant, but after long research\nI think that I know. A man is wet if he isn't a 'regular guy'; he is wet\nif he isn't 'smooth'; he is wet if he has intellectual interests and\nlets the mob discover them; and, strangely enough, he is wet by the same\ntoken if he is utterly stupid. He is wet if he doesn't show at least a\ntendency to dissipate, but he isn't wet if he dissipates to excess. A\nman will be branded as wet for any of these reasons, and once he is so\nbranded, he might as well leave college; if he doesn't, he will have a\nlonely and hard row to hoe. It is a rare undergraduate who can stand the\nopen contempt of his fellows.\"\n\nHe paused, obviously ordering his thoughts before continuing. The boys\nwaited expectantly. Some of them were angry, some amused, a few in\nagreement, and all of them intensely interested.\n\nHenley leaned back in his chair. \"What horrible little conformers you\nare,\" he began sarcastically, \"and how you loathe any one who doesn't\nconform! You dress both your bodies and your minds to some set model.\nJust at present you are making your hair foul with some sort of perfumed\naxle-grease; nine tenths of you part it in the middle. It makes no\ndifference whether the style is becoming to you or not; you slick it\ndown and part it in the middle. Last year nobody did it; the chances are\nthat next year nobody will do it, but anybody who doesn't do it right\nnow is in danger of being called wet.\"\n\nHugh had a moment of satisfaction. He did not pomade his hair, and he\nparted it on the side as he had when he came to college. True, he had\ntried the new fashion, but after scanning himself carefully in the\nmirror, he decided that he looked like a \"blond wop\"--and washed his\nhair. He was guilty, however, of the next crime mentioned.\n\n\"The same thing is true of clothes,\" Henley was saying. \"Last year every\none wore four-button suits and very severe trousers. This year every one\nis wearing Norfolk jackets and bell-bottomed trousers, absurd things\nthat flop around the shoes, and some of them all but trail on the\nground. Now, any one who can't afford the latest creation or who\ndeclines to wear it is promptly called wet.\n\n\"And, as I said before, you insist on the same standardization of your\nminds. Just now it is not _au fait_ to like poetry; a man who does is\nexceedingly wet, indeed; he is effeminate, a sissy. As a matter of\nfact, most of you like poetry very much. You never give me such good\nattention as when I read poetry. What's more, some of you are writing\nthe disgraceful stuff. But what happens when a man does submit a poem as\na theme? He writes at the bottom of the page, 'Please do not read this\nin class.' Some of you write that because you don't think that the poem\nis very good, but most of you are afraid of the contempt of your\nclassmates. I know of any number of men in this college who read vast\nquantities of poetry, but always on the sly. Just think of that! Men pay\nthousands of dollars and give four years of their lives supposedly to\nacquire culture and then have to sneak off into a corner to read poetry.\n\n\"Who are your college gods? The brilliant men who are thinking and\nlearning, the men with ideals and aspirations? Not by a long shot. They\nare the athletes. Some of the athletes happen to be as intelligent and\nas eager to learn as anybody else, but a fair number are here simply\nbecause they are paid to come to play football or baseball or what not.\nAnd they are worshiped, bowed down to, cheered, and adored. The\nbrilliant men, unless they happen to be very 'smooth' in the bargain,\nare considered wet and are ostracized.\n\n\"Such is the college that you write themes about to tell me that it is\nperfect. The college is made up of men who worship mediocrity; that is\ntheir ideal except in athletics. The condition of the football field is\na thousand times more important to the undergraduates and the alumni\nthan the number of books in the library or the quality of the faculty.\nThe fraternities will fight each other to pledge an athlete, but I have\nyet to see them raise any dust over a man who was merely intelligent.\n\n\"I tell you that you have false standards, false ideals, and that you\nhave a false loyalty to the college. The college can stand criticism; it\nwill thrive and grow on it--but it won't grow on blind adoration. I tell\nyou further that you are as standardized as Fords and about as\nornamental. Fords are useful for ordinary work; so are you--and unless\nsome of you wake up and, as you would say, 'get hep to yourselves,' you\nare never going to be anything more than human Fords.\n\n\"You pride yourselves on being the cream of the earth, the noblest work\nof God. You are told so constantly. You are the intellectual aristocracy\nof America, the men who are going to lead the masses to a brighter and\nbroader vision of life. Merciful heavens preserve us! You swagger around\nutterly contemptuous of the man who hasn't gone to college. You talk\nmagnificently about democracy, but you scorn the non-college man--and\nyou try pathetically to imitate Yale and Princeton. And I suppose Yale\nand Princeton are trying to imitate Fifth Avenue and Newport. Democracy!\nRot! This college isn't democratic. Certain fraternities condescend to\nother fraternities, and those fraternities barely deign even to\ncondescend to the non-fraternity men. You say hello to everybody on the\ncampus and think that you are democratic. Don't fool yourselves, and\ndon't try to fool me. If you want to write some themes about Sanford\nthat have some sense and truth in them, some honest observation, go\nahead; but don't pass in any more chauvinistic bunk. I'm sick of it.\"\n\nHe put his watch in his pocket and stood up. \"You may belong to the\nintellectual aristocracy of the country, but I doubt it; you may lead\nthe masses to a 'bigger and better' life, but I doubt it; you may be the\ncream of the earth, but I doubt it. All I've got to say is this: if\nyou're the cream of the earth, God help the skimmed milk.\" He stepped\ndown from the rostrum and briskly left the room.\n\nFor an instant the boys sat silent, and then suddenly there was a rustle\nof excitement. Some of them laughed, some of them swore softly, and most\nof them began to talk. They pulled on their baa-baa coats and left the\nroom chattering.\n\n\"He certainly has the dope,\" said Pudge Jamieson. \"We're a lot of\nlow-brows pretending to be intellectual high-hats. We're intellectual\nhypocrites; that's what we are.\"\n\n\"How do you get that way?\" Ferdy Hillman, who was walking with Hugh and\nPudge, demanded angrily. \"We may not be so hot, but we're a damn sight\nbetter than these guys that work in offices and mills. Jimmie Henley\ngives me a pain. He shoots off his gab as if he knew everything. He's\ngot to show me where other colleges have anything on Sanford. He's a\nhell of a Sanford man, he is.\"\n\nThey were walking slowly down the stairs. George Winsor caught up with\nthem.\n\n\"What did you think of it, George?\" Hugh asked.\n\nWinsor grinned. \"He gave me some awful body blows,\" he said, chuckling.\n\"Cripes, I felt most of the time that he was talking only to me. I'm\nsore all over. What did you think of it? Jimmie's a live wire, all\nright.\"\n\n\"I don't know what to think,\" Hugh replied soberly. \"He's knocked all\nthe props from under me. I've got to think it over.\"\n\nHe did think it over, and the more he thought the more he was inclined\nto believe that Henley was right. Boy-like, he carried Henley's\nstatements to their final conclusion and decided that the college was a\ncolossal failure. He wrote a theme and said so.\n\n\"You're wrong, Hugh,\" Henley said when he read the theme. \"Sanford has\nreal virtues, a bushel of them. You'll discover them all right before\nyou graduate.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nSanford's virtues were hard for Hugh to find, and they grew more\ninconspicuous as the term advanced. For the time being nothing seemed\nworth while: he was disgusted with himself, the undergraduates, and the\nfraternity; he felt that the college had bilked him. Often he thought of\nthe talk he had had with his father before he left for college.\nSometimes that talk seemed funny, entirely idiotic, but sometimes it\ninfuriated him. What right had his father to send him off to college\nwith such fool ideas in his head? Nu Delta, the perfect brotherhood!\nBull! How did his father get that way, anyhow? Hugh had yet to learn\nthat nearly every chapter changes character at least once a decade and\nthat Nu Delta thirty years earlier had been an entirely different\norganization from what it was at present. At times he felt that his\nfather had deliberately deceived him, but in quieter moments he knew\nbetter; then he realized that his father was a dreamer and an innocent,\na delicately minded man who had never really known anything about\nSanford College or the world either. Hugh often felt older and wiser\nthan his father; and in many ways he was.\n\nIn March he angered his fraternity brothers again by refusing a part in\nthe annual musical comedy, which was staged by the Dramatic Society\nduring Prom week. Hugh's tenor singing voice and rather small features\nmade him an excellent possibility for a woman's part. But he was not a\ngood actor, and he knew it. His attempts at acting in a high-school play\nhad resulted in a flat failure, and he had no intention of publicly\nmaking a fool of himself again. Besides, he did not like the idea of\nappearing on the stage as a girl; the mere idea was offensive to him.\nTherefore, when the Society offered him a part he declined it.\n\nBob Tucker took him severely to task. \"What do you mean, Hugh,\" he\ndemanded, \"by turning down the Dramat? Here you've got a chance for a\nlead, and you turn up your nose at it as if you were God Almighty. It\nseems to me that you are getting gosh-awful high-hat lately. You run\naround with a bunch of thoroughly wet ones; you never come to fraternity\nmeetings if you can help it; you aren't half training down at the track;\nand now you give the Dramat the air just as if an activity or two wasn't\nanything in your young life.\"\n\n\"The Dramat isn't anything to me,\" Hugh replied, trying to keep his\ntemper. Tucker's arrogance always made him angry. \"I can't act worth a\ndamn. Never could. I tried once in a play at home and made a poor fish\nof myself, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I'm not going to\nagain.\"\n\n\"Bunk!\" Tucker ejaculated contemptuously. \"Hooey! Anybody can act good\nenough for the Dramat. I tell you right now that you're turning the\nfraternity down; you're playing us dirt. What have you done in college?\nNot a goddamn thing except make the Glee Club. I don't care about track.\nI suppose you did your best last year, though I know damn well that you\naren't doing it this year. What would become of the fraternity if all of\nus parked ourselves on our tails and gave the activities the air the way\nyou do? You're throwing us down, and we don't like it.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm not going out for the Dramat,\" Hugh mumbled sullenly; \"you\ncan just bet on that. I'll admit that I haven't trained the way I ought\nto, but I have made the Glee Club, and I have promised to join the Banjo\nClub, and I am still on the track squad, and that's more than half the\nfellows in this fraternity can say. Most of 'em don't do anything but go\non parties and raise hell generally. How come you're picking on me? Why\ndon't you ride some of them for a while? I don't see where they're so\nhot.\"\n\n\"Never mind the other fellows.\" Tucker's black eyes flashed angrily. He\nwas one of the \"hell-raisers\" himself, good looking; always beautifully\ndressed, and proud of the fact that he was \"rated the smoothest man on\nthe campus.\" His \"smoothness\" had made him prominent in activities--that\nand his estimate of himself. He took it for granted that he would be\nprominent, and the students accepted him at his own valuation; and\npowerful Nu Delta had been behind him, always able to swing Votes when\nvotes were needed.\n\n\"Never mind the other fellows,\" he repeated. \"They're none of your\nparty. You've got talents, and you're not making use of them. You could\nbe as popular as the devil if you wanted to, but you go chasing around\nwith kikes and micks.\"\n\nHugh was very angry and a little absurd in his youthful pomposity. \"I\nsuppose you refer to Parker and Einstein--my one mick friend, although\nhe isn't Irish, and my, one Jewish friend. Well, I shall stick to them\nand see just as much of them as I like. I've told you that before, and\nyou might as well get me straight right now: I'm going to run with\nwhoever I want. The fraternity cannot dictate to me about my friends.\nYou told me you didn't want Parker and Einstein around the house. I\ndon't bring them around. I don't see as how you've got a right to ask\nanything more.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose you realize that everything you do reflects on the\nfraternity,\" Tucker retorted, slightly pompous himself.\n\n\"I suppose it does, but I can't see that I have done anything that is\ngoing to ruin the name of Nu Delta. I don't get potted regularly or\nchase around with filthy bags or flunk my courses or crib my way\nthrough; and I could mention some men in this house who do all those\nthings.\" Hugh was thoroughly angry and no longer in possession of his\nbest judgment. \"If you don't like the way I act, you can have my pin any\ntime you say.\" He stood up, his blue eyes almost black with rage, his\ncheeks flushed, his mouth a thin white line.\n\nTucker realized that he had gone too far. \"Oh, don't get sore, Hugh,\" he\nsaid soothingly. \"I didn't mean it the way you are taking it. Of course,\nwe don't want you to turn in your pin. We all like you. We just want you\nto come around more and be one of the fellows, more of a regular guy. We\nfeel that you can bring a lot of honor to the fraternity if you want to,\nand we've been kinda sore because you've been giving activities the\ngo-by.\"\n\n\"How about my studies?\" Hugh retorted. \"I suppose you want me to give\nthem the air. Well, I did the first term, and I made a record that I was\nashamed of. I promised my folks that I'd do better; and I'm going to. I\ngive an hour or two a day to track and several hours a week to the Glee\nClub, and now I'm going to have to give several more to the Banjo Club.\nThat's all I can give at present, and that's all I'm going to give. I\nknow perfectly well that some fellows can go out for a bunch of\nactivities and make Phi Bete, too; but they're sharks and I'm not. Don't\nworry, either; I won't disgrace the fraternity by making Phi Bete,\" he\nconcluded sarcastically.\n\n\"Oh, calm down, Hugh, and forget what I said,\" Tucker pleaded,\nthoroughly sorry that he had started the argument. \"You go ahead and do\nwhat you think right and we'll stand by you.\" He stood up and put his\nhand on Hugh's shoulder. \"No hard feelings, are there, old man?\"\n\nKindness always melted Hugh; no matter how angry he was, he could not\nresist it. \"No,\" he said softly; \"no hard feelings. I'm sorry I lost my\ntemper.\"\n\nTucker patted his shoulder. \"Oh, that's all right. I guess I kinda lost\nmine, too. You'll be around to the meeting to-morrow night, won't you?\nBetter come. Paying fines don't get you anywhere.\"\n\n\"Sure, I'll come.\"\n\nHe went but took no part in the discussion, nor did he frequent the\nfraternity house any more than he had previously. More and more he\nrealized that he had \"gone with the wrong crowd,\" and more and more he\nthought of what Graham had said to him in his freshman year about how a\nman was in hell if he joined the wrong fraternity. \"I was the wise\nbird,\" he told himself caustically; \"I was the guy who knew all about\nit. Graham saw what would happen, and I didn't have sense enough to\ntake his advice. Hell, I never even thought about what he told me. I\nknew that I would be in heaven if Nu Delta gave me a bid. Heaven! Well,\nI'm glad that they were too high-hat for Norry Parker and that he went\nwith the right bunch.\"\n\nNorville Parker was Hugh's Catholic friend, and the more he saw of the\nfreshman the better he liked him. Parker had received several bids from\nfraternities, and he followed the advice Hugh had given him. \"If Delta\nSigma Delta bids you, go there,\" Hugh had said positively. \"They're the\nbunch you belong with. Apparently the Kappa Zetes are going to bid you,\ntoo. You go Delta Sig if you get the chance.\" Hugh envied Parker the\nreally beautiful fraternity life he was leading. \"Why in God's name,\" he\ndemanded of himself regularly, \"didn't I have sense enough to take\nGraham's advice?\"\n\nWhen spring came, the two boys took long walks into the country, both of\nthem loving the new beauty of the spring and happy in perfect\ncompanionship. Hugh missed Carl badly, and he wanted to ask Parker to\nroom with him the remainder of the term. He felt, however, that the\nfraternity would object, and he wanted no further trouble with Nu Delta.\nAs a matter of fact, the fraternity would have said nothing, but Hugh\nhad become hypersensitive and expected his \"brothers\" to find fault\nwith his every move. He had no intention of deserting Parker, but he\ncould not help feeling that rooming with him would be a gratuitous\ninsult to the fraternity.\n\nParker--every one called him Norry--was a slender, delicate lad with\ndreamy gray eyes and silky brown hair that, unless he brushed it back\nseverely, fell in soft curls on his extraordinarily white forehead.\nExcept for a slightly aquiline nose and a firm jaw, he was almost\neffeminate in appearance, his mouth was so sensitive, his hands so white\nand slender, his manner so gentle. He had a slow, winning smile, a\nquiet, low voice. He was a dreamer and a mystic, a youth who could see\nfairies dancing in the shadows; and he told Hugh what he saw.\n\n\"I see things,\" he said to Hugh one moonlight night as they strolled\nthrough the woods; \"I see things, lovely little creatures flitting\naround among the trees: I mean I see them when I'm alone. I like to lie\non my back in the meadows and look at the clouds and imagine myself\nsitting on a big fellow and sailing and sailing away to heaven. It's\nwonderful. I feel that way when I play my fiddle.\" He played the violin\nbeautifully and had promptly been made soloist for the Musical Clubs.\n\"I--I can't explain. Sometimes when I finish playing, I find my eyes\nfull of tears. I feel as if I had been to some wonderful place, and I\ndon't want to come back.\"\n\n\"I guess I'm not like other fellows. I cry over poetry, not because it\nmakes me sad. It's not that. It's just so beautiful. Why, when I first\nread Shelley's 'Cloud' I was almost sick I was so happy. I could hardly\nstand it. And when I hear beautiful music I cry, too. Why, when I listen\nto Kreisler, I sometimes want to beg him to stop; it hurts and makes me\nso happy that--that I just can't stand it,\" he finished lamely.\n\n\"I know,\" Hugh said. \"I know how it is. I feel that way sometimes, too,\nbut not as much as you, I guess. I don't cry. I never really cry, but I\nwant to once in a while. I--I write poetry sometimes,\" he confessed\nawkwardly, \"but I guess it's not very good. Jimmie Henley says it isn't\nso bad for a sophomore, but I'm afraid that he's just stringing me\nalong, trying to encourage me, you know. But there are times when I've\nsaid a little bit right, just a little bit, but I've known that it was\nright--and then I feel the way you do.\"\n\n\"I've written lots of poetry,\" Norry said simply, \"but it's no good;\nit's never any good.\" He paused between two big trees and pointed\nupward. \"Look, look up there. See those black branches and that patch of\nsky between them and those stars. I want to picture that--and I can't;\nand I want to picture the trees the way they look now so fluffy with\ntiny new leaves, but I miss it a million miles.... But I can get it in\nmusic,\" he added more brightly. \"Grieg says it. Music is the most\nwonderful thing in the world. I wish I could be a great violinist. I\ncan't, though. I'm not a genius, and I'm not strong enough. I can't\npractice very long.\"\n\nThey continued walking in silence for a few minutes, and then Norry\nsaid: \"I'm awfully happy here at college, and I didn't expect to be,\neither. I knew that I was kinda different from other fellows, not so\nstrong; and I don't like ugly things or smutty stories or anything like\nthat. I think women are lovely, and I hate to hear fellows tell dirty\nstories about them. I'm no fool, Hugh; I know about the things that\nhappen, but I don't want to hear about them. Things that are dirty and\nugly make me feel sick.\"\n\n\"Well, I was afraid the fellows would razz me. But they don't. They\ndon't at all. The fellows over at the Delta Sig house are wonderful to\nme. They don't think I'm wet. They don't razz me for not going on wild\nparties, though I know that some of the fellows are pretty gay\nthemselves. They ask me to fiddle for them nearly every evening, and\nthey sit and listen very, very quietly just as long as I'll play. I'm\nglad you told me to go Delta Sig.\"\n\nNorry made Hugh feel very old and a little crude and hard. He realized\nthat there was something rare, almost exquisite, about the boy, and that\nhe lived largely in a beautiful world of his own imagination. It would\nhave surprised Norry if any one had told him that his fraternity\nbrothers stood in awe of him, that they thought he was a genius. Some of\nthem were built out of pretty common clay, but they felt the almost\nunearthly purity of the boy they had made a brother; and the hardest of\nthem, the crudest, silently elected himself the guardian of that purity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nHugh found real happiness in Norry Parker's companionship, and such men\nas Burbank and Winsor were giving him a more robust but no less pleasant\nfriendship. They were earnest youths, eager and alive, curious about the\nworld, reading, discussing all sorts of topics vigorously, and yet far\nmore of the earth earthy than Parker, who was so mystical and dreamy\nthat constant association with him would have been something of a\nstrain.\n\nFor a time life seemed to settle down into a pleasant groove of studies\nthat took not too much time, movies, concerts, an occasional play by the\nDramatic Society, perhaps a slumming party to a dance in Hastings\nSaturday nights, bull sessions, long talks with Henley in his office or\nat his home, running on the track, and some reading.