“Dobbs and Benzigger, the fellows who smash the dishes—by George, that’s great!” cried McNab, joyfully running over the program. “They’re wonders—a perfect scream!”
“Any good dancing?” said Hungerford, and a dozen answers came:
“You bet there is!”
“Fanny Lamonte—a dream, Joe!”
“Daintiest thing you ever saw.”
“Sweetest little ankles!”
“Who’s this coming—the Six Templeton Sisters?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, here they come.”
“They’ve got to be pretty fine for me!”
Enthroned as lords of the drama, they pronounced their infallible judgments. Every joke was new, every vaudeville turn an occasion for a gale of applause. The appearance of the “Six Templetons” was the occasion of a violent discussion between the adherents of the blondes and the admirers of the brunettes, led by the impressionable McNab.
“I’m all for the peach in the middle!”
“Ah, rats! She’s got piano legs. Look at the fighting brunette at this end.”
“Why, she’s got a squint.”
“Squint nothing; she’s winking at me.”
“Yes, she is!”
“Watch me get her eye!”
Stover, of course, preserved an attitude of necessary dignity, gently tolerant of the rakish sentimentalities of the younger members of the flock. Moreover, he was supremely aware that the sparkling eyes under the black curls (were they real?) were not looking at McNab, but intensely directed at his own person—all of which, as she could not have read the Register, was a tribute to his own personal and not public charms.
The lights, the stir of the audience, the boxes filled with the upper classmen, the gorgeous costumes, the sleepy pianist pounding out the accompaniments while accomplishing the marvelous feat of reading a newspaper, were all things to him of fascination. But his eye went not to the roguish professional glances, but lost itself somewhere above amid the ragged drops and borders. He was transported into the wonders of Dink-land, where one figure ran a hundred adventures, where a hundred cheers rose to volley forth one name, where a dozen games were passed in a second, triumphant, dazzling, filled with spectacular conflicts, blurred with frantic crowds of blue, ending always in surging black-hatted rushes that tossed him victoriously toward the stars!
“Let’s cut out,” said McNab’s distinct voice. “There’s nothing but xylophones and coons left.”
“Come on over to Reynolds’s.”
“Start up the game.”
Reluctantly, fallen to earth again, Stover rose and followed them out. In a moment they had passed through the fragrant casks and bottles that thronged the passage, saluting the statesmanly bulk of Hugh Reynolds, and found themselves in a back room, already floating in smoke. White, accusing lights of bracketed lamps picked out the gray features of a dozen men vociferously rolling forth a drinking chorus, while the magic arms of Buck Waters, his falcon’s nose and little muzzle eyes, dominated the whole. A shout acclaimed them:
“Yea, fellows!”
“Shove in here!”
“Get into the game.”
“Bartender, a little more of that brutalizing beer!”
“Cheese and pretzels!”
“Hello, Tough McCarthy!”
“Over here, Dopey McNab.”
“Get into the orchestra.”
“Good boy, Stover!”
“Congratulations!”
“Oh, Dink Stover, have we your eye?”
The last call, caught up by every voice, went swelling in volume, accompanied by a general uplifting of mugs and glasses. It was the traditional call to a health.
“I’d like to oblige,” said Dink, a little embarrassed, “but I’m in training.”
“That’s all right—hand him a soft one.”
For the first time he perceived that there was a perfect freedom in the choice of beverage. He bowed, drained his glass, and sat down.
“Oh, Dopey McNab, have we your eye?”
“You certainly have, boys, and I’m no one-eyed man at that,” said McNab, jovially disappearing down a mug, while the room in chorus trolled out:
“Drink the wine divine
As long as you can stand it.
Hand the bowl around
As long as you can hand it.
Drink your glass,
Drink your glass,
Dri‑i‑i‑i‑ink—he’s drunk it down.”
“Oh, Jim Hunter, have we your eye?”
Each new arrival in turn, called to his feet, rose and drained his glass to a hilarious accompaniment, while Stover, to his surprise, noted that fully a third of the crowd were ordering soft drinks.
“Oh, Dink Stover, here’s to you!”
From across the table Tommy Bain, lifting his glass of ginger ale, smiled a gracious smile.
“Same to you, Tommy Bain.”
The fellow who had addressed him was a leader among the Hotchkiss crowd, out for coxswain, already spoken of for one of the class managerships. He was a diminutive type, immaculately neat, black hair exactly parted and unflurried, well jacketed, turndown collar embellished with a red-and-yellow four-in-hand, a rather large, bulbous nose, and thin eyes that were never quiet—shrewd, direct, inquisitive, always estimating. He was smiling again, raising his glass to someone else down the table, and the smile that passed easily over his lips had the quality of seeming to come from the heart.
McNab and Buck Waters, natural leaders of the revels, arms locked, were giving a muscular exhibition of joint conducting, while the room in chorus sang:
“Should fortune prove unkind,
Should fortune prove unfair,
A cure I have in mind
To drive away all care.”
“By George!” said Hungerford, at his side, laughing, “it’s good to be in the game at last, isn’t it, Dink?”
“It certainly is.”
“We’ve got a great crowd; it’s going to be a great class.”
“Who’s Bain?” said Dink, under his breath.
“Bain—oh, he’s a clever chap, probably be a class deacon. That’s another good thing about this place: we can all get together and drink what we want.”
“Chorus!” cried McNab and Waters, with a twin flourish of their arms.
“Chorus!” shouted Hungerford and Bain, raising their glasses in accompaniment.
“For tonight we will be merry
As the rosy wine we drink—
The rosy wine we drink!”
“Yea!”
“A little more close harmony!”
A great shout acclaimed the chorus and another song was
