He was off to another table, where he was soon in animated conversation.
“Don’t mix up in it,” said Stover quietly.
“Why not?” said McCarthy. “A good old political shindig’s lots of fun.”
“Wait until we understand the game,” said Stover, remembering Le Baron’s advice not to commit himself to any crowd.
“But it would be such a lark.”
Dink did not reply. Instead he was carefully studying the many types that crowded before his eyes. They ranged from the New Yorker, extra spick-and-span for his arrival, lost and ill at ease, speaking to no one; to older men in jerseys and sweaters, unshaven often, lolling back in their chairs, concerned with no one, talking with all.
The waiters were of his own class, who presently brought their plates to the tables they served and sat down without embarrassment. It was a heterogeneous assembly, with a preponderance of quiet, serious types, men to whom the financial problem was serious and college an opportunity to fit themselves for the grinding combat of life. Others were raw, decidedly without experience, opinionated, carrying on their shoulders a chip of somewhat bumptious pride. The talk was all of the doings of the night before, when several had fallen into the hands of mischief-bent sophomores.
“They caught Flanders down York Street and made him roll a peanut up to Billy’s.”
“Yes, and the darned fool hadn’t sense enough to grin and bear it.”
“So they gave him a beer shampoo.”
“A what?”
“A beer shampoo.”
“Did you hear about Regan?”
“Who’s Regan?”
“He’s a thundering big coal-heaver from out the woolly West.”
“Oh, the fellow that started to scrap.”
“That’s the man.”
“Give us the story, Buck.”
“They had me up, doing some of my foolish stunts,” said a fellow with a great moon of a face, little twinkling eyes, and a grotesque nose that sprang forth like a jagged promontory, “when, all at once, this elephant of a Regan saunters in coolly to see what’s doing.”
“Didn’t know any better, eh?”
“Didn’t know a thing. Well, no sooner did the sophs spot him than they set up a yell:
“ ‘Who are you?’
“ ‘Tom Regan.’
“ ‘What’s your class?’
“ ‘Freshman.’
“ ‘What in the blankety-blank are you doing here?’
“ ‘Lookin’ on.’
“With that, of course, they began just leaping up and down for joy, hugging one another; and a couple of them started in to tackle the old locomotive. The fellow, who’s as strong as an ox, just gives a cough and a sneeze, scatters a few little sophs on the floor, and in a twinkling is in the corner, barricaded behind a table, looking as big as a house.
“ ‘Tom, look out; they’re going to shampoo you,’ says I.
“ ‘Is it all right?’ he says, with a grin.
“ ‘It’s etiquette,’ says I.
“ ‘Come on, then,’ says he very affably, and he strips off his coat and tosses it across the room, saying, ‘It’s my only one; look out for it.’
“Well, when the sophs saw him standing there, licking his chops, arms as big as hams, they sort of stopped and scratched their heads.”
“I bet they did!” cried a couple.
“They didn’t particularly like the prospect; but they were game, especially a little bantam of a rooster called Waring, who’d been putting us through our stunts.
“ ‘I’m going in after that bug myself,’ said he, with a yelp. ‘Come on!’ ”
“Well, what happened, Buck?”
“Did they give it to him?”
“About fifteen minutes after the bouncers had swept us into the street with the rest of the debris, as the French say,” said the speaker, with a far-off, reflective look, “one dozen of the happiest-looking sophs you ever saw went reeling back to the campus. They were torn and scratched, pummeled, bruised and bleeding, soaked from head to foot, shot to pieces, smeared with paint, not a button left or a necktie—but they were happy!”
“Why happy?”
“They had given Regan the shampoo.”
Stover and McCarthy rose and made their way out past the group where Buck Waters, enthroned already as a natural leader, was tuning up the crowd.
“I came up in the train with Regan,” said Stover, thrilling a little at the recital. “Cracky! I wish I’d seen the scrap.”
“We’ll call him out tonight for the wrestling,” said McCarthy.
“He’s a queer, plunging sort of animal,” said Stover reflectively. “I wonder if he’ll ever do anything up here?”
Saunders, riding past on a bicycle, pad protruding from his pocket, slowed up with a cordial hail:
“Howdy! I’m heeling the News. If you get any stories, pass them on to me. Thought you fellows were down at our joint. Where the deuce are you fellows grubbing?”
“We dropped into a place one of your Andover crowd’s runnin’.”
“Who’s that?”
“Fellow called Gimbel.”
Saunders rode on a bit, wheeled, came slowly back, resting his hand on Stover’s shoulder.
“Look here,” he said, frowning a little. “Gimbel’s a good sort, clever and all that; but look here—you’re not decided, are you?”
“No.”
“Because we’ve been counting you fellows in with us. We’ve got a corking crowd, about twenty, and a nice, quiet place.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully: “I think you’ll find the crowd congenial.”
“When do you start in?” said Stover.
“Tomorrow. Are you with us?”
“Glad to come.”
“Bully!” He made a movement to start, and then added suddenly: “I say, fellows, of course you’re not on to a good many games here, but don’t get roped into any politics. It’ll queer you quicker than anything else. You don’t mind my giving you a tip?”
“Not at all,” said Stover, smiling a little as he wondered what distinction Saunders made to himself between politics and politics.
“Ta-ta, then—perfectly bully you’re with us. I’m off on this infernal News game—half a year’s grind from twelve to ten at night—lovely, eh, when the snow and slush come?”
He sped on, and they went up to the rooms.
“I thought we’d better change,” said Stover.
“This place is loaded up with wires—live wires,” said McCarthy,