\n\nFor a week or two life was lifted out of the groove by a professor's\ndaughter. Burbank introduced Hugh to her, and at first he was attracted\nby her calm dignity. He called three times and then gave her up in\ndespair. Her dignity hid an utterly blank mind. She was as uninteresting\nas her father, and he had the reputation, well deserved, of being the\ndullest lecturer on the campus.\n\nOnly one event disturbed the pleasant calm of Hugh's life after his\nargument with Tucker. He did not attend Prom because he knew no girl\nwhom he cared to ask; he failed again to make his letter and took his\nfailure philosophically; and he received a note from Janet Harton\ntelling him that she was engaged to \"the most wonderful man in the\nworld\"--and he didn't give a hoot if she was.\n\nJust after Easter vacation the Nu Deltas gave their annual house dance.\nHugh looked forward to it with considerable pleasure. True, he was not\n\"dragging a woman,\" but several of the brothers were going \"stag\"; so he\nfelt completely at ease.\n\nThe freshmen were put to work cleaning the house, the curtains were sent\nto the laundry, bedroom closets and dresser drawers were emptied of\nanything the girls might find too interesting, and an enormously\nexpensive orchestra was imported from New York. Finally a number of\nyoung alumni, the four patronesses, and the girls appeared.\n\nGetting dressed for the dance was a real event in Hugh's life. He had\nworn evening clothes only a few times before, but those occasions,\nfraternity banquets and glee club concerts, were, he felt, relatively\nunimportant. The dance, however, was different, and he felt that he must\nlook his best, his very \"smoothest.\" He was a rare undergraduate; he\nowned everything necessary to wear to an evening function--at least,\neverything an undergraduate considered necessary. He did not own a\ndress-suit, and he would have had no use for it if he had; only Tuxedos\nwere worn.\n\nHe dressed with great care, tying and retying his tie until it was\nknotted perfectly. When at last he drew on his jacket, he looked himself\nover in the mirror with considerable satisfaction. He knew that he was\ndressed right.\n\nIt hardly entered his mind that he was an exceedingly good-looking young\nman. Vanity was not one of his faults. But he had good reason to be\npleased with the image he was examining for any sartorial defects. He\nhad brushed his sandy brown hair until it shone; his shave had left his\nslender cheeks almost as smooth as a girl's; his blue eyes were very\nbright and clear; and the black suit emphasized his blond cleanness: it\nwas a wholesome-looking, attractive youth who finally pulled on his\ntop-coat and started happily across the campus for the Nu Delta house.\n\nThe dance was just starting when he arrived. The patronesses were in the\nlibrary, a small room off the living-room. Hugh learned later that six\nmen had been delegated to keep the patronesses in the library and\nadequately entertained. The men worked in shifts, and although the dance\nlasted until three the next morning, not a patroness got a chance to\nwander unchaperoned around the house.\n\nThe living-room of the Nu Delta house was so large that it was\nunnecessary to use the dining-room for a dance. Therefore, most of the\nbig chairs and divans had been moved into the dining-room--and the\ndining-room was dark.\n\nHugh permitted himself to be presented to the patronesses, mumbled a few\npolite words, and then joined the stag line, waiting for a chance to cut\nin. Presently a couple moved slowly by, so slowly that they did not seem\nto move at all. The girl was Hester Sheville, and Hugh had been\nintroduced to her in the afternoon. Despite rather uneven features and\nred hair, she was almost pretty; and in her green evening gown, which\nwas cut daringly low, she was flashing and attractive.\n\nHugh stepped forward and tapped her partner on the shoulder. The brother\nreleased her with a grimace at Hugh, and Hester, without a word, put her\nright hand in Hugh's left and slipped her left arm around his neck. They\ndanced in silence for a time, bodies pressed close together, swaying in\nplace, hardly advancing. Presently, however, Hester drew her head back\nand spoke.\n\n\"Hot stuff, isn't it?\" she asked lazily.\n\nHugh was startled. Her breath was redolent of whisky.\n\n\"Sure is,\" he replied and executed a difficult step, the girl following\nhim without the slightest difficulty. She danced remarkably, but he was\nglad when he was tapped on the shoulder and another brother claimed\nHester. The whisky breath had repelled him.\n\nAs the evening wore on he danced with a good many girls who had whisky\nbreaths. One girl clung to him as they danced and whispered, \"Hold me\nup, kid; I'm ginned.\" He had to rush a third, a dainty blond child, to\nthe porch railing. She wasn't a pretty sight as she vomited into the\ngarden; nor did Hugh find her gasped comment, \"The seas are rough\nto-night,\" amusing. Another girl went sound asleep in a chair and had to\nbe carried up-stairs and put to bed.\n\nA number of the brothers were hilarious; a few had drunk too much and\nwere sick; one had a \"crying jag.\" There were men there, however, who\nwere not drinking at all, and they were making gallant efforts to keep\nthe sober girls away from the less sober girls and the inebriated\nbrothers.\n\nHugh was not drinking. The idea of drinking at a dance was offensive to\nhim; he thought it insulting to the girls. The fact that some of the\ngirls were drinking horrified him. He didn't mind their smoking--well,\nnot very much; but drinking? That was going altogether too far.\n\nAbout midnight he danced again with Hester Sheville, not because he\nwanted to but because she had insisted. He had been standing gloomily in\nthe doorway watching the bacchanalian scene, listening to the tom-tom\nof the drums when she came up to him.\n\n\"I wanta dance,\" she said huskily. \"I wanta dance with you--you--you\nblond beast.\" Seeing no way to decline to dance with the half-drunk\ngirl, he put his arm around her and started off. Hester's tongue was no\nlonger in control, but her feet followed his unerringly. When the music\nstopped, she whispered, \"Take me--ta-take me to th' th' dining-room.\"\nWonderingly, Hugh led her across the hall. He had not been in the\ndining-room since the dance started, and he was amazed and shocked to\nfind half a dozen couples in the big chairs or on the divans in close\nembrace. He paused, but Hester led him to an empty chair, shoved him\nclumsily down into it, and then flopped down on his lap.\n\n\"Le's--le's pet,\" she whispered. \"I wanna pet.\"\n\nAgain Hugh smelled the whisky fumes as she put her hot mouth to his and\nkissed him hungrily. He was angry, angry and humiliated. He tried to get\nup, to force the girl off of his lap, but she clung tenaciously to him,\nstriving insistently to kiss him on the mouth. Finally Hugh's anger got\nthe better of his manners; he stood up, the girl hanging to his neck,\nliterally tore her arms off of him, took her by the waist and set her\ndown firmly in the chair.\n\n\"Sit there,\" he said softly, viciously; \"sit there.\"\n\nShe began to cry, and he walked rapidly out of the dining-room, his\ncheeks flaming and his eyes flashing; and the embracing couples paid no\nattention to him at all. He had to pass the door of the library to get\nhis top-coat--he made up his mind to get out of the \"goddamned\nhouse\"--and was walking quickly by the door when one of the patronesses\ncalled to him.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Carver. Will you come here a minute?\"\n\n\"Surely, Mrs. Reynolds.\" He entered the library and waited before the\ndowager.\n\n\"I left my wrap up-stairs--in Mr. Merrill's room, I think it is. I am\ngetting a little chilly. Won't you get it for me?\"\n\n\"Of course. It's in Merrill's room?\"\n\n\"I think it is. It's right at the head of the stairs. The wrap's blue\nwith white fur.\"\n\nHugh ran up the stairs, opened Merrill's door, switched on the lights,\nand immediately spotted the wrap lying over the back of a chair. He\npicked it up and was about to leave the room when a noise behind him\nattracted his attention. He turned and saw a man and a girl lying on the\nbed watching him.\n\nHugh stared blankly at them, his mouth half open.\n\n\"Get th' hell out of here,\" the man said roughly.\n\nFor an instant Hugh continued to stare; then he whirled about, walked\nout of the room, slammed the door behind him, and hurried down the\nstairs. He delivered the wrap to Mrs. Reynolds, and two minutes later he\nwas out of the house walking, almost running, across the campus to\nSurrey Hall. Once there, he tore off his top-coat, his jacket, his\ncollar and tie, and threw himself down into a chair.\n\nSo this was college! This was the fraternity--that goddamned rat house!\nThat was what he had pledged allegiance to, was it? Those were his\nbrothers, were they? Brothers! Brothers!\n\nHe fairly leaped out of his chair and began to pace the floor. College!\nGentlemen! A lot of muckers chasing around with a bunch of rats; that's\nwhat they were. Great thing--fraternities. No doubt about it, they were\na great institution.\n\nHe paused in his mental tirade, suddenly conscious of the fact that he\nwasn't fair. Some of the fraternities, he knew, would never stand for\nany such performance as he had witnessed that evening; most of them, he\nwas sure, wouldn't. It was just the Nu Deltas and one or two others;\nwell, maybe three or four. So that's what he had joined, was it?\n\nHe thought of Hester Sheville, of her whisky breath, her lascivious\npawing--and his hands clenched. \"Filthy little rat,\" he said aloud, \"the\nstinkin', rotten rat.\"\n\nThen he remembered that there had been girls there who hadn't drunk\nanything, girls who somehow managed to move through the whole orgy calm\nand sweet. His anger mounted. It was a hell of a way to treat a decent\ngirl, to ask her to a dance with a lot of drunkards and soused rats.\n\nHe was warm with anger. Reckless of the buttons, he tore off his\nwaistcoat and threw it on a chair. The jeweled fraternity pin by the\npocket caught his eye. He stared at it for a moment and then slowly\nunpinned it. He let it lie in his hand and addressed it aloud, hardly\naware of the fact that he was speaking at all.\n\n\"So that's what you stand for, is it? For snobs and politicians and\nmuckers. Well, I don't want any more of you--not--one--damn--bit--\nmore--of--you.\"\n\nHe tossed the pin indifferently upon the center-table, making up his\nmind that he would resign from the fraternity the next day.\n\nWhen the next day came he found, however, that his anger had somewhat\nabated. He was still indignant, but he didn't have the courage to go\nthrough with his resignation. Such an action, he knew, would mean a\ngreat deal of publicity, publicity impossible to avoid. The fraternity\nwould announce its acceptance of his resignation in \"The Sanford Daily\nNews\"; and then he would either have to lie or start a scandal.\n\nAs the days went by and he thought more and more about the dance, he\nbegan to doubt his indignation. Wasn't he after all a prude to get so\nhot? Wasn't he perhaps a prig, a sissy? At times he thought that he was;\nat other times he was sure that he wasn't. He could be permanently sure\nof only one thing, that he was a cynic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nHugh avoided the Nu Delta house for the remainder of the term and spent\nmore time on his studies than he had since he had entered college. The\nresult was, of course, that he made a good record, and the A that Henley\ngave him in English delighted him so much that he almost forgot his\nfraternity troubles. Not quite, however. During the first few weeks of\nthe vacation he often thought of talking to his father about Nu Delta,\nbut he could not find the courage to destroy his father's illusions. He\nfound, too, that he couldn't talk to his mother about things that he had\nseen and learned at college. Like most of his friends, he felt that \"the\nfolks wouldn't understand.\"\n\nHe spent the first two months at home working on the farm, but when\nNorry Parker invited him to visit him for a month on Long Island Sound,\nHugh accepted the invitation and departed for the Parker summer cottage\nin high feather. He was eager to see Norry again, but he was even more\neager to see New York. He had just celebrated his twentieth birthday,\nand he considered it disgraceful that he had never visited the \"Big\nCity,\" as New York was always known at Sanford. Norry met him at Grand\nCentral, a livelier and more robust Norry than Hugh had ever seen. The\nboy actually seemed like a boy and not a sprite; his cheeks were tanned\nalmost brown, and his gray eyes danced with excitement when he spotted\nHugh in the crowd.\n\n\"Gee, Hugh, I'm glad to see you,\" he exclaimed, shaking Hugh's hand\njoyously. \"I'm tickled to death that you could come.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" said Hugh heartily, really happy to see Norry looking so\nwell, and thrilled to be in New York. \"Gosh, you look fine. I hardly\nknow you. Where'd you get all the pep?\"\n\n\"Swimming' and sailing. This is the first summer I've been well enough\nto swim all I want to. Oh, it's pretty down where we are. You'll love\nthe nights, Hugh. The Sound is wonderful.\"\n\n\"I'll bet. Well, where do we go from here? Say, this is certainly a\nwhale of a station, isn't it? It makes me feel like a hick.\"\n\n\"Oh, you'll get over that soon enough,\" Norry, the seasoned New Yorker,\nassured him easily. \"We're going right out to the cottage. It's too hot\nto-day to run around the city, but we'll come in soon and you can give\nit the once-over.\" He took Hugh's arm and led him out of the station.\n\nIt had never entered Hugh's mind that Norry's father might be rich. He\nhad noticed that Norry's clothes were very well tailored, and Norry had\ntold him that his violin was a Cremona, but the boy was not lavish with\nmoney and never talked about it at all. Hugh was therefore surprised and\na little startled to see Norry walk up to an expensive limousine with a\nuniformed chauffeur at the wheel. He wondered if the Parkers weren't too\nhigh-hat for him?\n\n\"We'll go right home, Martin,\" Norry said to the chauffeur. \"Get in,\nHugh.\"\n\nThe Parker cottage was a short distance from New Rochelle. It was a\nbeautiful place, hardly in the style of a Newport \"cottage\" but roomy\nand very comfortable. It was not far from the water, and the Parkers\nowned their own boat-house.\n\nMrs. Parker was on the veranda when the car drew up at the steps.\n\n\"Hello, Mother,\" Norry called.\n\nShe got up and ran lightly down the steps, her hand held out in welcome\nto Hugh.\n\n\"I know that you are Hugh Carver,\" she said in a beautifully modulated\nvoice, \"and I am really delighted to meet you. Norry has talked so much\nabout you that I should have felt cheated if you hadn't come.\"\n\nHugh's fears immediately departed. \"I should have myself,\" he replied.\n\"It was awfully good of you to invite me.\"\n\nAfter meeting Norry's father and mother, Hugh understood the boy\nbetter. Mrs. Parker was both charming and pretty, a delightful woman who\nplayed the piano with professional skill. Mr. Parker was an artist, a\nportrait-painter, and he got prices for his pictures that staggered Hugh\nwhen Norry mentioned them casually. He was a quiet, grave man with gray\neyes like his son's.\n\nWhen he had a minute alone with Hugh, he said to him with simple\nsincerity: \"You have been very kind to Norry, and we are grateful. He is\na strange, poetic lad who needs the kind of understanding friendship you\nhave given him. We should have been deeply disappointed if you hadn't\nbeen able to visit us.\"\n\nThe expressions of gratitude embarrassed Hugh, but they made him feel\nsure of his welcome; and once he was sure of that he began to enjoy\nhimself as he never had before. Before the month was out, he had made\nmany visits to New York and was able to talk about both the Ritz and\nMacdougal Alley with elaborate casualness when he returned to college.\nHe and Norry went swimming nearly every day and spent hours sailing on\nthe Sound.\n\nNorry introduced him to the many girls who had summer homes near the\nParker cottage. They were a new type to him, boarding-school products,\nsure of themselves, \"finished\" with a high polish that glittered\neffectively, daringly frank both in their speech and their actions,\nbeautiful dancers, good swimmers, full of \"dirt,\" as they called gossip,\nand as offhand with men as they were with each other. Within a week Hugh\ngot over his prejudice against women's smoking. Nearly every woman he\nmet, including Mrs. Parker, smoked, and every girl carried her\ncigarette-case.\n\nMost of the girls treated Norry as if he were a very nice small boy, but\nthey adopted a different attitude toward Hugh. They flirted with him,\nperfected his \"petting\" technique, occasionally treated him to a drink,\nand made no pretense of hiding his attraction for them.\n\nAt first Hugh was startled and a little repelled, but he soon grew to\nlike the frankness, the petting, and the liquor; and he was having a\nmuch too exciting time to pause often for criticism of himself or\nanybody else. It was during the last week of his visit that he fell in\nlove.\n\nHe and Norry were standing near the float watching a number of swimmers.\nSuddenly Hugh was attracted by a girl he had never seen before. She wore\na red one-piece bathing-suit that revealed every curve of her slender,\nboyish figure. She noticed Norry and threw up her arm in greeting.\n\n\"Who is she?\" Hugh demanded eagerly.\n\n\"Cynthia Day. She's just back from visiting friends in Maine. She's an\nawfully good swimmer. Watch her.\" The girl poised for an instant on the\nedge of the float and then dived gracefully into the water, striking out\nwith a powerful overhand stroke for another float a quarter of a mile\nout in the Sound. The boys watched her red cap as she rounded the float\nand started back, swimming easily and expertly. When she reached the\nbeach, she ran out of the water, rubbed her hands over her face, and\nthen strolled over to Norry.\n\nHer hair was concealed by a red bathing-cap, but Hugh guessed that it\nwas brown; at any rate, her eyes were brown and very large. She had an\nimpudent little nose and full red lips.\n\n\"'Lo, Norry,\" she said, holding out her hand. \"How's the infant?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm fine. This is my friend Hugh Carver.\"\n\n\"I've heard about you,\" she said as they shook hands. \"I only got back\nlast night, but everybody seems to be digging dirt about Norry's friend.\nThree of my friends are enemies on account of you, and one of 'em says\nshe's going in swimming some day and forget to come back if you don't\ngive her a little more time.\"\n\nHugh blushed, but he had learned a few things in the past weeks.\n\n\"I wish they would tell me about it,\" he said with a fair assumption of\nease. \"Why didn't you come back sooner?\" He was pleased with that\nspeech. He wouldn't have dared it a month before.\n\nThe brown eyes smiled at him. \"Because I didn't know you were here. You\nhaven't got a cigarette about you, have you? Norry's useless when it\ncomes to smokes.\"\n\nHugh did have a package of cigarettes. She took one, put it in her\nmouth, and waited for Hugh to light it for her. When he did, she gazed\ncuriously over the flame at him. She puffed the cigarette for a moment\nand then said, \"You look like a good egg. Let's talk.\" She threw herself\ndown on the sand, and the boys sat down beside her.\n\nFrom that moment Hugh was lost. For the remaining days of the visit he\nspent every possible moment with Cynthia, fascinated by her chatter,\nthrilled by the touch of her hand. She made no objection when he offered\nshyly to kiss her; she quietly put her arms around his neck and turned\nher face up to his--and her kisses set him aflame.\n\nFor once, he did not want to return to college, and when he arrived in\nHaydensville he felt none of his usual enthusiasm. The initiation of the\nfreshmen amused him only slightly, and the football games did not seem\nso important as they had the two previous years. A letter from Cynthia\nwas the most important thing in the world, and she wrote good letters,\nchatty, gay, and affectionate.\n\nCustom made it necessary for him to room in the fraternity house. It was\nan unwritten law of Nu Delta that all members live in the house their\nlast two years, and Hugh hardly dared to contest the law. There were\nfour men in the chapter whom he thoroughly liked and with whom he would\nhave been glad to room, but they all had made their arrangements by the\ntime he spoke to them; so he was forced to accept Paul Vinton's\ninvitation to room with him.\n\nVinton was a cheerful youth with too much money and not enough sense. He\nwanted desperately to be thought a good fellow, a \"regular guy,\" and he\nwas willing to buy popularity if necessary by standing treat to any one\nevery chance he got. He was known all over the campus as a \"prize\nsucker.\"\n\nHe bored Hugh excessively by his confidences and almost offensive\ngenerosity. He always had a supply of Scotch whisky on hand, and he\noffered it to him so constantly that Hugh drank too much because it was\neasier and pleasanter to drink than to refuse.\n\nTucker had graduated, and the new president, Leonard Gates, was an\naltogether different sort of man. There had been a fight in the\nfraternity over his election. The \"regular guys\" opposed him and offered\none of their own number as a candidate. Gates, however, was prominent in\ncampus activities and had his own following in the house; as a result,\nhe was elected by a slight margin.\n\nHe won Hugh's loyalty at the first fraternity meeting after he took the\nchair. \"Some things are going to be changed in this house,\" he said\nsternly, \"or I will bring influence to bear that will change them.\"\nEvery one knew that he referred to the national president of the\nfraternity. \"There will be no more drunken brawls in this house such as\nwe had at the last house dance. Any one who brings a cheap woman into\nthis house at a dance will hear from it. Both my fiancee and my sister\nwere at the last dance. I do not intend that they shall be insulted\nagain. This is not a bawdy-house, and I want some of you to remember\nthat.\"\n\nHe tried very hard to pass a rule, such as many of the fraternities had,\nthat no one could bring liquor into the house and that there should be\nno gambling. He failed, however. The brothers took his scolding about\nthe dance because most of them were heartily ashamed of that occasion;\nbut they announced that they did not intend to have the chapter turned\ninto the S.C.A., which was the Sanford Christian Association. It would\nhave been well for Hugh if the law had been passed. Vinton's insistent\ngenerosity was rapidly turning him into a steady drinker. He did not get\ndrunk, but he was taking down more high-balls than were good for him.\n\nOutside of his drinking, however, he was leading a virtuous and, on the\nwhole, an industrious life. He was too much in love with Cynthia Day to\nlet his mind dwell on other women, and he had become sufficiently\ninterested in his studies to like them for their own sake.\n\nA change had come over the campus. It was inexplicable but highly\nsignificant. There had been evidences of it the year before, but now it\nbecame so evident that even some of the members of the faculty were\naware of it. Intolerance seemed to be dying, and the word \"wet\" was\nheard less often. The undergraduates were forsaking their old gods. The\nwave of materialism was swept back by an in-rushing tide of idealism.\nStudents suddenly ceased to concentrate in economics and filled the\nEnglish and philosophy classes to overflowing.\n\nNo one was able really to explain the causes for the change, but it was\nthere and welcome. The \"Sanford Literary Magazine,\" which had been\nslowly perishing for several years, became almost as popular as the \"Cap\nand Bells,\" the comic magazine, which coined money by publishing risque\njokes and pictures of slightly dressed women. A poetry magazine daringly\nmade its appearance on the campus and, to the surprise of its editors,\nwas received so cordially that they were able to pay the printer's bill.\n\nIt became the fashion to read. Instructors in English were continually\nbeing asked what the best new books were or if such and such a book was\nall that it was \"cracked up to be.\" If the instructor hadn't read the\nbook, he was treated to a look of contempt that sent him hastening to\nthe library.\n\nOf course, not all of the undergraduates took to reading and thinking;\nthe millennium had not arrived, but the intelligent majority began to\nread and discuss books openly, and the intelligent majority ruled the\ncampus.\n\nHugh was one of the most enthusiastic of the readers. He was taking a\ncourse in nineteenth-century poetry with Blake, the head of the English\ndepartment. His other instructors either bored him or left him cold, but\nBlake turned each class hour into a thrilling experience. He was a\nhandsome man with gray hair, dark eyes, and a magnificent voice. He\ntaught poetry almost entirely by reading it, only occasionally\ninterpolating an explanatory remark, and he read beautifully. His\nreading was dramatic, almost tricky; but it made the poems live for his\nstudents, and they reveled in his classes.\n\nHugh's junior year was made almost beautiful by that poetry course and\nby his adoration for Cynthia. He was writing verses constantly--and he\nfound \"Cynthia\" an exceedingly troublesome word; it seemed as if nothing\nwould rime with it. At times he thought of taking to free verse, but the\nresults of his efforts did not satisfy him. He always had the feeling\nthat he had merely chopped up some rather bad prose; and he was\ninvariably right. Cynthia wrote him that she loved the poems he sent\nher because they were so passionate. He blushed when he read her praise.\nIt disturbed him. He wished that she had used a different word.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nFor the first term Hugh slid comfortably down a well oiled groove of\nroutine. He went to the movies regularly, wrote as regularly to Cynthia\nand thought about her even more, read enormous quantities of poetry,\n\"bulled\" with his friends, attended all the athletic contests, played\ncards occasionally, and received his daily liquor from Vinton. He no\nlonger protested when Vinton offered him a drink; he accepted it as a\nmatter of course, and he had almost completely forgotten that \"smoking\nwasn't good for a runner.\" He had just about decided that he wasn't a\nrunner, anyway.\n\nOne evening in early spring he met George Winsor as he was crossing the\ncampus.\n\n\"Hello, George. Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Over to Ted Alien's room. Big poker party to-night. Don't you want to\nsit in?\"\n\n\"You told me last week that you had sworn off poker. How come you're\nplaying again so soon?\" Hugh strolled lazily along with Winsor.\n\n\"Not poker, Hugh--craps. I've sworn off craps for good, and maybe I'll\nswear off poker after to-night. I'm nearly a hundred berries to the good\nright now, and I can afford to play if I want to.\"\n\n\"I'm a little ahead myself,\" said Hugh. \"I don't play very often,\nthough, except in the house when the fellows insist. I can't shoot craps\nat all, and I get tired of cards after a couple of hours.\"\n\n\"I'm a damn fool to play,\" Winsor asserted positively, \"a plain damn\nfool, I oughtn't to waste my time at it, but I'm a regular fiend for the\ngame. I get a great kick out of it. How's to sit in with us? There's\nonly going to be half a dozen fellows. Two-bit limit.\"\n\n\"Yeah, it'll start with a two-bit limit, but after an hour deuces'll be\nwild all over the place and the sky will be the limit. I've sat in those\ngames before.\"\n\nWinsor laughed. \"Guess you're right, but what's the odds? Better shoot a\nfew hands.\"\n\n\"Well, all-right, but I can't stay later than eleven. I've got a quiz in\neccy to-morrow, and I've got to bone up on it some time to-night.\"\n\n\"I've got that quiz, too. I'll leave with you at eleven.\"\n\nWinsor and Hugh entered the dormitory and climbed the stairs. Allen's\ndoor was open, and several undergraduates were lolling around the room,\nsmoking and chatting. They welcomed the new-comers with shouts of \"Hi,\nHugh,\" and \"Hi, George.\"\n\nAllen had a large round table in the center of his study, and the boys\nsoon had it cleared for action. Allen tossed the cards upon the table,\nproduced several ash-trays, and then carefully locked the door.\n\n\"Keep an ear open for Mac,\" he admonished his friends; \"He's warned me\ntwice now,\" \"Mac\" was the night-watchman, and he had a way of dropping\nin unexpectedly on gambling parties. \"Here are the chips. You count 'em\nout, George. Two-bit limit.\"\n\nThe boys drew up chairs to the table, lighted cigarettes or pipes, and\nbegan the game. Hugh had been right; the \"two-bit limit\" was soon\nlifted, and Allen urged his guests to go as far as they liked.\n\nThere were ugly rumors about Allen around the campus. He was good\nlooking, belonged to a fraternity in high standing, wore excellent\nclothes, and did fairly well in his studies; but the rumors persisted.\nThere were students who insisted that he hadn't the conscience of a\nsnake, and a good many of them hinted that no honest man ever had such\nconsistently good luck at cards and dice.\n\nThe other boys soon got heated and talkative, but Allen said little\nbesides announcing his bids. His blue eyes remained coldly\nexpressionless whether he won or lost the hand; his crisp, curly brown\nhair remained neatly combed and untouched by a nervous hand; his lips\nparted occasionally in a quiet smile: he was the perfect gambler, never\nexcited, always in absolute control of himself.\n\nHugh marveled at the control as the evening wore on. He was excited,\nand, try as he would, he could not keep his excitement from showing.\nLuck, however, was with him; by ten o'clock he was seventy-five dollars\nahead, and most of it was Allen's money.\n\nHugh passed by three hands in succession, unwilling to take any chances.\nHe had decided to \"play close,\" never betting unless he held something\nworth putting his money on.\n\nAllen dealt the fourth hand. \"Ante up,\" he said quietly. The five other\nmen followed his lead in tossing chips into the center of the table. He\nlooked at his hand. \"Two blue ones if you want to stay in.\" Winsor and\ntwo of the men threw down their cards, but Hugh and a lad named Mandel\neach shoved two blue chips into the pot.\n\nHugh had three queens and an ace. \"One card,\" he said to Allen. Allen\ntossed him the card, and Hugh's heart leaped when he saw that it was an\nace.\n\n\"Two cards, Ted,\" Mandel requested, nervously crushing his cigarette in\nan ash-tray. He picked up the cards one at a time, lifting each slowly\nby one corner, and peeking at it as if he were afraid that a sudden full\nview would blast him to eternity. His face did not change expression as\nhe added the cards to the three that he held in his hand.\n\n\"I'm sitting pretty,\" Allen remarked casually, picking up the five\ncards that he had laid down before he dealt.\n\nThe betting began, Hugh nervous, openly excited, Mandel stonily calm,\nAllen completely at ease. At first the bets were for a dollar, but they\ngradually rose to five. Mandel threw down his cards.\n\n\"Fight it out,\" he said morosely. \"I've thrown away twenty-five bucks,\nand I'll be damned if I'm going to throw away any more to see your\nfour-flushes.\"\n\nAllen lifted a pile of chips and let them fall lightly, clicking a rapid\nstaccato. \"It'll cost you ten dollars to see my hand, Hugh,\" he said\nquietly.\n\n\"It'll cost you twenty if you want to see mine,\" Hugh responded, tossing\nthe equivalent to thirty dollars into the pot. He watched Allen eagerly,\nbut Allen's face remained quite impassive as he raised Hugh another ten.\n\nThe four boys who weren't playing leaned forward, pipes or cigarettes in\ntheir mouths, their stomachs pressed against the table, their eyes\nnarrowed and excited. The air was a stench of stale smoke; the silence\nbetween bets was electric.\n\nThe betting continued, Hugh sure that Allen was bluffing, but Allen\nnever failed to raise him ten dollars on every bet. Finally Hugh had a\nhundred dollars in the pot and dared not risk more on his hand.\n\n\"I think you're bluffing, goddamn it,\" he said, his voice shrill and\nnervous. \"I'll call you. Show your stinkin' hand.\"\n\n\"Oh, not so stinkin',\" Allen replied lightly. \"I've got four of a kind,\nall of 'em kings. Let's see your three deuces.\"\n\nHe tossed down his hand, and Hugh slumped in his chair at the sight of\nthe four kings. He shoved the pile of chips toward Allen. \"Take the pot,\ndamn you. Of all the bastard luck. Look!\" He slapped down his cards\nangrily. \"A full house, queens up. Christ!\" He burst into a flood of\nobscenity, the other boys listening sympathetically, all except Allen\nwho was carefully stacking the chips.\n\nIn a few minutes Hugh's anger died. He remembered that he was only about\ntwenty-five dollars behind and that he had an hour in which to recover\nthem. His face became set and hard; his hands lost their jerky\neagerness. He played carefully, never daring to enter a big pot, never\nbetting for more than his hands were worth.\n\nAs the bets grew larger, the room grew quieter. Every one was smoking\nconstantly; the air was heavy with smoke, and the stench grew more and\nmore foul. Outside of a soft, \"I raise you twenty,\" or, even, \"Fifty\nbucks if you want to see my hand,\" a muttered oath or a request to buy\nchips, there was hardly a word said. The excitement was so intense that\nit hurt; the expletives smelled of the docks.\n\nAt times there was more than five hundred dollars in a pot, and five\ntimes out of seven when the pot was big, Allen won it. Win or lose, he\ncontinued cool and calm, at times smoking a pipe, other times puffing\nnonchalantly at a cigarette.\n\nThe acrid smoke cut Hugh's eyes; they smarted and pained, but he\ncontinued to light cigarette after cigarette, drawing the smoke deep\ninto his lungs, hardly aware of the fact that they hurt.\n\nHe won and lost, won and lost, but gradually he won back the twenty-five\ndollars and a little more. The college clock struck eleven. He knew that\nhe ought to go, but he wondered if he could quit with honor when he was\nahead.\n\n\"I ought to go,\" he said hesitatingly. \"I told George when I said that\nI'd sit in that I'd have to leave at eleven. I've got an eccy quiz\nto-morrow that I've got to study for.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't leave now,\" one of the men said excitedly. \"Why, hell, man,\nthe game's just getting warm.\"\n\n\"I know,\" Hugh agreed, \"and I hate like hell to quit, but I've really\ngot to beat it. Besides, the stakes are too big for me. I can't afford a\ngame like this.\"\n\n\"You can afford it as well as I can,\" Mandel said irritably. \"I'm over\ntwo hundred berries in the hole right now, and you can goddamn well bet\nthat I'm not going to leave until I get them back.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm a hundred and fifty to the bad,\" Winsor announced miserably,\n\"but I've got to go. If I don't hit that eccy, I'm going to be out of\nluck.\" He shoved back his chair. \"I hate like hell to leave; but I\npromised Hugh that I'd leave with him at eleven, and I've got to do it.\"\n\nAllen had been quite indifferent when Hugh said that he was leaving.\nHugh was obviously small money, and Allen had no time to waste on\nchicken-feed, but Winsor was a different matter.\n\n\"You don't want to go, George, when you're in the hole. Better stick\naround. Maybe you'll win it back. Your luck can't be bad all night.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" said Winsor, stretching mightily. \"It can't be bad all\nnight, but I can't hang around all night to watch it change. You're\nwelcome to the hundred and fifty, Ted, but some night soon I'm coming\nover and take it away from you.\"\n\nAllen laughed. \"Any time you say, George.\"\n\nHugh and Winsor settled their accounts, then stood up, aching and weary,\ntheir muscles cramped from three hours of sitting and nervous tension.\nThey said brief good nights, unlocked the door--they heard Allen lock it\nbehind them--and left their disgruntled friends, glad to be out of the\nnoisome odor of the room.\n\n\"God, what luck!\" Winsor exclaimed as they started down the hall. \"I'm\noff Allen for good. That boy wins big pots too regularly and always\nloses the little ones. I bet he's a cold-deck artist or something.\"\n\n\"He's something all right,\" Hugh agreed. \"Cripes, I feel dirty and\nstinko. I feel as if I'd been in a den.\"\n\n\"You have been. Say, what's that?\" They had almost traversed the length\nof the long hall when Winsor stopped suddenly, taking Hugh by the arm. A\ndoor was open, and they could hear somebody reading.\n\n\"What's what?\" Hugh asked, a little startled by the suddenness of\nWinsor's question.\n\n\"Listen. That poem, I've heard it somewhere before. What is it?\"\n\nHugh listened a moment and then said: \"Oh, that's the poem Prof Blake\nread us the other day--you know, 'marpessa.' It's about the shepherd,\n_Apollo_, and _Marpessa_. It's great stuff. Listen.\"\n\nThey remained standing in the deserted hall, the voice coming clearly to\nthem through the open doorway. \"It's Freddy Fowler,\" Winsor whispered.\n\"He can sure read.\"\n\nThe reading stopped, and they heard Fowler say to some one, presumably\nhis room-mate: \"This is the part that I like best. Get it,\" Then he read\n_Idas's_ plea to _Marpessa_:\n\n\n                \"'After such argument what can I plead?\n                  Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is\n                  In women to pity rather than to aspire,\n                  A little I will speak. I love thee then\n                  Not only for thy body packed with sweet\n                  Of all this world, that cup of brimming June,\n                  That jar of violet wine set in the air,\n                  That palest rose sweet in the night of life;\n                  Nor for that stirring bosom, all besieged\n                  By drowsing lovers, or thy perilous hair;\n                  Nor for that face that might indeed provoke\n                  Invasion of old cities; no, nor all\n                  Thy freshness stealing on me like strange sleep.'\"\n\n\nWinsor's hand tightened on Hugh's arm, and the two boys stood almost\nrigid listening to the young voice, which was trembling with emotion,\nrich with passion:\n\n\n                \"'Not only for this do I love thee, but\n                  Because Infinity upon thee broods;\n                  And thou are full of whispers and of shadows.\n                  Thou meanest what the sea has striven to say\n                  So long, and yearned up the cliffs to tell;\n                  Thou art what all the winds have uttered not,\n                  What the still night suggesteth to the heart.\n                  Thy voice is like to music heard ere birth,\n                  Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea;\n                  Thy face remembered is from other worlds,\n                  It has been died for, though I know not when,\n                  It has been sung of, though I know not where.'\"\n\n\n\"God,\" Winsor whispered, \"that's beautiful.\"\n\n\"Hush. This is the best part.\"\n\n\n                \"'It has the strangeness of the luring West,\n                  And of sad sea-horizons; beside thee\n                  I am aware of other times and lands,\n                  Of birth far back, of lives in many stars.\n                  O beauty lone and like a candle clear\n                  In this dark country of the world! Thou art\n                  My woe, my early light, my music dying.'\"\n\n\nHugh and Winsor remained silent while the young voice went on reading\n_Maressa's_ reply, her gentle refusal of the god and her proud\nacceptance, of the mortal. Finally they heard the last words:\n\n\n                \"When she had spoken, Idas with one cry\n                 Held her, and there was silence; while the god\n                 In anger disappeared. Then slowly they,\n                 He looking downward, and she gazing up,\n                 Into the evening green wandered away.\"\n\n\nWhen the voice paused, the poem done, the two boys walked slowly down\nthe hall, down the steps, and out into the cool night air. Neither said\na Word until they were half-way across the campus. Then Winsor spoke\nsoftly:\n\n\"God! Wasn't that beautiful?\"\n\n\"Yes--beautiful.\" Hugh's voice was hardly more than a whisper.\n\"Beautiful.... It--it--oh, it makes me--kinda ashamed.\"\n\n\"Me, too. Poker when we can have that! We're awful fools, Hugh.\"\n\n\"Yes--awful fools.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nProm came early in May, and Hugh looked forward to it joyously, partly\nbecause it would be his first Prom and partly because Cynthia was\ncoming. Cynthia! He thought of her constantly, dreamed of her, wrote\npoems about her and to her. At times his longing for her swelled into an\necstasy of desire that racked and tore him. He was lost in love, his\nmoods sweeping him from lyric happiness to black despair. He wrote to\nher several times a week, and between letters he took long walks\ncomposing dithyrambic epistles that fortunately were never written.\n\nWhen he received her letter saying that she would come to Prom, he\nyelled like a lunatic, pounded the astonished Vinton on the back, and\nraced down-stairs to the living-room.\n\n\"She's coming!\" he shouted.\n\nThere were several men in the room, and they all turned and looked at\nhim, some of them grinning broadly.\n\n\"What th' hell, Hugh?\" Leonard Gates asked amiably. \"Who's coming? Who's\nshe?\"\n\nHugh blushed and shuffled his feet. He knew that he had laid himself\nopen to a \"royal razzing,\" but he proceeded to bluff himself out of the\ndilemma.\n\n\"She? Oh, yes, she. Well, she is she. Altogether divine, Len.\" He was\ntrying hard to be casual and flippant, but his eyes were dancing and his\nlips trembled with smiles.\n\nGates grinned at him. \"A poor bluff, old man--a darn poor bluff. You're\nin love, _pauvre enfant_, and I'm afraid that you're in a very bad way.\nCome on, tell us the lady's name, her pedigree, and list of charms.\"\n\nHugh grinned back at Gates. \"Chase yourself,\" he said gaily. \"I won't\ntell you a blamed thing about her.\"\n\n\"You'd better,\" said Jim Saunders from the depths of a leather chair.\n\"Is she the jane whose picture adorns your desk?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Hugh admitted. \"How do you like her?\"\n\n\"Very fair, very fair.\" Saunders was magnificently lofty. \"I've seen\nbetter, of course, but I've seen worse, too. Not bad--um, not very bad.\"\n\nThe \"razzing\" had started, and Hugh lost his nerve.\n\n\"Jim, you can go to hell,\" he said definitely, prepared to rush\nup-stairs before Saunders could reply. \"You don't know a queen when you\nsee one. Why, Cynthia--\"\n\n\"Cynthia!\" four of the boys shouted. \"So her name's Cynthia. That's--\"\n\nBut Hugh was half-way up-stairs, embarrassed and delighted.\n\nThe girls arrived on Thursday, the train which brought most of them\nreaching Haydensville early in the afternoon. Hugh paced up and down the\nstation, trying to keep up a pretense of a conversation with two or\nthree others. He gave the wrong reply twice and then decided to say\nnothing more. He listened with his whole body for the first whistle of\nthe train, and so great was the chatter of the hundreds of waiting\nyouths that he never heard it. Suddenly the engine rounded a curve, and\na minute later the train stopped before the station. Immediately the\nboys began to mill around the platform like cattle about to stampede,\nstanding on their toes to look over the heads of their comrades,\nshoving, shouting, dancing in their impatience.\n\nGirls began to descend the steps of the cars. The stampede broke. A\nyouth would see \"his girl\" and start through the crowd for her. Dozens\nspotted their girls at the same time and tried to run through the crowd.\nThey bumped into one another, laughed joyously, bumped into somebody\nelse, and finally reached the girl.\n\nWhen Hugh eventually saw Cynthia standing on a car platform near him, he\nshouted to her and held his hand high in greeting. She saw him and waved\nback, at the same time starting down the steps.\n\nShe had a little scarlet hat pulled down over her curly brown hair, and\nshe wore a simple blue traveling-suit that set off her slender figure\nperfectly. Her eyes seemed bigger and browner than ever, her nose more\nimpudently tilted, her mouth more supremely irresistible. Her cheeks\nwere daintily rouged, her eyebrows plucked into a thin arch. She was New\nYork from her small pumps to the expensively simple scarlet hat.\n\nHugh dashed several people aside and grabbed her hand, squeezing it\nunmercifully.\n\n\"Oh, gee, Cynthia, I'm glad to see you. I thought the darn train was\nnever going to get here. How are you? Gee, you're looking great,\nwonderful. Where's your suit-case?\" He fairly stuttered in his\nexcitement, his words toppling over each other.\n\n\"I'm full of pep. You look wonderful. There's my suit-case, the big\nblack one. Give the porter two bits or something. I haven't any change.\"\nHugh tipped the porter, picked up the suit-case with one hand, and took\nCynthia by the arm with the other, carefully piloting her through the\nnoisy, surging crowd of boys and girls, all of them talking at top speed\nand in high, excited voices.\n\nOnce Hugh and Cynthia were off the platform they could talk without\nshouting.\n\n\"We've got to walk up the hill,\" Hugh explained miserably. \"I couldn't\nget a car for love nor money. I'm awfully sorry.\"\n\nCynthia did a dance-step and petted his arm happily. \"What do I care?\nI'm so--so damn glad to see you, Hugh. You look nicer'n ever--just as\nclean and washed and sweet. Ooooh, look at him blush! Stop it or I'll\nhave to kiss you right here. Stop it, I say.\"\n\nBut Hugh went right on blushing. \"Go ahead,\" he said bravely. \"I wish\nyou would.\"\n\nCynthia laughed. \"Like fun you do. You'd die of embarrassment. But your\nmouth is an awful temptation. You have the sweetest mouth, Hugh. It's so\ndamn kissable.\"\n\nShe continued to banter him until they reached the fraternity house.\n\"Where do I live?\" she demanded. \"In your room, I hope.\"\n\n\"Yep. I'm staying down in Keller Hall with Norry Parker. His room-mate's\nsick in the hospital; so he's got room for me. Norry's going to see you\nlater.\"\n\n\"Right-o. What do we do when I get six pounds of dirt washed off and\nsome powder on my nose?\"\n\n\"Well, we're having a tea-dance here at the house at four-thirty; but\nwe've got an hour till then, and I thought we'd take a walk. I want to\nshow you the college.\"\n\nAfter Cynthia had repaired the damages of travel and had been introduced\nto Hugh's fraternity brothers and their girls, she and Hugh departed\nfor a tour of the campus. The lawns were so green that the grass seemed\nto be bursting with color; the elms waved tiny new leaves in a faint\nbreeze; the walls of the buildings were speckled with green patches of\nivy. Cynthia was properly awed by the chapel and enthusiastic over the\nother buildings. She assured Hugh that Sanford men looked awfully smooth\nin their knickers and white flannels; in fact, she said the whole\ncollege seemed jake to her.\n\nThey wandered past the lake and into the woods as if by common consent.\nOnce they were out of sight of passers-by, Hugh paused and turned to\nCynthia. Without a word she stepped into his arms and lifted her face to\nhis, Hugh's heart seemed to stop; he was so hungry for that kiss, he had\nwaited so long for it.\n\nWhen he finally took his lips from hers, Cynthia whispered softly,\n\"You're such a good egg, Hugh honey, such a damn good egg.\"\n\nHugh could say nothing; he just held her close, his mind swimming\ndizzily, his whole being atingle. For a long time he held her, kissing\nher, now tenderly, now almost brutally, lost in a thrill of passion.\n\nFinally she whispered faintly: \"No more, Hugh. Not now, dear.\"\n\nHugh released her reluctantly. \"I love you so damned hard, Cynthia,\" he\nsaid huskily. \"I--I can't keep my hands off of you.\"\n\n\"I know,\" she replied. \"But we've got to go back. Wait a minute,\nthough. I must look like the devil.\" She straightened her hat, powdered\nher nose, and then tucked her arm in his.\n\nAfter the tea-dance and dinner, Hugh left her to dress for the Dramatic\nSociety musical comedy that was to be performed that evening. He\nreturned to Norry Parker's room and prepared to put on his Tuxedo.\n\n\"You look as if somebody had left you a million dollars,\" Norry said to\nHugh. \"I don't think I ever saw anybody look so happy. You--you shine.\"\n\nHugh laughed. \"I am happy, Norry, happy as hell. I'm so happy I ache.\nOh, God, Cynthia's wonderful. I'm crazy about her, Norry--plumb crazy.\"\n\nNorry had known Cynthia for years, and despite his ingenuousness, he had\nnoticed some of her characteristics.\n\n\"I never expected you to fall in love with Cynthia, Hugh,\" he said in\nhis gentle way. \"I'm awfully surprised.\"\n\nHugh was humming a strain from \"Say it with Music\" while he undressed.\nHe pulled off his trousers and then turned to Norry, who was sitting on\nthe bed. \"What did you say? You said something, didn't you?\"\n\nNorry smiled. For some quite inexplicable reason, he suddenly felt\nolder than Hugh.\n\n\"Yes, I said something. I said that I never expected you to fall in love\nwith Cynthia.\"\n\nHugh paused in taking off his socks. \"Why not?\" he demanded. \"She's\nwonderful.\"\n\n\"You're so different.\"\n\n\"How different? We understand each other perfectly. Of course, we only\nsaw each other for a week when I was down at your place, but we\nunderstood each other from the first. I was crazy about her as soon as I\nsaw her.\"\n\nNorry was troubled. \"I don't think I can explain exactly,\" he said\nslowly. \"Cynthia runs with a fast crowd, and she smokes and drinks--and\nyou're--well, you're idealistic.\"\n\nHugh pulled off his underclothes and laughed as he stuck his feet into\nslippers and drew on a bath-robe. \"Of course, she does. All the girls do\nnow. She's just as idealistic as I am.\"\n\nHe wrapped the bath-robe around him and departed for the showers,\nsinging gaily:\n\n\n                \"Say it with music,\n                 Beautiful music;\n                 Somehow they'd rather be kissed\n                 To the strains of Chopin or Liszt.\n                 A melody mellow played on a cello\n                 Helps Mister Cupid along--\n                 So say it with a beautiful song.\"\n\n\nShortly he returned, still singing the same song, his voice full and\nhappy. He continued to sing as he dressed, paying no attention to Norry,\ncompletely lost in his own Elysian thoughts.\n\nTo Hugh and Cynthia the musical comedy was a complete success, although\nthe music, written by an undergraduate, was strangely reminiscent of\nseveral recent Broadway song successes, and the plot of the comedy got\nlost after the first ten minutes and was never recovered until the last\ntwo. It was amusing to watch men try to act like women, and two of the\n\"ladies\" of the chorus were patently drunk. _Cleopatra_, the leading\nlady, was a wrestler and looked it, his biceps swelling magnificently\nevery time he raised his arms to embrace the comic _Antony_. It was\nglorious nonsense badly enough done to be really funny. Hugh and\nCynthia, along with the rest of the audience, laughed joyously--and held\nhands.\n\nAfter the play was over, they returned to the Nu Delta house and danced\nuntil two in the morning. During one dance Cynthia whispered to him,\n\"Hugh, get me a drink or I'll pass out.\"\n\nHugh, forgetting his indignation of the year before, went in search of\nVinton and deprived that young man of a pint of gin without a scruple.\nHe and Cynthia then sneaked behind the house and did away with the\nliquor. Other couples were drinking, all of them surreptitiously,\nLeonard Gates having laid down the law in no uncertain manner, and all\nof the brothers were a little afraid of Gates.\n\nCynthia slept until noon the next day, and Hugh went to his classes. In\nthe afternoon they attended a baseball game, and then returned to the\nfraternity house for another tea-dance. The Prom was to be that night.\nHugh assured Cynthia that it was going to be a \"wet party,\" and that\nVinton had sold him a good supply of Scotch.\n\nThe campus was rife with stories: this was the wettest Prom on record,\nthe girls were drinking as much as the men, some of the fraternities had\nmade the sky the limit, the dormitories were being invaded by couples in\nthe small hours of the night, and so on. Hugh heard numerous stories but\npaid no attention to them. He was supremely happy, and that was all that\nmattered. True, several men had advised him to bring plenty of liquor\nalong to the Prom if he wanted to have a good time, and he was careful\nto act on their advice, especially as Cynthia had assured him that she\nwould dance until doomsday if he kept her \"well oiled with hooch.\"\n\nThe gymnasium was gaily decorated for the Prom, the walls hidden with\ngreenery, the rafters twined with the college colors and almost lost\nbehind hundreds of small Japanese lanterns. The fraternity booths were\nmade of fir boughs, and the orchestra platform in the middle of the\nfloor looked like a small forest of saplings.\n\nThe girls were beautiful in the soft glow of the lanterns, their arms\nand shoulders smooth and white; the men were trim and neat in their\nTuxedos, the dark suits emphasizing the brilliant colors of the girls'\ngowns.\n\nIt was soon apparent that some of the couples had got at least half\n\"oiled\" before the dance began, and before an hour had passed many more\ncouples gave evidence of imbibing more freely than wisely. Occasionally\na hysterical laugh burst shrilly above the pounding of the drums and the\nmoaning of the saxophones. A couple would stagger awkwardly against\nanother couple and then continue unevenly on an uncertain way.\n\nThe stags seemed to be the worst offenders. Many of them were joyously\ndrunk, dashing dizzily across the floor to find a partner, and once\nhaving taken her from a friend, dragging her about, happily unconscious\nof anything but the girl and the insistent rhythm of the music.\n\nThe musicians played as if in a frenzy, the drums pound-pounding a\nterrible tom-tom, the saxophones moaning and wailing, the violins\nsinging sensuously, shrilly as if in pain, an exquisite searing pain.\n\nBoom, boom, boom, boom. \"Stumbling all around, stumbling all around,\nstumbling all around so funny--\" Close-packed the couples moved slowly\nabout the gymnasium, body pressed tight to body, swaying in place--boom,\nboom, boom, boom--\"Stumbling here and there, stumbling everywhere--\"\nSix dowagers, the chaperons, sat in a corner, gossiped, and idly watched\nthe young couples.... A man suddenly released his girl and raced\nclumsily for the door, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other\nstretched uncertainly in front of him.\n\nAlways the drums beating their terrible tom-tom, their primitive,\nblood-maddening tom-tom.... Boom, boom, boom, boom--\"I like it just a\nlittle bit, just a little bit, quite a little bit.\" The music ceased,\nand some of the couples disentangled themselves; others waited in frank\nembrace for the orchestra to begin the encore.... A boy slumped in a\nchair, his head in his hands. His partner sought two friends. They\nhelped the boy out of the gymnasium.\n\nThe orchestra leader lifted his bow. The stags waited in a broken line,\nlooking for certain girls. The music began, turning a song with comic\nwords into something weirdly sensuous--strange syncopations, uneven,\nstartling drum-beats--a mad tom-tom. The couples pressed close together\nagain, swaying, barely moving in place--boom, boom, boom,\nboom--\"Second-hand hats, second-hand clothes--That's why they call me\nsecond-hand Rose....\" The saxophones sang the melody with passionate\ndespair; the violins played tricks with a broken heart; the clarinets\nrose shrill in pain; the drums beat on--boom, boom, boom, boom.... A\nboy and girl sought a dark corner. He shielded her with his body while\nshe took a drink from a flask. Then he turned his face to the corner and\ndrank. A moment later they were back on the floor, holding each other\ntight, drunkenly swaying... Finally the last strains, a wall of\nagony--\"Ev-'ry one knows that I'm just Sec-ond-hand Rose--from Sec-ond\nAv-en-ue.\"\n\nThe couples moved slowly off the floor, the pounding of the drums still\nin their ears and in their blood; some of them sought the fraternity\nbooths; some of the girls retired to their dressing-room, perhaps to\nhave another drink; many of the men went outside for a smoke and to tip\na flask upward. Through the noise, the sex-madness, the half-drunken\ndancers, moved men and women quite sober, the men vainly trying to\nshield the women from contact with any one who was drunk. There was an\nangry light in those men's eyes, but most of them said nothing, merely\nkept close to their partners, ready to defend them from any too\nassertive friend.\n\nAgain the music, again the tom-tom of the drums. On and on for hours. A\nman \"passed out cold\" and had to be carried from the gymnasium. A girl\ngot a \"laughing jag\" and shrieked with idiotic laughter until her\npartner managed to lead her protesting off the floor. On and on, the\nconstant rhythmic wailing of the fiddles, syncopated passion screaming\nwith lust, the drums, horribly primitive; drunken embraces.... \"Oh,\nthose Wabash Blues--I know I got my dues--A lone-some soul am I--I feel\nthat I could die...\" Blues, sobbing, despairing blues.... Orgiastic\nmusic--beautiful, hideous! \"Can-dle light that gleams--Haunts me in my\ndreams...\" The drums boom, boom, boom, booming--\"I'll pack my walking\nshoes, to lose--those Wa-bash Blues...\"\n\nHour after hour--on and on. Flushed faces, breaths hot with passion and\nwhisky.... Pretty girls, cool and sober, dancing with men who held them\nwith drunken lasciviousness; sober men hating the whisky breaths of the\ngirls.... On and on, the drunken carnival to maddening music--the\npassion, the lust.\n\nBoth Hugh and Cynthia were drinking, and by midnight both of them were\ndrunk, too drunk any longer to think clearly. As they danced, Hugh was\naware of nothing but Cynthia's body, her firm young body close to his.\nHis blood beat with the pounding of the drums. He held her tighter and\ntighter--the gymnasium, the other couples, a swaying mist before his\neyes.\n\nWhen the dance ended, Cynthia whispered huskily, \"Ta-take me somewhere,\nHugh.\"\n\nStrangely enough, he got the significance of her words at once. His\nblood raced, and he staggered so crazily that Cynthia had to hold him by\nthe arm.\n\n\"Sure--sure; I'll--I'll ta-take you some-somewhere. I--I, too,\nCyntheea.\"\n\nThey walked unevenly out of the gymnasium, down the steps, and through\nthe crowd of smokers standing outside. Hardly aware of what he was\ndoing, Hugh led Cynthia to Keller Hall, which was not more than fifty\nyards distant.\n\nHe took a flask out of his pocket. \"Jush one more drink,\" he said\nthickly and emptied the bottle. Then, holding Cynthia desperately by the\narm, he opened the door of Keller Hall and stumbled with her up the\nstairs to Norry Parker's room. Fortunately the hallways were deserted,\nand no one saw them. The door was unlocked, and Hugh, after searching\nblindly for the switch, finally clicked on the lights and mechanically\nclosed the door behind him.\n\nHe was very dizzy. He wanted another drink--and he wanted Cynthia. He\nput his arms around her and pulled her drunkenly to him. The door of one\nof the bedrooms opened, and Norry Parker stood watching them. He had\nspent the evening at the home of a musical professor and had returned to\nhis room only a few minutes before. His face went white when he saw the\nembracing couple.\n\n\"Hugh!\" he said sharply.\n\nHugh and Cynthia, still clinging to each other, looked at him. Slowly\nCynthia took her arms from around Hugh's neck and forced herself from\nhis embrace. Norry disappeared into his room and came out a minute later\nwith his coat on; he had just begun to undress when he had heard a noise\nin the study.\n\n\"I'll see you home, Cynthia,\" he said quietly. He took her arm and led\nher out of the room--and locked the door behind him. Hugh stared at them\nblankly, swaying slightly, completely befuddled. Cynthia went with Norry\nwillingly enough, leaning heavily on his arm and occasionally sniffing.\n\nWhen he returned to his room, Hugh was sitting on the floor staring at a\nphotograph of Norry's mother. He had been staring at it for ten minutes,\nholding it first at arm's length and then drawing it closer and closer\nto him. No matter where he held it, he could not see what it was--and he\nwas determined to see it.\n\nNorry walked up to him and reached for the photograph.\n\n\"Give me that,\" he said curtly. \"Take your hands on my mother's\npicture.\"\n\n\"It's not,\" Hugh exclaimed angrily; \"it's not. It's my musher, my own\nmu-musher--my, my own dear musher. Oh, oh!\"\n\nHe slumped down in a heap and began to sob bitterly, muttering, \"Musher,\nmusher, musher.\"\n\nNorry was angry. The whole scene was revolting to him. His best friend\nwas a disgusting sight, apparently not much better than a gibbering\nidiot. And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospitality. Norry was no\nlonger gentle and boyish; he was bitterly disillusioned.\n\n\"Get up,\" he said briefly. \"Get up and go to bed.\"\n\n\"Tha's my musher. You said it wasn't my--my musher.\" Hugh looked up, his\nface wet with maudlin tears.\n\nNorry leaned over and snatched the picture from him. \"Take your dirty\nhands off of that,\" he snapped. \"Get up and go to bed.\"\n\n\"Tha's my musher.\" Hugh was gently persistent.\n\n\"It's not your mother. You make me sick. Go to bed.\" Norry tugged at\nHugh's arm impotently; Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight.\n\nNorry's gray eyes narrowed. He took a glass, filled it with cold water\nin the bedroom, and then deliberately dashed the water into Hugh's face.\n\nThen he repeated the performance.\n\nHugh shook his head and rubbed his hands wonderingly over his face. \"I'm\nno good,\" he said almost clearly. \"I'm no good.\"\n\n\"You certainly aren't. Come on; get up and go to bed.\" Again Norry\ntugged at his arm, and this time Hugh, clinging clumsily to the edge of\nthe table by which he was sitting, staggered to his feet.\n\n\"I'm a blot,\" he declared mournfully; \"I'm no good, Norry. I'm an--an\nexcreeshence, an ex-cree-shence, tha's what I am.\"\n\n\"Something of the sort,\" Norry agreed in disgust. \"Here, let me take off\nyour coat.\"\n\n\"Leave my coat alone.\" He pulled himself away from Norry. \"I'm no good.\nI'm an ex-cree-shence. I'm goin' t' commit suicide; tha's what I'm goin'\nt' do. Nobody'll care 'cept my musher, and she wouldn't either if she\nknew me. Oh, oh, I wish I didn't use a shafety-razor. I'll tell you what\nto do, Norry.\" He clung pleadingly to Norry's arm and begged with\npassionate intensity. \"You go over to Harry King's room. He's got a\nre-re--a pistol. You get it for me and I'll put it right here--\" he\ntouched his temple awkwardly--\"and I'll--I'll blow my damn brains out.\nI'm a blot, Norry; I'm an ex-cree-shence.\"\n\nNorry shook him. \"Shut up. You've got to go to bed. You're drunk.\"\n\n\"I'm sick. I'm an ex-cree-shence.\" The room was whizzing rapidly around\nHugh, and he clung hysterically to Norry. Finally he permitted himself\nto be led into the bedroom and undressed, still moaning that he was an\n\"ex-cree-shence.\"\n\nThe bed pitched. He lay on his right side, clutching the covers in\nterror. He turned over on his back. Still the bed swung up and down\nsickeningly. Then he twisted over to his left side, and the bed\nsuddenly swung into rest, almost stable. In a few minutes he was sound\nasleep.\n\nHe cut chapel and his two classes the next morning, one at nine and the\nother at ten o'clock; in fact, it was nearly eleven when he awoke. His\nhead was splitting with pain, his tongue was furry, and his mouth tasted\nlike bilge-water. He made wry faces, passed his thick tongue around his\ndry mouth--oh, so damnably dry!--and pressed the palms of his hands to\nhis pounding temples. He craved a drink of cold water, but he was afraid\nto get out of bed. He felt pathetically weak and dizzy.\n\nNorry walked into the room and stood quietly looking at him.\n\n\"Get me a drink, Norry, please,\" Hugh begged.\n\n\"I'm parched.\" He rolled over. \"Ouch! God, how my head aches!\"\n\nNorry brought him the drink, but nothing less than three glasses even\nbegan to satisfy Hugh. Then, still saying nothing, Norry put a cold\ncompress on Hugh's hot forehead.\n\n\"Thanks, Norry old man. That's awfully damn good of you.\"\n\nNorry walked out of the room, and Hugh quickly fell into a light sleep.\nAn hour later he woke up, quite unaware of the fact that Norry had\nchanged the cold compress three times. The nap had refreshed him. He\nstill felt weak and faint; but his head no longer throbbed, and his\nthroat was less dry.\n\n\"Norry,\" he called feebly.\n\n\"Yes?\" Norry stood in the doorway. \"Feeling better?\"\n\n\"Yes, some. Come sit down on the bed. I want to talk to you. But get me\nanother drink first, please. My mouth tastes like burnt rubber.\"\n\nNorry gave him the drink and then sat down on the edge of the bed,\nsilently waiting.\n\n\"I'm awfully ashamed of myself, old man,\" Hugh began. \"I--I don't know\nwhat to say. I can't remember much what happened. I remember bringing\nCynthia up here and you coming in and then--well, I somehow can't\nremember anything after that. What did you do?\"\n\n\"I took Cynthia home and then came back and put you to bed.\" Norry gazed\nat the floor and spoke softly.\n\n\"You took Cynthia home?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\nHugh stared at him in awe. \"But if you'd been seen with her in the dorm,\nyou'd have been fired from college.\"\n\n\"Nobody saw us. It's all right.\"\n\nHugh wanted to cry. \"Oh, Lord, Norry, you're white,\" he exclaimed. \"The\nwhitest fellow that ever lived. You took that chance for me.\"\n\n\"That's all right.\" Norry was painfully embarrassed.\n\n\"And I'm such a rotter. You--you know what we came up here for?\"\n\n\"I can guess.\" Norry's glance still rested on the floor. He spoke hardly\nabove a whisper.\n\n\"Nothing happened. I swear it, Norry. I meant to--but--but you\ncame--thank God! I was awfully soused. I guess you think I'm rotten,\nNorry. I suppose I am. I don't know how I could treat you this way. Are\nyou awfully angry?\"\n\n\"I was last night,\" Norry replied honestly, \"but I'm not this morning.\nI'm just terribly disappointed. I understand, I guess; I'm human,\ntoo--but I'm disappointed. I can't forget the way you looked.\"\n\n\"Don't!\" Hugh cried. \"Please don't, Norry. I--I can't stand it if you\ntalk that way. I'm so damned ashamed. Please forgive me.\"\n\nNorry was very near to tears. \"Of course, I forgive you,\" he whispered,\n\"but I hope you won't do it again.\"\n\n\"I won't, Norry. I promise you. Oh, God, I'm no good. That's twice I've\nbeen stopped by an accident. I'll go straight now, though; I promise\nyou.\"\n\nNorry stood up. \"It's nearly noon,\" he said more naturally. \"Cynthia\nwill be wondering where you are.\"\n\n\"Cynthia! Oh, Norry, how can I face her?\"\n\n\"You've got to,\" said the young moralist firmly.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" the sinner agreed, his voice miserably lugubrious.\n\"God!\"\n\nAfter three cups of coffee, however, the task did not seem so\nimpossible. Hugh entered the Nu Delta house with a fairly jaunty air and\ngreeted the men and women easily enough. His heart skipped a beat when\nhe saw Cynthia standing in the far corner of the living-room. She was\nwearing her scarlet hat and blue suit.\n\nShe saved him the embarrassment of opening the conversation. \"Come into\nthe library,\" she said softly. \"I want to speak to you.\"\n\nWondering and rather frightened, he followed her.\n\n\"I'm going home this afternoon,\" she began. \"I've got everything packed,\nand I've told everybody that I don't feel very well.\"\n\n\"You aren't sick?\" he asked, really worried.\n\n\"Of course not, but I had to say something. The train leaves in an hour\nor two, and I want to have a talk with you before I go.\"\n\n\"But hang it, Cynthia, think of what you're missing. There's a baseball\ngame with Raleigh this afternoon, a tea-dance in the Union after that,\nthe Musical Clubs concert this evening--I sing with the Glee club and\nNorry's going to play a solo, and I'm in the Banjo Club, too--and we are\ngoing to have a farewell dance at the house after the concert.\" Hugh\npleaded earnestly; but somehow down in his heart he wished that she\nwouldn't stay.\n\n\"I know, but I've got to go. Let's go somewhere out in the woods where\nwe can talk without being disturbed.\"\n\nStill protesting, he led her out of the house, across the campus, past\nthe lake, and into the woods. Finally they sat down on a smooth rock.\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry to bust up your party, Hugh,\" Cynthia began slowly,\n\"but I've been doing some thinking, and I've just got to beat it.\" She\npaused a moment and then looked him square in the eyes. \"Do you love\nme?\"\n\nFor an instant Hugh's eyes dropped, and then he looked up and lied like\na gentleman. \"Yes,\" he said simply; \"I love you, Cynthia.\"\n\nShe smiled almost wearily and shook her head. \"You _are_ a good egg,\nHugh. It was white of you to say that, but I know that you don't love\nme. You did yesterday, but you don't now. Do you realize that you\nhaven't asked to kiss me to-day?\"\n\nHugh flushed and stammered: \"I--I've got an awful hang-over, Cynthia. I\nfeel rotten.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, but that isn't why you didn't want to kiss me. I know all\nabout it. Listen, Hugh.\" She faced him bravely. \"I've been running with\na fast crowd for three years, and I've learned a lot about fellows; and\nmost of 'em that I've known weren't your kind. How old are you?\"\n\n\"Twenty-one in a couple of months.\"\n\n\"I'm twenty and lots wiser about some things than you are. I've been\ncrazy about you--I guess I am kinda yet--and I know that you thought you\nwere in love with me. I wanted you to have hold of me all the time.\nThat's all that mattered. It was--was your body, Hugh. You're sweet and\nfine, and I respect you, but I'm not the kid for you to run around with.\nI'm too fast. I woke up early this morning, and I've done a lot of\nthinking since. You know what we came near doing last night? Well,\nthat's all we want each other for. We're not in love.\"\n\nA phrase from the bull sessions rushed into Hugh's mind. \"You mean--sex\nattraction?\" he asked in some embarrassment. He felt weak and tired. He\nseemed to be listening to Cynthia in a dream. Nothing was real--and\neverything was a little sad.\n\n\"Yes, that's it--and, oh, Hugh, somehow I don't want that with you.\nWe're not the same kind at all. I used to think that when I got your\nletters. Sometimes I hardly understood them, but I'd close my eyes and\nsee you so strong and blond and clean, and I'd imagine you were holding\nme tight--and--and then I was happy. I guess I did kinda love you, but\nwe've spoiled it.\" She wanted desperately to cry but bit her lip and\nheld back her tears.\n\n\"I think I know what you mean, Cynthia,\" Hugh said softly. \"I don't know\nmuch about love and sex attraction and that sort of thing, but I know\nthat I was happier kissing you than I've ever been in my life. I--I wish\nthat last night hadn't happened. I hate myself.\"\n\n\"You needn't. It was more my fault than yours. I'm a pretty bad egg, I\nguess; and the booze and you holding me was too much. I hate myself,\ntoo. I've spoiled the nicest thing that ever happened to me.\" She looked\nup at him, her eyes bright with tears. \"I _did_ love you, Hugh. I loved\nyou as much as I could love any one.\"\n\nHugh put his arms around her and drew her to him. Then he bent his head\nand kissed her gently. There was no passion in his embrace, but there\nwas infinite tenderness. He felt spiritually and physically weak, as if\nall his emotional resources had been quite spent.\n\n\"I think that I love you more than I ever did before,\" he whispered.\n\nIf he had shown any passion, if there had been any warmth in his kiss,\nCynthia might have believed him, but she was aware only of his\ngentleness. She pushed him back and drew out of his arms.\n\n\"No,\" she said sharply; \"you don't love me. You're just sorry for\nme.... You're just kind.\"\n\nHugh had read \"Marpessa\" many times, and a line from it came to make her\nattitude clear:\n\n\n                                \"thou wouldst grow kind;\n                 Most bitter to a woman that was loved.\"\n\n\n\"Oh, I don't know; I don't know,\" he said miserably. \"Let's not call\neverything off now, Cynthia. Let's wait a while.\"\n\n\"No!\" She stood up decisively. \"No. I hate loose ends.\" She glanced at\nher tiny wrist-watch. \"If I'm going to make that train, I've got to\nhurry. We've got barely half an hour. Come, Hugh. Be a sport.\"\n\nHe stood up, his face white and weary, his blue eyes dull and sad.\n\n\"Just as you say, Cynthia,\" he said slowly. \"But I'm going to miss you\nlike hell.\"\n\nShe did not reply but started silently for the path. He followed her,\nand they walked back to the fraternity house without saying a word, both\nbusy with unhappy thoughts.\n\nWhen they reached the fraternity, she got her suit-case, handed it to\nhim, declined his offer of a taxi, and walked unhappily by his side down\nthe hill that they had climbed so gaily two days before. Hugh had just\ntime to get her ticket before the train started.\n\nShe paused a moment at the car steps and held out her hand. \"Good-by,\nHugh,\" she said softly, her lips trembling, her eyes full of tears.\n\n\"Good-by, Cynthia,\" he whispered. And then, foolishly, \"Thanks for\ncoming.\"\n\nShe did not smile but drew her hand from his and mounted the steps. An\ninstant later she was inside the car and the train was moving.\n\nNumbed and miserable, Hugh slowly climbed the hill and wandered back to\nNorry Parker's room. He was glad that Norry wasn't there. He paced up\nand down the room a few minutes trying to think. Then he threw himself\ndespairingly on a couch, face down. He wanted to cry; he had never\nwanted so much to cry--and he couldn't. There were no tears--and he had\nlost something very precious. He thought it was love; it was only his\ndreams.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nFor several days Hugh was tortured by doubt and indecision: there were\ntimes when he thought that he loved Cynthia, times when he was sure that\nhe didn't; when he had just about made up his mind that he hated her, he\nfound himself planning to follow her to New Rochelle; he tried to\npersuade himself that his conduct was no more reprehensible than that of\nhis comrades, but shame invariably overwhelmed his arguments; there were\nhours when he ached for Cynthia, and hours when he loathed her for\nsmashing something that had been beautiful. Most of all, he wanted\ncomfort, advice, but he knew no one to whom he was willing to give his\nconfidence. Somehow, he couldn't admit his drunkenness to any one whose\nadvice he valued. He called on Professor Henley twice, intending to make\na clean breast of his transgressions. Henley, he knew, would not lecture\nhim, but when he found himself facing him, he could not bring himself to\nconfession; he was afraid of losing Henley's respect.\n\nFinally, in desperation, he talked to Norry, not because he thought\nNorry could help him but because he had to talk to somebody and Norry\nalready knew the worst. They went walking far out into the country, idly\ndiscussing campus gossip or pausing to revel in the beauty of the night,\nthe clear, clean sky, the pale moon, the fireflies sparkling suddenly\nover the meadows or even to the tree-tops. Weary from their long walk,\nthey sat down on a stump, and Hugh let the dam of his emotion break.\n\n\"Norry,\" he began intensely, \"I'm in hell--in hell. It's a week since\nProm, and I haven't had a line from Cynthia. I haven't dared write to\nher.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"She--she--oh, damn it!--she told me before she left that everything was\nall off. That's why she left early. She said that we didn't love each\nother, that all we felt was sex attraction. I don't know whether she's\nright or not, but I miss her like the devil. I--I feel empty, sort of\nhollow inside, as if everything had suddenly been poured out of me--and\nthere's nothing to take its place. I was full of Cynthia, you see, and\nnow there's no Cynthia. There's nothing left but--oh, God, Norry, I'm\nashamed of myself. I feel--dirty.\" The last word was hardly audible.\n\nNorry touched his arm. \"I know, Hugh, and I'm awfully sorry. I think,\nthough, that Cynthia was right. I know her better than you do. She's an\nawfully good kid but not your kind at all; I think I feel as badly\nalmost as you do about it.\" He paused a moment and then said simply, \"I\nwas so proud of you, Hugh.\"\n\n\"Don't!\" Hugh exclaimed. \"I want to kill myself when you say things like\nthat.\"\n\n\"You don't understand. I know that you don't understand. I've been doing\na lot of thinking since Prom, too. I've thought over a lot of things\nthat you've said to me--about me, I mean. Why, Hugh, you think I'm not\nhuman. I don't believe you think I have passions like the rest of you.\nWell, I do, and sometimes it's--it's awful. I'm telling you that so\nyou'll understand that I know how you feel. But love's beautiful to me,\nHugh, the most wonderful thing in the world. I was in love with a girl\nonce--and I know. She didn't give a hang for me; she thought I was a\nbaby. I suffered awfully; but I know that my love was beautiful, as\nbeautiful as--\" He looked around for a simile--\"as to-night. I think\nit's because of that that I hate mugging and petting and that sort of\nthing. I don't want beauty debased. I want to fight when orchestras jazz\nfamous arias. Well, petting is jazzing love; and I hate it. Do you see\nwhat I mean?\"\n\nHugh looked at him wonderingly. He didn't know this Norry at all. \"Yes,\"\nhe said slowly; \"yes, I see what you mean; I think I do, anyway. But\nwhat has it to do with me?\"\n\n\"Well, I know most of the fellows pet and all that sort of thing, and\nthey don't think anything about it. But you're different; you love\nbeautiful things as much as I do. You told me yourself that Jimmie\nHenley said last year that you were gifted. You can write and sing and\nrun, but I've just realized that you aren't proud of those things at\nall; you just take them for granted. And you're ashamed that you write\npoetry. Some of your poems are good, but you haven't sent any of them to\nthe poetry magazine. You don't want anybody to know that you write\npoetry. You're trying to make yourself like fellows that are inferior to\nyou.\" Norry was piteously in earnest. His hero had crumbled into clay\nbefore his eyes, and he was trying to patch him together again\npreparatory to boosting him back upon his pedestal.\n\n\"Oh, cripes, Norry,\" Hugh said a little impatiently, \"you exaggerate all\nmy virtues; you always have. I'm not half the fellow you think I am. I\ndo love beautiful things, but I don't believe my poetry is any good.\" He\npaused a moment and then confessed mournfully: \"I'll admit, though, that\nI have been going downhill. I'm going to do better from now on. You\nwatch me.\"\n\nThey talked for hours, Norry embarrassing Hugh with the frankness of\nhis admiration. Norry's hero-worship had always embarrassed him, but he\ndidn't like it when the worshiper began to criticize. He admitted the\njustness of the criticism, but it hurt him just the same. Perching on a\npedestal had been uncomfortable but a little thrilling; sitting on the\nground and gazing up at his perch was rather humiliating. The fall had\nbruised him; and Norry, with the best intentions in the world, was\nkicking the bruises.\n\nNevertheless, he felt better after the talk, determined to win back\nNorry's esteem and his own. He swore off smoking and drinking and stuck\nto his oath. He told Vinton that if he brought any more liquor to their\nroom one of them was going to be carried out, and that he had a hunch\nthat it would be Vinton. Vinton gazed at him with round eyes and\nbelieved him. After that he did his drinking elsewhere, confiding to his\ncronies that Carver was on the wagon and that he had got as religious as\nholy hell. \"He won't let me drink in my own room,\" he wailed dolorously.\nAnd then with a sudden burst of clairvoyance, he added, \"I guess his\ngirl has given him the gate.\"\n\nFor weeks the campus buzzed with talk about the Prom. A dozen men who\nhad been detected _flagrante delicto_ were summarily expelled. Many\nothers who had been equally guilty were in a constant state of mental\ngoose-flesh. Would the next mail bring a summons from the dean?\nPresident Culver spoke sternly in chapel and hinted that there would be\nno Prom the coming year. Most of the men said that the Prom had been an\n\"awful brawl,\" but there were some who insisted that it was no worse\nthan the Proms held at other colleges, and recited startling tales in\nsupport of their argument.\n\nLeonard Gates finally settled the whole matter for Hugh. There had been\nmany discussions in the Nu Delta living-room about the Prom, and in one\nof them Gates ended the argument with a sane and thoughtful statement.\n\n\"The Prom was a brawl,\" he said seriously, \"a drunken brawl. We all\nadmit that. The fact that Proms at other colleges are brawls, too,\ndoesn't make ours any more respectable. If a Yale man happens to commit\nmurder and gets away with it, that is no reason that a Harvard man or a\nSanford man should commit murder, too. Some of you are arguing like\nbabies. But some of you are going to the other extreme.\n\n\"You talk as if everybody at the Prom was lit. Well, I wasn't lit, and\nas a matter of fact most of them weren't lit. Just use a little common\nsense. There were three hundred and fifty couples at the Prom. Now, not\nhalf of them even had a drink. Say that half did. That makes one hundred\nand seventy-five fellows. If fifty of those fellows were really soused,\nI'll eat my hat, but we'll say that there were fifty. Fifty were quite\nenough to make the whole Prom look like a longshoreman's ball. You've\ngot to take the music into consideration, too. That orchestra could\ncertainly play jazz; it could play it too damn well. Why, that music was\nenough to make a saint shed his halo and shake a shimmy.\n\n\"What I'm getting to is this: there are over a thousand fellows in\ncollege, and out of that thousand not more than fifty were really soused\nat the Prom, and not more than a hundred and seventy-five were even a\nlittle teed. To go around saying that Sanford men are a lot of muckers\njust because a small fraction of them acted like gutter-pups is sheer\nbunk. The Prom was a drunken brawl, but all Sanford men aren't\ndrunkards--not by a damn sight.\"\n\nHugh had to admit the force of Gates's reasoning, and he found comfort\nin it. He had been just about ready to believe that all college men and\nSanford men in particular were hardly better than common muckers. But in\nthe end the comfort that he got was small: he realized bitterly that he\nwas one of the minority that had disgraced his college; he was one of\nthe gutter-pups. The recognition of that undeniable fact cut deep.\n\nHe was determined to redeem himself; he _had_ to, somehow. Living a life\nof perfect rectitude was not enough; he had to do something that would\nwin back his own respect and the respect of his fellows, which he\nthought, quite absurdly, that he had forfeited. So far as he could see,\nthere was only one way that he could justify his existence at Sanford;\nthat was to win one of the dashes in the Sanford-Raleigh meet. He clung\nto that idea with the tenacity of a fanatic.\n\nHe had nearly a month in which to train, and train he did as he never\nhad before. His diet became a matter of the utmost importance; a\nrub-down was a holy rite, and the words of Jansen, the coach, divine\ngospel. He placed in both of the preliminary meets, but he knew that he\ncould do better; he wasn't yet in condition.\n\nWhen the day for the Raleigh-Sanford meet finally came, he did not feel\nany of the nervousness that had spelled defeat for him in his freshman\nyear. He was stonily calm, silently determined. He was going to place in\nthe hundred and win the two-twenty or die in the attempt. No golden\ndreams of breaking records excited him. Calvert of Raleigh was running\nthe hundred consistently in ten seconds and had been credited with\nbetter time. Hugh had no hopes of defeating him in the hundred, but\nthere was a chance in the two-twenty. Calvert was a short-distance man,\nthe shorter the better. Two hundred and twenty yards was a little too\nfar for him.\n\nCalvert did not look like a runner. He was a good two inches shorter\nthan Hugh, who lacked nearly that much of six feet. Calvert was heavily\nbuilt--a dark, brawny chap, both quick and powerful. Hugh looked at him\nand for a moment hated him. Although he did not phrase it so--in fact,\nhe did not phrase it at all--Calvert was his obstacle in his race for\nredemption.\n\nCalvert won the hundred-yard dash in ten seconds flat, breaking the\nSanford-Raleigh record. Hugh, running faster than he ever had in his\nlife, barely managed to come in second ahead of his team-mate Murphy.\nThe Sanford men cheered him lustily, but he hardly listened. He _had_ to\nwin the two-twenty.\n\nAt last the runners were called to the starting-line. They danced up and\ndown the track flexing their muscles. Hugh was tense but more determined\nthan nervous. Calvert pranced around easily; he seemed entirely\nrecovered from his great effort in the hundred. Finally the starter\ncalled them to their marks. They tried their spikes in the\nstarting-holes, scraped them out a bit more, made a few trial dashes,\nand finally knelt in line at the command of the starter.\n\nHugh expected Calvert to lead for the first hundred yards; but the last\nhundred, that was where Calvert would weaken. Calvert was sure to be\nahead at the beginning--but after that!\n\n\"On your marks.\n\n\"Set.\"\n\nThe pistol cracked. The start was perfect; the five men leaped forward\nalmost exactly together. For once Calvert had not beaten the others off\nthe mark, but he immediately drew ahead. He was running powerfully, his\nlegs rising and falling in exact rhythm, his spikes tearing into the\ncinder path. But Hugh and Murphy were pressing him close. At the end of\nthe first hundred Calvert led by a yard. Hugh pounded on, Murphy falling\nbehind him. The others were hopelessly outclassed. Hugh did not think;\nhe did not hear a thousand men shouting hysterically, \"Carver! Carver!\"\nHe saw nothing but Calvert a yard ahead of him. He knew nothing but that\nhe had to make up that yard. Down the track they sped, their breath\nbursting from them, their hands clenched, their faces grotesquely\ndistorted, their legs driving them splendidly on.\n\nHugh was gaining; that yard was closing. He sensed it rather than saw\nit. He saw nothing now, not even Calvert. Blinded with effort, his lungs\naching, his heart pounding terribly, he fought on, mechanically keeping\nbetween the two white lines. Ten yards from the tape he was almost\nabreast of Calvert. He saw the tape through a red haze; he made a final\nvaliant leap for it--but he never touched it: Calvert's chest had\nbroken it a tiny fraction of a second before.\n\nHugh almost collapsed after the race. Two men caught him and carried\nhim, despite his protests, to the dressing-room. At first he was aware\nonly of his overwhelming weariness. Something very important had\nhappened. It was over, and he was tired, infinitely tired. A rub-down\nrefreshed his muscles, but his spirit remained weary. For a month he had\nthought of nothing but that race--even Cynthia had become strangely\ninsignificant in comparison with it--and now that the race had been run\nand lost, his whole spirit sagged and drooped.\n\nHe was pounded on the back; his hand was grasped and shaken until it\nached; he was cheered to an echo by the thrilled Sanford men; but still\nhis depression remained. He had won his letter, he had run a magnificent\nrace, all Sanford sang his praise--Norry Parker had actually cried with\nexcitement and delight--but he felt that he had failed; he had not\njustified himself.\n\nA few days later he entered Henley's office, intending to make only a\nbrief visit. Henley congratulated him. \"You were wonderful, Hugh,\" he\nsaid enthusiastically. \"The way that you crawled up on him the last\nhundred yards was thrilling. I shouted until I was hoarse. I never saw\nany one fight more gamely. He's a faster man than you are, but you\nalmost beat him. I congratulate you--excuse the word, please--on your\nguts.\"\n\nSomehow Hugh couldn't stand Henley's enthusiasm. Suddenly he blurted out\nthe whole story, his drunkenness at the Prom, his split with Cynthia--he\ndid not mention the visit to Norry's room--his determination to redeem\nhimself, his feeling that if he had won that race he would at least have\njustified his existence at the college, and, finally, his sense of\nfailure.\n\nHenley listened sympathetically, amused and touched by the boy's naive\nphilosophy. He did not tell him that the race was relatively\nunimportant--he was sure that Hugh would find that out for himself--but\nhe did bring him comfort.\n\n\"You did not fail, Hugh,\" he said gently; \"you succeeded magnificently.\nAs for serving your college, you can always serve it best by being\nyourself, being true to yourself, I mean, and that means being the very\nfine gentleman that you are.\" He paused a minute, aware that he must be\nless personal; Hugh was red to the hair and gazing unhappily at the\nfloor.\n\n\"You must read Browning,\" he went on, \"and learn about his\nsuccess-in-failure philosophy. He maintains that it is better to strive\nfor a million and miss it than to strive for a hundred and get it. 'A\nman's reach should exceed his grasp or what's a heaven for?' He says it\nin a dozen different ways. It's the man who tries bravely for something\nbeyond his power that gets somewhere, the man who really succeeds. Well,\nyou tried for something beyond your power--to beat Calvert, a really\ngreat runner. You tried to your utmost; therefore, you succeeded. I\nadmire your sense of failure; it means that you recognize an ideal. But\nI think that you succeeded. You may not have quite justified yourself to\nyourself, but you have proved capable of enduring a hard test bravely.\nYou have no reason to be depressed, no reason to be ashamed.\"\n\nThey talked for a long time, and finally Henley confessed that he\nthought Cynthia had been wise in taking herself out of Hugh's life.\n\n\"I can see,\" he said, \"that you aren't telling me quite all the story. I\ndon't want you to, either. I judge, however, from what you have said\nthat you went somewhere with her and that only complete drunkenness\nsaved you from disgracing both yourself and her. You need no lecture, I\nam sure; you are sufficiently contrite. I have a feeling that she was\nright about sexual attraction being paramount; and I think that she is a\nvery brave girl. I like the way she went home, and I like the way she\nhas kept silent. Not many girls could or would do that. It takes\ncourage. From what you have said, however, I imagine that she is not\nyour kind; at least, that she isn't the kind that is good for you. You\nhave suffered and are suffering, I know, but I am sure that some day you\nare going to be very grateful to that girl--for a good many reasons.\"\n\nHugh felt better after that talk, and the end of the term brought him a\nsurprise that wiped out his depression and his sense of failure. He\nfound, too, that his pain was growing less; the wound was healing.\nPerversely, he hated it for healing, and he poked it viciously to feel\nit throb. Agony had become sweet. It made life more intense, less\nbeautiful, perhaps, but more wonderful, more real. Romantically, too, he\nfelt that he must be true both to his love and to his sorrow, and his\nlove was fading into a memory that was plaintively gray but shot with\nscarlet thrills--and his sorrow was bowing before the relentless\nexcitement of his daily life.\n\nThe surprise that rehabilitated him in his own respect was his election\nto the Boule, the senior council and governing board of the student\nbody. It was the greatest honor that an undergraduate could receive, and\nHugh had in no way expected it. When Nu Delta had first suggested to him\nthat he be a candidate, he had demurred, saying that there were other\nmen in his delegation better fitted to serve and with better chances of\nelection. Leonard Gates, however, felt otherwise; and before Hugh knew\nwhat had happened he was a candidate along with thirty other juniors,\nonly twelve of whom could be elected.\n\nHe took no part in the campaigning, attended none of the caucuses, was\nhardly interested in the fraternity \"combine\" that promised to elect\nhim. He did not believe that he could be elected; he saw no reason why\nhe should be. As a matter of fact, as Gates and others well knew, his\nchances were more than good. Hugh was popular in his own right, and his\ngreat race in the Sanford-Raleigh meet had made him something of a hero\nfor the time being. Furthermore, he was a member of both the Glee and\nBanjo Clubs, he had led his class in the spring sings for three years,\nand he had a respectable record in his studies.\n\nThe tapping took place in chapel the last week of classes. After the\nfirst hymn, the retiring members of the Boule rose and marched down the\naisle to where the juniors were sitting. The new members were tapped in\nthe order of the number of votes that they had received, and the first\nman tapped, having received the largest number of votes, automatically\nbecame president of the Boule for the coming year.\n\nHugh's interest naturally picked up the day of the election, and he\nbegan to have faint hopes that he would be the tenth or eleventh man. To\nhis enormous surprise he was tapped third, and he marched down the\naisle to the front seat reserved for the new members with the applause\nof his fellows sweet in his ears. It didn't seem possible; he was one of\nthe most popular and most respected men in his class. He could not\nunderstand it, but he didn't particularly care to understand it; the\nhonor was enough.\n\nNu Delta tried to heap further honors on him, but he declined them. As a\nmember of Boule he was naturally nominated for the presidency of the\nchapter. Quite properly, he felt that he was not fitted for such a\nposition; and he retired in favor of John Lawrence, the only man in his\ndelegation really capable of controlling the brothers. Lawrence was a\nman like Gates. He would, Hugh knew, carry on the constructive work that\nGates had so splendidly started. Nu Delta was in the throes of one of\nthose changes so characteristic of fraternities.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nHugh spent his last college vacation at home, working on the farm,\nreading, occasionally dancing at Corley Lake, and thinking a great deal.\nHe saw Janet Harton, now Janet Moffitt, several times at the lake and\nwondered how he could ever have adored her. She was still childlike,\nstill dainty and pretty, but to Hugh she was merely a talking doll, and\nhe felt a little sorry for her burly, rather stupid husband who lumbered\nabout after her like a protecting watch-dog.\n\nHe met plenty of pretty girls at the lake, but, as he said, he was \"off\nwomen for good.\" He was afraid of them; he had been severely burnt, and\nwhile the fire still fascinated him, it frightened him, too. Women, he\nwas sure, were shallow creatures, dangerous to a man's peace of mind and\nself-respect. They were all right to dance with and pet a bit; but that\nwas all, absolutely all.\n\nHe thought a lot about girls that summer and even more about his life\nafter graduation from college. What was he going to do? Life stretched\nahead of him for one year like a smooth, flowered plain--and then the\nabyss. He felt prepared to do nothing at all, and he was not swept by an\noverpowering desire to do anything in particular. Writing had the\ngreatest appeal for him, but he doubted his ability. Teach? Perhaps. But\nteaching meant graduate work. Well, he would see what the next year at\ncollege would show. He was going to take a course in composition with\nProfessor Henley, and if Henley thought his gifts warranted it, he would\nask his father for a year or two of graduate work at Harvard.\n\nCollege was pleasant that last year. It was pleasant to wear a blue\nsweater with an orange S on it; it was pleasant, too, to wear a small\nwhite hat that had a blue B on the crown, the insignia of the Boule and\na sign that he was a person to be respected and obeyed; it was pleasant\nto be spoken to by the professors as one who had reached something\napproaching manhood; life generally was pleasant, not so exciting as the\nthree preceding years but fuller and richer. Early in the first term he\nwas elected to Helmer, an honor society that possessed a granite \"tomb,\"\na small windowless building in which the members were supposed to\ndiscuss questions of great importance and practice secret rites of\nawe-inspiring wonder. As a matter of fact, the monthly meetings were\nnothing but \"bull fests,\" or as one cynical member put it, \"We wear a\ngold helmet on our sweaters and chew the fat once a month.\" True\nenough, but that gold helmet glittered enticingly in the eyes of every\nstudent who did not possess one.\n\nFor the first time Hugh's studies meant more to him than the\nundergraduate life. He had chosen his instructors carefully, having\nlearned from three years of experience that the instructor was far more\nimportant than the title of the course. He had three classes in\nliterature, one in music--partly because it was a \"snap\" and partly\nbecause he really wanted to know more about music--and his composition\ncourse with Henley, to him the most important of the lot.\n\nHe really studied, and at the end of the first term received three A's\nand two B's, a very creditable record. What was more important than his\nrecord, however, was the fact that he was really enjoying his work; he\nwas intellectually awakened and hungry for learning.\n\nAlso, for the first time he really enjoyed the fraternity. Jack Lawrence\nwas proving an able president, and Nu Delta pledged a freshman\ndelegation of which Hugh was genuinely proud. There were plenty of men\nin the chapter whom he did not like or toward whom he was indifferent,\nbut he had learned to ignore them and center his interest in those men\nwhom he found congenial.\n\nThe first term was ideal, but the second became a maelstrom of doubt and\ntrouble in which he whirled madly around trying to find some philosophy\nthat would solve his difficulties.\n\nWhen Norry returned to college after the Christmas vacation, he told\nHugh that he had seen Cynthia. Naturally, Hugh was interested, and the\nmere mention of Cynthia's name was still enough to quicken his pulse.\n\n\"How did she look?\" he asked eagerly.\n\n\"Awful.\"\n\n\"What! What's the matter? Is she sick?\"\n\nNorry shook his head. \"No, I don't think she is exactly sick,\" he said\ngravely, \"but something is the matter with her. You know, she has been\ngoing an awful pace, tearing around like crazy. I told you that, I know,\nwhen I came back in the fall. Well, she's kept it up, and I guess she's\nabout all in. I couldn't understand it. Cynthia's always run with a fast\nbunch, but she's never had a bad name. She's beginning to get one now.\"\n\n\"No!\" Hugh was honestly troubled. \"What's the matter, anyway? Didn't you\ntry to stop her?\"\n\nNorry smiled. \"Of course not. Can you imagine me stopping Cynthia from\ndoing anything she wanted to do? But I did have a talk with her. She got\nhold of me one night at the country club and pulled me off in a corner.\nShe wanted to talk about you.\"\n\n\"Me?\" Hugh's heart was beginning to pound. \"What did she say?\"\n\n\"She asked questions. She wanted to know everything about you. I guess\nshe asked me a thousand questions. She wanted to know how you looked,\nhow you were doing in your courses, where you were during vacation, if\nyou had a girl--oh, everything; and finally she asked if you ever talked\nabout her?\"\n\n\"What did you say?\" Hugh demanded breathlessly.\n\n\"I told her yes, of course. Gee, Hugh, I thought she was going to cry.\nWe talked some more, all about you. She's crazy about you, Hugh; I'm\nsure of it. And I think that's why she's been hitting the high spots. I\nfelt sorry as the devil for her. Poor kid....\"\n\n\"Gee, that's tough; that's damn tough. Did she send me any message?\"\n\n\"No. I asked her if she wanted to send her love or anything, and she\nsaid she guessed not. I think she's having an awful time, Hugh.\"\n\nThat talk tore Hugh's peace of mind into quivering shreds. Cynthia was\nwith him every waking minute, and with her a sense of guilt that would\nnot down. He knew that if he wrote to her he might involve himself in a\nvery difficult situation, but the temptation was stronger than his\ndiscretion. He wanted to know if Norry was right, and he knew that he\nwould never have an hour's real comfort until he found out. Cynthia had\ntold him that she was not in love with him; she had said definitely\nthat their attraction for each other was merely sexual. Had she lied to\nhim? Had she gone home in the middle of Prom, week because she thought\nshe ought to save him from herself? He couldn't decide, and he felt that\nhe had to know. If Cynthia was unhappy and he was the cause of her\nunhappiness, he wanted, he assured himself, to \"do the right thing,\" and\nhe had very vague notions indeed of what the right thing might be.\n\nFinally he wrote to her. The letter took him hours to write, but he\nflattered himself that it was very discreet; it implied nothing and\ndemanded nothing.\n\n\n       Dear Cynthia:\n\n       I had a talk with Norry Parker recently that has\n       troubled me a great deal. He said that you seemed both\n       unwell and unhappy, and he felt that I was in some way\n       responsible for your depression. Of course, we both know\n       how ingenuous and romantic Norry is; he can find tragedy\n       in a cut finger. I recognize that fact, but what he told\n       me has given me no end of worry just the same.\n\n       Won't you please write to me just what is wrong--if\n       anything really is and if I have anything to do with it.\n       I shall continue to worry until I get your letter.\n\n                                    Most sincerely,\n                                                     HUGH.\n\n\nWeeks went by and no answer came. Hugh's confusion increased. He\nthought of writing her another letter, but pride and common sense\nforbade. Then her letter came, and all of his props were kicked suddenly\nfrom under him.\n\n\n         Oh my dear, my dear [she wrote], I swore that I wouldn't\n       answer your letter--and here I am doing it. I've fought\n       and fought, and fought until I can't fight any longer;\n       I've held out as long as I can. Oh, Hugh my dearest, I\n       love you. I can't help it--I do, I do. I've tried so\n       hard not to--and when I found that I couldn't help it I\n       swore that I would never let you know--because I knew\n       that you didn't love me and that I am bad for you. I\n       thought I loved you enough to give you up--and I might\n       have succeeded if you hadn't written to me.\n\n       Oh, Hugh dearest, I nearly fainted when I saw your\n       letter. I hardly dared open it--I just looked and looked\n       at your beloved handwriting. I cried when I did read it.\n       I thought of the letters you used to write to me--and\n       this one was so different--so cold and impersonal. It\n       hurt me dreadfully.\n\n       I said that I wouldn't answer it--I swore that I\n       wouldn't. And then I read your old letters--I've kept\n       every one of them--and looked at your picture--and\n       to-night you just seemed to be here--I could see your\n       sweet smile and feel your dear arms around me--and Hugh,\n       my darling, I had to write--I _had_ to.\n\n       My pride is all gone. I can't think any more. You are\n       all that matters. Oh, Hugh dearest, I love you so damned\n       hard.\n\n                                                CYNTHIA.\n\n\nTwo hours after the letter arrived it was followed by a telegram:\n\n\n       Don't pay any attention to my letter. I was crazy when I\n       wrote it.\n\n\nHugh had sense enough to pay no attention to the telegram; he tossed it\ninto the fireplace and reread the letter. What could he do? What\n_should_ he do? He was torn by doubt and confusion. He looked at her\npicture, and all his old longing for her returned. But he had learned to\ndistrust that longing. He had got along for a year without her; he had\nalmost ceased thinking of her when Norry brought her back to his mind.\nHe had to answer her letter. What could he say? He paced the floor of\nhis room, ran his hands through his hair, pounded his forehead; but no\nsolution came. He took a long walk into the country and came back more\nconfused than ever. He was flattered by her letter, moved by it; he\ntried to persuade himself that he loved her as she loved him--and he\ncould not do it. His passion for her was no longer overpowering, and no\namount of thinking could make it so. In the end he temporized. His\nletter was brief.\n\n\n       Dear Cynthia:\n\n       There is no need, I guess, to tell you that your letter\n       swept me clean off my feet. I am still dizzy with\n       confusion. I don't know what to say, and I have decided\n       that it is best for me not to say anything until I know\n       my own mind. I couldn't be fair either to you or myself\n       otherwise. And I want to be fair; I must be.\n\n       Give me time, please. It is because I care so much for\n       you that I ask it. Don't worry if you don't hear from me\n       for weeks. My silence won't mean that I have forgotten\n       you; it will mean that I am thinking of you.\n\n                                Sincerely,\n                                                HUGH.\n\n\nHer answer came promptly:\n\n\n       Hugh, my dear--\n\n       I was a fish to write that letter--and I know that I'll\n       never forgive myself. But I couldn't help it--I just\n       couldn't help it. I am glad that you are keeping your\n       head because I've lost mine entirely. Take all the time\n       you like. Do you hate me for losing my pride? I do.\n\n                                Your stupid\n                                                CYNTHIA.\n\n\nWeeks went by, and Hugh found no solution. He damned college with all\nhis heart and soul. What good had it done him anyway? Here he was with a\nserious problem on his hands and he couldn't solve it any better than he\ncould have when he was a freshman. Four years of studying and lectures\nand examinations, and the first time he bucked up against a bit of life\nhe was licked.\n\nEventually he wrote to her and told her that he was fonder of her than\nhe was of any girl that he had ever known but that he didn't know\nwhether he was in love with her or not. \"I have learned to distrust my\nown emotions,\" he wrote, \"and my own decisions. The more I think the\nmore bewildered I become. I am afraid to ask you to marry me for fear\nthat I'll wreck both our lives, and I'm afraid not to ask you for the\nsame reason. Do you think that time will solve our problem? I don't\nknow. I don't know anything.\"\n\nShe replied that she was willing to wait just so long as they continued\nto correspond; she said that she could no longer bear not to hear from\nhim. So they wrote to each other, and the tangle of their relations\nbecame more hopelessly knotted. Cynthia never sent another letter so\nunguarded as her first, but she made no pretense of hiding her love.\n\nAs Hugh sank deeper and deeper into the bog of confusion and distress,\nhis contempt for his college \"education\" increased. One night in May he\nexpressed that contempt to a small group of seniors.\n\n\"College is bunk,\" said Hugh sternly, \"pure bunk. They tell us that we\nlearn to think. Rot! I haven't learned to think; a child can solve a\nsimple human problem as well as I can. College has played hell with me.\nI came here four years ago a darned nice kid, if I do say so myself. I\nwas chock-full of ideals and illusions. Well, college has smashed most\nof those ideals and knocked the illusions plumb to hell. I thought, for\nexample, that all college men were gentlemen; well, most of them aren't.\nI thought that all of them were intelligent and hard students.\"\n\nThe group broke into loud laughter. \"Me, too,\" said George Winsor when\nthe noise had abated. \"I thought that I was coming to a regular\neducational heaven, halls of learning and all that sort of thing. Why,\nit's a farce. Here I am sporting a Phi Bete key, an honor student if you\nplease, and all that I really know as a result of my college 'education'\nis the fine points of football and how to play poker. I don't really\nknow one damn thing about anything.\"\n\nThe other men were Jack Lawrence and Pudge Jamieson. Jack was an earnest\nchap, serious and hard working but without a trace of brilliance. He,\ntoo, wore a Phi Beta Kappa key, and so did Pudge. Hugh was the only one\nof the group who had not won that honor; the fact that he was the only\none who had won a letter was hardly, he felt, complete justification.\nHis legs no longer seemed more important than his brains; in fact, when\nhe had sprained a tendon and been forced to drop track, he had been\ngenuinely pleased.\n\nPudge was quite as plump as he had been as a freshman and quite as\njovial, but he did not tell so many smutty stories. He still persisted\nin crossing his knees in spite of the difficulties involved. When\nWinsor finished speaking, Pudge forced his legs into his favorite\nposition for them and then twinkled at Winsor through his glasses.\n\n\"Right you are, George,\" he said in his quick way. \"I wear a Phi Bete\nkey, too. We both belong to the world's greatest intellectual\nfraternity, but what in hell do we know? We've all majored in English\nexcept Jack, and I'll bet any one of us can give the others an exam\noffhand that they can't pass. I'm going to law school. I hope to God\nthat I learn something there. I certainly don't feel that I know\nanything now as a result of my four years of 'higher education.'\"\n\n\"Well, if you fellows feel that way,\" said Hugh mournfully, \"how do you\nsuppose I feel? I made my first really good record last term, and that\nwasn't any world beater. I've learned how to gamble and smoke and drink\nand pet in college, but that's about all that I have learned. I'm not as\nfine as I was when I came here. I've been coarsened and cheapened; all\nof us have. I take things for granted that shocked me horribly once. I\nknow that they ought to shock me now, but they don't. I've made some\nfriends and I've had a wonderful time, but I certainly don't feel that I\nhave got any other value out of college.\"\n\nWinsor could not sit still and talk. He filled his pipe viciously,\nlighted it, and then jumped up and leaned against the mantel. \"I admit\neverything that's been said, but I don't believe that it is altogether\nour fault.\" He was intensely in earnest, and so were his listeners.\n\"Look at the faculty. When I came here I thought that they were all wise\nmen because they were On the faculty. Well, I've found out otherwise.\nSome of them know a lot and can't teach, a few of them know a lot and\ncan teach, some of them know a little and can't teach, and some of them\ndon't know anything and can't explain c-a-t. Why, look at Kempton. That\nfreshman, Larson, showed me a theme the other day that Kempton had\ncorrected. It was full of errors that weren't marked, and it was nothing\nin the world but drip. Even Larson knew that, but he's the foxy kid; he\nwrote the theme about Kempton. All right--Kempton gives him a B and\ntells him that it is very amusing. Hell of a lot Larson's learning. Look\nat Kane in math. I had him when I was a freshman.\"\n\n\"Me, too,\" Hugh chimed in.\n\n\"'Nough said, then. Math's dry enough, God knows, but Kane makes it\ndryer. He's a born desiccator. He could make 'Hamlet' as dry as\ncalculus.\"\n\n\"Right-o,\" said Pudge. \"But Mitchell could make calculus as exciting as\n'Hamlet.' It's fifty-fifty.\"\n\n\"And they fired Mitchell.\" Jack Lawrence spoke for the first time. \"I\nhave that straight. The administration seems afraid of a man that can\nteach. They've made Buchanan a full professor, and there isn't a man in\ncollege who can tell what he's talking about. He's written a couple of\nbooks that nobody reads, and that makes him a scholar. I was forced to\ntake three courses with him. They were agony, and he never taught me a\ndamn thing.\"\n\n\"Most of them don't teach you a damn thing,\" Winsor exclaimed, tapping\nhis pipe on the mantel. \"They either tell you something that you can\nfind more easily in a book, or just confuse you with a lot of ponderous\nlectures that put you to sleep or drive you crazy if you try to\nunderstand them.\"\n\n\"There are just about a dozen men in this college worth listening to,\"\nHugh put in, \"and I've got three of them this term. I'm learning more\nthan I did in my whole three first years. Let's be fair, though. We're\nblaming it all on the profs, and you know damn well that we don't study.\nAll we try to do is to get by--I don't mean you Phi Betes; I mean all\nthe rest of us--and if we can put anything over on the profs we are\ntickled pink. We're like a lot of little kids in grammar-school. Just\nlook at the cheating that goes on, the copying of themes, and the\ncribbing. It's rotten!\"\n\nWinsor started to protest, but Hugh rushed on. \"Oh, I know that the\nmajority of the fellows don't consciously cheat; I'm talking about the\ncopying of math problems and the using of trots and the paraphrasing of\n'Literary Digest' articles for themes and all that sort of thing. If\nmore than half of the fellows don't do that sort of thing some time or\nother in college, I'll eat my hat. And we all know darned well that we\naren't supposed to do it, but the majority of fellows cheat in some way\nor other before they graduate!\n\n\"We aren't so much. Do you remember, George, what Jimmie Henley said to\nus when we were sophomores in English Thirty-six? He laid us out cold,\nsaid that we were as standardized as Fords and that we were ashamed of\nanything intellectual. Well, he was right. Do you remember how he ended\nby saying that if we were the cream of the earth, he felt sorry for the\nskimmed milk--or something like that?\"\n\n\"Sure, _I_ remember,\" Winsor replied, running his fingers through his\nrusty hair. \"He certainly pulled a heavy line that day. He was right,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what,\" exclaimed Pudge suddenly, so suddenly that his\ncrossed legs parted company and his foot fell heavily to the floor.\n\"Let's put it up to Henley in class to-morrow. Let's ask him straight\nout if he thinks college is worth while.\"\n\n\"He'll hedge,\" objected Lawrence. \"All the profs do if you ask them\nanything like that.\" Winsor laughed. \"You don't know Jimmie Henley. He\nwon't hedge. You've never had a class with him, but Hugh and Pudge and\nI are all in English Fifty-three, and we'll put it up to him. He'll tell\nus what he thinks all right, and I hope to God that he says it is worth\nwhile. I'd like to have somebody convince me that I've got something out\nof these four years beside lower ideals. Hell, sometimes I think that\nwe're all damn fools. We worship athletics--no offense, Hugh--above\neverything else; we gamble and drink and talk like bums; and about every\nso often some fellow has to go home because a lovely lady has left him\nwith bitter, bitter memories. I'm with Henley. If we're the cream of the\nearth--well, thank the Lord, we're not.\"\n\n\"Who is,\" Lawrence asked earnestly.\n\n\"God knows.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nEnglish 53 had only a dozen men in it; so Henley conducted the course in\na very informal fashion. The men felt free to bring up for discussion\nany topic that interested them.\n\nNobody was surprised, therefore, when George Winsor asked Henley to\nexpress his opinion of the value of a college education. He reminded\nHenley of what he had said two years before, and rapidly gave a resume\nof the discussion that resulted in the question he was asking. \"We'd\nlike to know, too,\" he concluded, grinning wickedly, \"just whom you\nconsider the cream of the earth. You remember you said that if we were\nyou felt sorry for the skimmed milk.\"\n\nHenley leaned back in his chair and laughed. \"Yes,\" he said, \"I remember\nsaying that. I didn't think, though, that you would remember it for two\nyears. You seem to remember most of what I said. I am truly astonished.\"\nHe grinned back at Winsor. \"The swine seem to have eaten the pearls.\"\n\nThe class laughed, but Winsor was not one to refuse the gambit. \"They\nwere very indigestible,\" he said quickly.\n\n\"Good!\" Henley exclaimed. \"I wanted them to give you a belly-ache, and I\nam delighted that you still suffer.\"\n\n\"We do,\" Pudge Jamieson admitted, \"but we'd like to have a little mercy\nshown to us now. We've spent four years here, and while we've enjoyed\nthem, we've just about made up our minds that they have been all in all\nwasted years.\"\n\n\"No.\" Henley was decisive. His playful manner entirely disappeared. \"No,\nnot wasted. You have enjoyed them, you say. Splendid justification. You\nwill continue to enjoy them as the years grow between you and your\ncollege days. All men are sentimental about college, and in that\nsentimentality there is continuous pleasure.\"\n\n\"Your doubt delights me. Your feeling that you haven't learned anything\ndelights me, too. It proves that you have learned a great deal. It is\nonly the ignoramus who thinks he is wise; the wise man knows that he is\nan ignoramus. That's a platitude, but it is none the less true. I have\ncold comfort for you: the more you learn, the less confident you will be\nof your own learning, the more utterly ignorant you will feel. I have\nnever known so much as, the day I graduated from high school. I held my\ndiploma and the knowledge of the ages in my hand. I had never heard of\nSocrates, but I would have challenged him to a debate without the\nslightest fear.\"\n\n\"Since then I have grown more humble, so humble that there are times\nwhen I am ashamed to come into the class-room. What right have I to\nteach anybody anything? I mean that quite sincerely. Then I remember\nthat, ignorant as I am, the undergraduates are more ignorant. I take\nheart and mount the rostrum ready to speak with the authority of a\npundit.\"\n\nHe realized that he was sliding off on a tangent and paused to find a\nnew attack. Pudge Jamieson helped him.\n\n\"I suppose that's all true,\" he said, \"but it doesn't explain why\ncollege is really worth while. The fact remains that most of us don't\nlearn anything, that we are coarsened by college, and that we--well, we\nworship false gods.\"\n\nHenley nodded in agreement. \"It would be hard to deny your assertions,\"\nhe acknowledged, \"and I don't think that I am going to try to deny them.\nOf course, men grow coarser while they are in college, but that doesn't\nmean that they wouldn't grow coarser if they weren't in college. It\nisn't college that coarsens a man and destroys his illusions; it is\nlife. Don't think that you can grow to manhood and retain your pretty\ndreams. You have become disillusioned about college. In the next few\nyears you will suffer further disillusionment. That is the price of\nliving.\"\n\n\"Every intelligent man with ideals eventually becomes a cynic. It is\ninevitable. He has standards, and, granted that he is intelligent, he\ncannot fail to see how far mankind falls below those standards. The\nresult is cynicism, and if he is truly intelligent, the cynicism is\nkindly. Having learned that man is frail, he expects little of him;\ntherefore, if he judges at all, his judgment is tempered either with\nhumor or with mercy.\"\n\nThe dozen boys were sprawled lazily in their chairs, their feet resting\non the rungs of the chairs before them, but their eyes were fastened\nkeenly on Henley. All that he was saying was of the greatest importance\nto them. They found comfort in his words, but the comfort raised new\ndoubts, new problems.\n\n\"How does that affect college?\" Winsor asked.\n\n\"It affects it very decidedly,\" Henley replied. \"You haven't become true\ncynics yet; you expect too much of college. You forget that the men who\nrun the college and the men who attend it are at best human beings, and\nthat means that very much cannot be expected of them. You do worship\nfalse gods. I find hope in the fact that you recognize the stuff of\nwhich your gods are made. I have great hopes for the American colleges,\nnot because I have any reason to believe that the faculties will become\nwiser or that the administrations will lead the students to true gods;\nnot at all, but I do think that the students themselves will find a way.\nThey have already abandoned Mammon; at least, the most intelligent have,\nand I begin to see signs of less adoration for athletics. Athletics, of\ncourse, have their place, and some of the students are beginning to find\nthat place. Certainly the alumni haven't, and I don't believe that the\nadministrative officers have, either. Just so long as athletes advertise\nthe college, the administrations will coddle them. The undergraduates,\nhowever, show signs of frowning on professionalism, and the stupid\nathlete is rapidly losing his prestige. An athlete has to show something\nmore than brawn to be a hero among his fellows nowadays.\"\n\nHe paused, and Pudge spoke up. \"Perhaps you are right,\" he said, \"but I\ndoubt it. Athletics are certainly far more important to us than anything\nelse, and the captain of the football team is always the biggest man in\ncollege. But I don't care particularly about that. What I want to know\nis how the colleges justify their existence. I don't see that you have\nproved that they do.\"\n\n\"No, I haven't,\" Henley admitted, \"and I don't know that I can prove it.\nOf course, the colleges aren't perfect, not by a long way, but as human\ninstitutions go, I think they justify their existence. The four years\nspent at college by an intelligent boy--please notice that I say\nintelligent--are well spent indeed. They are gloriously worth while. You\nsaid that you have had a wonderful time. Not so wonderful as you think.\nIt is a strange feeling that we have about our college years. We all\nbelieve that they are years of unalloyed happiness, and the further we\nleave them behind the more perfect they seem. As a matter of fact, few\nundergraduates are truly happy. They are going through a period of storm\nand stress; they are torn by _Weltschmerz_. Show me a nineteen-year-old\nboy who is perfectly happy and you show me an idiot. I rarely get a\ncheerful theme except from freshmen. Nine tenths of them are expressions\nof deep concern and distress. A boy's college years are the years when\nhe finds out that life isn't what he thought it, and the finding out is\na painful experience. He discovers that he and his fellows are made of\nvery brittle clay: usually he loathes himself; often he loathes his\nfellows.\n\n\"College isn't the Elysium that it is painted in stories and novels, but\nI feel sorry for any intelligent man who didn't have the opportunity to\ngo to college. There is something beautiful about one's college days,\nsomething that one treasures all his life. As we grow older, we forget\nthe hours of storm and stress, the class-room humiliations, the terror\nof examinations, the awful periods of doubt of God and man--we forget\neverything but athletic victories, long discussions with friends, campus\nsings, fraternity life, moonlight on the campus, and everything that is\nromantic. The sting dies, and the beauty remains.\n\n\"Why do men give large sums of money to their colleges when asked?\nBecause they want to help society? Not at all. The average man doesn't\neven take that into consideration. He gives the money because he loves\nhis alma mater, because he has beautiful and tender memories of her. No,\ncolleges are far from perfect, tragically far from it, but any\ninstitution that commands loyalty and love as colleges do cannot be\nwholly imperfect. There is a virtue in a college that uninspired\nadministrative officers, stupid professors, and alumni with false ideals\ncannot kill. At times I tremble for Sanford College; there are times\nwhen I swear at it, but I never cease to love it.\"\n\n\"If you feel that way about college, why did you say those things to us\ntwo years ago?\" Hugh asked. \"Because they were true, all true. I was\ntalking about the undergraduates then, and I could have said much more\ncutting things and still been on the safe side of the truth. There is,\nhowever, another side, and that is what I am trying to give you\nnow--rather incoherently, I know.\"\n\nHugh thought of Cynthia. \"I suppose all that you say is true,\" he\nadmitted dubiously, \"but I can't feel that college does what it should\nfor us. We are told that we are taught to think, but the minute we bump\nup against a problem in living we are stumped just as badly as we were\nwhen we are freshmen.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, not at all. You solve problems every day that would have\nstumped you hopelessly as a freshman. You think better than you did four\nyears ago, but no college, however perfect, can teach you all the\nsolutions of life. There are no nostrums or cure-alls that the colleges\ncan give for all the ills and sicknesses of life. You, I am afraid, will\nhave to doctor those yourself.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Hugh didn't altogether see. Both college and life seemed more\ncomplicated than he had thought them. \"I am curious to know,\" he added,\n\"just whom you consider the cream of the earth. That expression has\nstuck in my mind. I don't know why--but it has.\"\n\nHenley smiled. \"Probably because it is such a very badly mixed metaphor.\nWell, I consider the college man the cream of the earth.\"\n\n\"What?\" four of the men exclaimed, and all of them sat suddenly upright.\n\n\"Yes--but let me explain. If I remember rightly, I said that if you were\nthe cream of the earth, I hoped that God would pity the skimmed milk.\nWell, everything taken into consideration, I do think that you are the\ncream of the earth; and I have no hope for the skimmed milk. Perhaps it\nisn't wise for me to give public expression to my pessimism, but you\nought to be old enough to stand it.\"\n\n\"The average college graduate is a pretty poor specimen, but all in all\nhe is just about the best we have. Please remember that I am talking in\naverages. I know perfectly well that a great many brilliant men do not\ncome to college and that a great many stupid men do come, but the\ncolleges get a very fair percentage of the intelligent ones and a\ncomparatively small percentage of the stupid ones. In other words, to\nplay with my mixed metaphor a bit, the cream is very thin in places and\nthe skimmed milk has some very thick clots of cream, but in the end the\ncream remains the cream and the milk the milk. Everything taken into\nconsideration, we get in the colleges the young men with the highest\nideals, the loftiest purpose.\"\n\n\"You want to tell me that those ideals are low and the purpose\nmaterialistic and selfish. I know it, but the average college graduate,\nI repeat, has loftier ideals and is less materialistic than the average\nman who has not gone to college. I wish that I could believe that the\ncollege gives him those ideals. I can't, however. The colleges draw the\nbest that society has to offer; therefore, they graduate the best.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" a student interrupted. \"How about Edison and Ford\nand--\"\n\n\"And Shakspere and Sophocles,\" Henley concluded for him. \"Edison is an\ninventive genius, and Ford is a business genius. Genius hasn't anything\nto do with schools. The colleges, however, could have made both Ford and\nEdison bigger men, though they couldn't have made them lesser geniuses.\"\n\n\"No, we must not take the exceptional man as a standard; we've got to\ntalk about the average. The hand of the Potter shook badly when he made\nman. It was at best a careless job. But He made some better than others,\nsome a little less weak, a little more intelligent. All in all, those\nare the men that come to college. The colleges ought to do a thousand\ntimes more for those men than they do do; but, after all, they do\nsomething for them, and I am optimistic enough to believe that the time\nwill come when they will do more.\"\n\n\"Some day, perhaps,\" he concluded very seriously, \"our administrative\nofficers will be true educators; some day perhaps our faculties will be\nwise men really fitted to teach; some day perhaps our students will be\nreally students, eager to learn, honest searchers after beauty and\ntruth. That day will be the millennium. I look for the undergraduates to\nlead us to it.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nThe college year swept rapidly to its close, so rapidly to the seniors\nthat the days seemed to melt in their grasp. The twentieth of June would\nbring them their diplomas and the end of their college life. They felt a\nbit chesty at the thought of that B.S. or A.B., but a little sentimental\nat the thought of leaving \"old Sanford.\"\n\nSuddenly everything about the college became infinitely precious--every\ntradition; every building, no matter how ugly; even the professors, not\njust the deserving few--all of them.\n\nHugh took to wandering about the campus, sometimes alone, thinking of\nCynthia, sometimes with a favored crony such as George Winsor or Pudge\nJamieson. He didn't see very much of Norry the last month or two of\ncollege. He was just as fond of him as ever, but Norry was only a\njunior; he would not understand how a fellow felt about Sanford when he\nwas on the verge of leaving her. But George and Pudge did understand.\nThe boys didn't say much as they wandered around the buildings, merely\nstrolled along, occasionally pausing to laugh over some experience that\nhad happened to one of them in the building they were passing.\n\nHugh could never pass Surrey Hall without feeling something deeper than\nsentimentality. He always thought of Carl Peters, from whom he had not\nheard for more than a year. He understood Carl better now, his desire\nto be a gentleman and his despair at ever succeeding. Surrey Hall held\ndrama for Hugh, not all of it pleasant, but he had a deeper affection\nfor the ivy-covered dormitory then he would ever have for the Nu Delta\nHouse. He wondered what had become of Morse, the homesick freshman.\nPoor Morse.... And the bull sessions he had sat in in old Surrey. He\nhad learned a lot from them, a whole lot....\n\nThe chapel where he had slept and surreptitiously eaten doughnuts and\nread \"The Sanford News\" suddenly became a holy building, the building\nthat housed the soul of Sanford.... He knew that he was sentimental, that\nhe was investing buildings with a greater significance than they had in\ntheir own right, but he continued to dream over the last four years and\nto find a melancholy beauty in his own sentimentality. If it hadn't\nbeen for Cynthia, he would have been perfectly happy.\n\nSoon the examinations were over, and the underclassmen began to\ndepart. Good-by to all his friends who were not seniors. Good-by to\nNorry Parker. \"Thanks for the congratulations, old man. Sorry I can't\nvisit you this summer. Can't you spend a month with me on the farm...?\"\nGood-by to his fraternity brothers except the few left in his own\ndelegation. \"Good-by, old man, good-by.... Sure, I'll see you next year\nat the reunion.\" Good-by.... Good-by....\n\nSad, this business of saying good-by, damn sad. Gee, how a fellow would\nmiss all the good old eggs he had walked with and drunk with and bulled\nwith these past years. Good eggs, all of them--damn good eggs.... God!\na fellow couldn't appreciate college until he was about to leave it.\nOh, for a chance to live those four years over again. \"Would I live\nthem differently? I'll say I would.\"\n\nGood-by, boyhood.... Commencement was coming. Hugh hadn't thought\nbefore of what that word meant. Commencement! The beginning. What was\nhe going to do with this commencement of his into life? Old Pudge was\ngoing to law school and so was Jack Lawrence. George Winsor was going\nto medical school. But what was he going to do? He felt so pathetically\nunprepared. And then there was Cynthia.... What was he going to do\nabout her? She rarely left his mind. How could he tackle life when he\ncouldn't solve the problem she presented? It was like trying to run a\nhundred against fast men when a fellow had only begun to train.\n\nHenley had advised him to take a year or so at Harvard if his father\nproved willing, and his father was more than willing, even eager. He\nguessed that he'd take at least a year in Cambridge. Perhaps he could\nfind himself in that year. Maybe he could learn to write. He hoped to\nGod he could.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJust before commencement his relations with Cynthia came to a climax.\nThey had been constantly becoming more complicated. She was demanding\nnothing of him, but her letters were tinged with despair. He felt at\nlast that he must see her. Then he would know whether he loved her or\nnot. A year before she had said that he didn't. How did she know? She\nhad said that all he felt for her was sex attraction. How did she know\nthat? Why, she had said that was all that she felt for him. And he had\nheard plenty of fellows argue that love was nothing but sexual\nattraction anyway, and that all the stuff the poets wrote was pure bunk.\nFreud said something like that, he thought, and Freud knew a damn sight\nmore about it than the poets.\n\nYet, the doubt remained. Whether love was merely sexual attraction or\nnot, he wanted something more than that; his every instinct demanded\nsomething more. He had noticed another thing: the fellows that weren't\nengaged said that love was only sexual attraction; those who were\nengaged vehemently denied it, and Hugh knew that some of the engaged\nmen had led gay lives in college. He could not reach any decision; at\ntimes he was sure that what he felt for Cynthia was love; at other times\nhe was sure that it wasn't.\n\nAt last in desperation he telegraphed to her that he was coming to New\nYork and that she should meet him at Grand Central at three o'clock the\nnext day. He knew that he oughtn't to go. He would be able to stay in\nNew York only a little more than two hours because his father and mother\nwould arrive in Haydensville the day following, and he felt that he had\nto be there to greet them. He damned himself for his impetuousness all\nduring the long trip, and a dozen times he wished he were back safe in\nthe Nu Delta house. What in hell would he say to Cynthia, anyway? What\nwould he do when he saw her? Kiss her? \"I won't have a damned bit of\nsense left if I do.\"\n\nShe was waiting for him as he came through the gate. Quite without\nthinking, he put down his bag and kissed her. Her touch had its old\npower; his blood leaped. With a tremendous effort of will he controlled\nhimself. That afternoon was all-important; he must keep his head.\n\n\"It's sweet of you to come,\" Cynthia whispered, clinging to him, \"so\ndamned sweet.\"\n\n\"It's damned good to see you,\" he replied gruffly. \"Come on while I\ncheck this bag. I've only got a little over two hours, Cynthia; I've\ngot to get the five-ten back. My folks will be in Haydensville to-morrow\nmorning, and I've got to get back to meet them.\"\n\nHer face clouded for an instant, but she tucked her arm gaily in his and\nmarched with him across the rotunda to the checking counter. When Hugh\nhad disposed of his bag, he suggested that they go to a little tea room\non Fifty-seventh Street. She agreed without argument. Once they were in\na taxi, she wanted to snuggle down into his arm, but she restrained\nherself; she felt that she had to play fair.\n\nHugh said nothing. He was trying to think, and his thoughts whirled\naround in a mad, drunken dance. He believed that he would be married\nbefore he took the train back, at least engaged, and what would all that\nmean? Did he want to get married? God! he didn't know.\n\nWhen at last they were settled in a corner of the empty tea-room and had\ngiven their order, they talked in an embarrassed fashion about their\nrecent letters, both of them carefully quiet and restrained. Finally\nHugh shoved his plate and cup aside and looked straight at her for the\nfirst time. She was thin, much thinner than she had been a year ago, but\nthere was something sweeter about her, too; she seemed so quiet, so\ngentle.\n\n\"We aren't going to get anywhere this way, Cynthia,\" he said\ndesperately. \"We're both evading. I haven't any sense left, but what I\nsay from now on I am going to say straight out. I swore on the train\nthat I wouldn't kiss you. I knew that I wouldn't be able to think if I\ndid--and I can't; all I know is that I want to kiss you again.\" He\nlooked at her sitting across the little table from him, so slender and\nstill--a different Cynthia but damnably desirable. \"Cynthia,\" he added\nhoarsely, \"if you took my hand, you could lead me to hell.\"\n\nShe in turn looked at him. He was much older than he had been a year\nbefore. Then he had been a boy; now he seemed a man. He had not changed\nparticularly; he was as blond and young and clean as ever, but there was\nsomething about his mouth and eyes, something more serious and more\nstern, that made him seem years older.\n\n\"I don't want to lead you to hell, honey,\" she replied softly. \"I left\nProm last year so that I wouldn't do that. I told you then that I wasn't\ngood for you--but I'm different now.\"\n\n\"I can see that. I don't know what it is, but you're different, awfully\ndifferent.\" He leaned forward suddenly. \"Cynthia, shall we go over to\nJersey and get married? I understand that one can there right away.\nWe're both of age--\"\n\n\"Wait, Hugh; wait.\" Cynthia's hands were tightly clasped in her lap.\n\"Are you sure that you want to? I've been thinking a lot since I got\nyour telegram. Are you sure you love me?\"\n\nHe slumped back into his chair. \"I don't know what love is,\" he\nconfessed miserably. \"I can't find out.\" Cynthia's hands tightened in\nher lap. \"I've tried to think this business out, and I can't. I haven't\nany right to ask you to marry me. I haven't any money, not a bit, and\nI'm not prepared to do anything, either. As I wrote you, my folks want\nme to go to Harvard next year.\" The mention of his poverty and of his\ninability to support a wife brought him back to something approaching\nnormal again. \"I suppose I'm just a kid, Cynthia,\" he added more\nquietly, \"but sometimes I feel a thousand years old. I do right now.\"\n\n\"What were your plans for next year and after that until you saw me?\"\nHer eyes searched his.\n\n\"Oh, I thought I'd go to Harvard a year or two and then try to write or\nperhaps teach. Writing is slow business, I understand, and teaching\ndoesn't pay anything. I don't want to ask my father to support us, and I\nwon't let your folks. I lost my head when I suggested that we get\nmarried. It would be foolish. I haven't the right.\"\n\n\"No,\" she agreed slowly; \"no, neither of us has the right. I thought\nbefore you came if you asked me to marry you--I was sure somehow that\nyou would--I would run right off and do it, but now I know that I\nwon't.\" She continued to gaze at him, her eyes troubled and confused.\nWhat made him seem so much older, so different?\n\n\"Do you think we can ever forget Prom?\" She waited for his reply. So\nmuch depended on it.\n\n\"Of course,\" he answered impatiently. \"I've forgotten that already. We\nwere crazy kids, that's all--youngsters trying to act smart and wild.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" The ejaculation was soft, but it vibrated with pain. \"You mean\nthat--that you wouldn't--well, you wouldn't get drunk like that again?\"\n\n\"Of course not, especially at a dance. I'm not a child any longer,\nCynthia. I have sense enough now not to forfeit my self-respect again. I\nhope so, anyway. I haven't been drunk in the last year. A drunkard is a\nbeastly sight, rotten. If I have learned anything in college, it is that\na man has to respect himself, and I can't respect any one any longer who\ndeliberately reduces himself to a beast. I was a beast with you a year\nago. I treated you like a woman of the streets, and I abused Norry\nParker's hospitality shamefully. If I can help it, I'll never act like a\nrotter again, I hate a prig, Cynthia, like the devil, but I hate a\nrotter even more. I hope I can learn to be neither.\"\n\nAs he spoke, Cynthia clenched her hands so tightly that the finger-nails\nwere bruising her tender palms, but her eyes remained dry and her lips\ndid not tremble. If he could have seen _her_ on some parties this last\nyear....\n\n\"You have changed a lot.\" Her words were barely audible. \"You have\nchanged an awful lot.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I hope so. There are times now when I hate myself, but I\nnever hate myself so much as when I think of Prom. I've learned a lot in\nthe last year, and I hope I've learned enough to treat a decent girl\ndecently. I have never apologized to you the way I think I ought to.\"\n\n\"Don't!\" she cried, her voice vibrant with pain. \"Don't! I was more to\nblame than you were. Let's not talk about that.\"\n\n\"All right. I'm more than willing to forget it.\" He paused and then\ncontinued very seriously, \"I can't ask you to marry me now,\nCynthia--but--but are you willing to wait for me? It may take time, but\nI promise I'll work hard.\"\n\nCynthia's hands clenched convulsively. \"No, Hugh honey,\" she whispered;\n\"I'll never marry you. I--I don't love you.\"\n\n\"What?\" he demanded, his senses swimming in hopeless confusion. \"What?\"\n\nShe did not say that she knew that he did not love her; she did not tell\nhim how much his quixotic chivalry moved her. Nor did she tell him that\nshe knew only too well that she could lead him to hell, as he said, but\nthat that was the only place that she could lead him. These things she\nfelt positive of, but to mention them meant an argument--and an\nargument would have been unendurable.\n\n\"No,\" she repeated, \"I don't love you. You see, you're so different from\nwhat I remembered. You've grown up and you've changed. Why, Hugh, we're\nstrangers. I've realized that while you've been talking. We don't know\neach other, not a bit. We only saw each other for a week summer before\nlast and for two days last spring. Now we're two altogether different\npeople; and we don't know each other at all.\"\n\nShe prayed that he would deny her statements, that he would say they\nknew each other by instinct--anything, so long as he did not agree.\n\n\"I certainly don't know you the way you're talking now,\" he said almost\nroughly, his pride hurt and his mind in a turmoil. \"I know that we don't\nknow each other, but I never thought that you thought that mattered.\"\n\nHer hands clenched more tightly for an instant--and then lay open and\nlimp in her lap.\n\nHer lips were trembling; so she smiled. \"I didn't think it mattered\nuntil you asked me to marry you. Then I knew it did. It was game of you\nto offer to take a chance, but I'm not that game. I couldn't marry a\nstrange man. I like that man a lot, but I don't love him--and you don't\nwant me to marry you if I don't love you, do you, Hugh?\"\n\n\"Of course not.\" He looked down in earnest thought and then said\nsoftly, his eyes on the table, \"I'm glad that you feel that way,\nCynthia.\" She bit her lip and trembled slightly. \"I'll confess now that\nI don't think that I love you, either. You sweep me clean off my feet\nwhen I'm with you, but when I'm away from you I don't feel that way. I\nthink love must be something more than we feel for each other.\" He\nlooked up and smiled boyishly. \"We'll go on being friends anyhow, won't\nwe?\"\n\nSomehow she managed to smile back at him. \"Of course,\" she whispered,\nand then after a brief pause added: \"We had better go now. Your train\nwill be leaving pretty soon.\"\n\nHugh pulled out his watch. \"By jingo, so it will.\"\n\nHe called the waiter, paid his bill, and a few minutes later they turned\ninto Fifth Avenue. They had gone about a block down the avenue when Hugh\nsaw some one a few feet ahead of him who looked familiar. Could it be\nCarl Peters? By the Lord Harry, it was!\n\n\"Excuse me a minute, Cynthia, please. There's a fellow I know.\"\n\nHe rushed forward and caught Carl by the arm. Carl cried, \"Hugh, by\nGod!\" and shook hands with him violently. \"Hell, Hugh, I'm glad to see\nyou.\"\n\nHugh turned to Cynthia, who was a pace behind them. He introduced Carl\nand Cynthia to each other and then asked Carl why in the devil he\nhadn't written.\n\nCarl switched his leg with his cane and grinned. \"You know darn well,\nHugh, that I don't write letters, but I did mean to write to you; I\nmeant to often. I've been traveling. My mother and I have just got back\nfrom a trip around the world. Where are you going now?\"\n\n\"Oh, golly,\" Hugh exclaimed, \"I've got to hurry if I'm going to make\nthat train. Come on, Carl, with us to Grand Central. I've got to get the\nfive-ten back to Haydensville. My folks are coming up to-morrow for\ncommencement.\" Instantly he hated himself. Why did he have to mention\ncommencement? He might have remembered that it should have been Carl's\ncommencement, too.\n\nCarl, however, did not seem in the least disturbed, and he cheerfully\naccompanied Hugh and Cynthia to the station. He looked at Cynthia and\nhad an idea.\n\n\"Have you checked your bag?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Hugh replied.\n\n\"Well, give me the check and I'll get it for you. I'll meet you at the\ngate.\"\n\nHugh surrendered the check and then proceeded to the gate with Cynthia.\nHe turned to her and asked gently, \"May I kiss you, Cynthia?\"\n\nFor an instant she looked down and said nothing; then she turned her\nface up to his. He kissed her tenderly, wondering why he felt no\npassion, afraid that he would.\n\n\"Good-by, Cynthia dear,\" he whispered.\n\nHer hands fluttered helplessly about his coat lapels and then fell to\nher side. She managed a brave little smile. \"Good-by--honey.\"\n\nCarl rushed up with the bag. \"Gosh, Hugh, you've got to hurry; they're\nclosing the gate.\" He gripped his hand for a second. \"Visit me at Bar\nHarbor this summer if you can.\"\n\n\"Sure. Good-by, old man. Good-by Cynthia.\"\n\n\"Good-by--good-by.\"\n\nHugh slipped through the gate and, turned to wave at Carl and Cynthia.\nThey waved back, and then he ran for the train.\n\nOn the long trip to Haydensville Hugh relaxed. Now that the strain was\nover, he felt suddenly weak, but it was sweet weakness. He could\ngraduate in peace now. The visit to New York had been worth while. And\nwhat do you know, bumping into old Carl like that I Cynthia and he were\nfriends, too, the best friends in the world, but she no longer wanted to\nmarry him. That was fine.... He remembered the picture she and Carl had\nmade standing on the other side of the gate from him. \"What a peach of a\npair. Golly, wouldn't it be funny if they hit it off....\"\n\nHe thought over every word that he and Cynthia had said. She certainly\nhad been square all right. Not many like her, but \"by heaven, I knew\ndown in my heart all the time that I didn't want to get married or even\nengaged. It would have played hell with everything.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nThe next morning Hugh's mother and father arrived in the automobile. He\nwas to drive them back to Merrytown the day after commencement. At last\nhe stood in the doorway of the Nu Delta house and welcomed his father,\nbut he had forgotten all about that youthful dream. He was merely aware\nthat he was enormously glad to see the \"folks\" and that his father\nseemed to be withering into an old man.\n\nAs the under-classmen departed, the alumni began to arrive. The \"five\nyear\" classes dressed in extraordinary outfits--Indians, Turks, and men\nin prison garb roamed the campus. There were youngsters just a year out\nof college, still looking like undergraduates, still full of college\ntalk. The alumni ranged all the way from these one-year men to the\nfifty-year men, twelve old men who had come back to Sanford fifty years\nafter their graduation, and two of them had come all the way across the\ncontinent. There had been only fifty men originally in that class; and\ntwelve of them were back.\n\nWhat brought them back? Hugh wondered. He thought he knew, but he\ncouldn't have given a reason. He watched those old men wandering slowly\naround the campus, one of them with his grandson who was graduating this\nyear, and he was awed by their age and their devotion to their alma\nmater. Yes, Henley had been right. Sanford was far from perfect, far\nfrom it--a child could see that--but there was something in the college\nthat gripped one's heart. What faults that old college had; but how one\nloved her!\n\nThousands of Japanese lanterns had been strung around the campus; an\nelectric fountain sparkled and splashed its many-colored waters; a band\nseemed to be playing every hour of the day and night from the band-stand\nin front of the Union. It was a gay scene, and everybody seemed superbly\nhappy except, possibly, the seniors. They pretended to be happy, but all\nof them were a little sad, a little frightened. College had been very\nbeautiful--and the \"world outside,\" what was it? What did it have in\nstore for them?\n\nThere were mothers and fathers there to see their sons receive their\ndegrees, there were the wives and children of the alumni, there were\nsisters and fiancees of the seniors. Nearly two thousand people; and at\nleast half of the alumni drunk most of the time. Very drunk, many of\nthem, and very foolish, but nobody minded. Somehow every one seemed to\nrealize that in a few brief days they were trying to recapture a\nyouthful thrill that had gone forever. Some of the drunken ones seemed\nvery silly, some of them seemed almost offensive; all of them were\npathetic.\n\nThey had come back to Sanford where they had once been so young and\nexuberant, so tireless in pleasure, so in love with living; and they\nwere trying to pour all that youthful zest into themselves again out of\na bottle bought from a bootlegger. Were they having a good time? Who\nknows? Probably not. A bald-headed man does not particularly enjoy\nlooking at a picture taken in his hirsute youth; and yet there is a\ncertain whimsical pleasure in the memories the picture brings.\n\nFor three days there was much gaiety, much singing of class songs,\nconstant parading, dances, speech-making, class circuses, and endless\nshaking of hands and exchanging of reminiscences. The seniors moved\nthrough all the excitement quietly, keeping close to their relatives and\nfriends. Graduation wasn't so thrilling as they had expected it to be;\nit was more sad. The alumni seemed to be having a good time; they were\nridiculously boyish: only the seniors were grave, strangely and\nunnaturally dignified.\n\nMost of the alumni left the night before the graduation exercises. The\nparents and fiancees remained. They stood in the middle of the campus\nand watched the seniors, clad in caps and gowns, line up before the\nUnion at the orders of the class marshal.\n\nFinally, the procession, the grand marshal, a professor, in the lead\nwith a wand in his hand, then President Culver and the governor of the\nState, then the men who were to receive honorary degrees--a writer, a\ncollege president, a philanthropist, a professor, and three\npoliticians--then the faculty in academic robes, their many-colored\nhoods brilliant against their black gowns. And last the seniors, a long\nline of them marching in twos headed by their marshal.\n\nThe visitors streamed after them into the chapel. The seniors sat in\ntheir customary seats, the faculty and the men who were to receive\nhonorary degrees on a platform that had been built at the altar. After\nthey were seated, everything became a blur to Hugh. He hardly knew what\nwas happening. He saw his father and mother sitting in the transept. He\nthought his mother was crying. He hoped not.... Some one prayed\nstupidly. There was a hymn.... What was it Cynthia had said? Oh, yes: \"I\ncan't marry a stranger.\" Well, they weren't exactly strangers.... He was\ndarn glad he had gone to New York.... The president seemed to be saying\nover and over again, \"By the power invested in me ...\" and every time\nthat he said it, Professor Blake would slip the loop of a colored hood\nover the head of a writer or a politician--and then it was happening all\nover again.\n\nSuddenly the class marshal motioned to the seniors to rise. They put on\ntheir mortar-boards. The president said once more, \"By the power\ninvested in me....\" The seniors filed by the president, and the grand\nmarshal handed each of them a roll of parchment tied with blue and\norange ribbons. Hugh felt a strange thrill as he took his. He was\ngraduated; he was a bachelor of science.... Back again to their seats.\nSome one was pronouncing benediction.... Music from the organ--marching\nout of the chapel, the surge of friends--his father shaking his hand,\nhis mother's arms around his neck; she _was_ crying....\n\nGraduation was over, and, with it Hugh's college days. Many of the\nseniors left at once. Hugh would have liked to go, too, but his father\nwanted to stay one more day in Haydensville. Besides, there was a final\nsenior dance that night, and he thought that Hugh ought to attend it.\n\nHugh did go to the dance, but somehow it brought him no pleasure.\nAlthough it was immensely decorous, it reminded him of Cynthia. He\nthought of her tenderly. The best little girl he'd ever met.... He\ndanced on, religiously steering around the sisters and fiancees of his\nfriends, but he could not enjoy the dance. Shortly after eleven he\nslipped out of the gymnasium and made one last tour of the campus.\n\nIt was a moonlight night, and the campus was mysterious with shadows.\nThe elms shook their leaves whisperingly; the tower of the chapel looked\nlike magic tracery in the moonlight. He paused before Surrey Hall, now\ndark and empty. Good old Carl.... Carl and Cynthia? He wondered....\nPudge had roomed there, too. He passed on. Keller Hall, Cynthia and\nNorry.... \"God, what a beast I was that night. How white Norry was--and\nCynthia, too,\" Cynthia again. She'd always be a part of Sanford to him.\nOn down to the lake to watch the silver path of the moonlight and the\nheavy reflections near the shore. Swimming, canoeing, skating--he and\nCynthia in the woods beyond.... On back to the campus, around the\nbuildings, every one of them filled with memories. Four years--four\nbeautiful, wonderful years.... Good old Sanford....\n\nMidnight struck. Some one turned a switch somewhere. The Japanese\nlanterns suddenly lost their colors and faded to gray balloons in the\nmoonlight. Some men were singing on the Union steps. It was a few\nseniors, Hugh knew; they had been singing for an hour.\n\nHe stood in the center of the campus and listened, his eyes full of\ntears. Earnestly, religiously, the men sang, their voices rich with\nemotion:\n\n\n                \"Sanford, Sanford, mother of men,\n                 Love us, guard us, hold us true.\n                 Let thy arms enfold us;\n                 Let thy truth uphold us.\n                 Queen of colleges, mother of men--\n                 Alma mater--Sanford--hail!\n                 Alma-mater--Hail!--Hail!\"\n\n\nHugh walked slowly across the campus toward the Nu Delta house. He was\nboth happy and sad--happy because the great adventure was before him\nwith all its mystery, sad because he was leaving something beautiful\nbehind...."