Hunter and Bain were opposite each other, surrounded as it were by adherents, each already aware of the other, measuring glances, serious, unrelaxing, never unbending, never departing a moment from the careful attitude of critical aloofness. In the midst of the rising hilarity and the rebellious joy of newly gained liberty, the two rival leaders sat singing, but not of the song, the same placid, maliciously superior smile floating over the perfectly controlled lips of Bain, while in the anointed gaze of Hunter was a ponderous seriousness which at that age is ascribed to a predestined Napoleonic melancholy.
“Solo from Buck Waters!”
“Solo!”
“On the chair!”
“Yea, Buck Waters!”
Yielding to the outcry Waters was thrust upward.
“The cowboy orchestra!”
“Give us the cowboy orchestra!”
“The cowboy orchestra, ladies and gentlemen.”
With a wave of his hand he organized the room into drums, bugles, and trombones, announcing:
“The orchestra will tune up and play this little tune,
“ ‘Ta-de-dee-ra-ta-ra-ta-rata,
Ta-de-dee-ra-ta-ra-ta-rata-ta!’
“All ready? Lots of action there—a little more cyclonic from the trombones. Fine! Whenever I give the signal the orchestra will burst forth into that melodious refrain. I will now give an imitation of a professional announcer at Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and Congress of Rough Riders. Orchestra:
“Ta-de-dee-rata-rata-rata
Ta-de-dee-rata-rata-rata-ta!”
While Waters, with his great comical face shining above the gleeful crowd like a harvest moon rising from the lake, continued endlessly drawling out his nasal imitations, the crowd, for the first time welded together, rocked and shouted out the farcical chorus. When he had ended, Buck Waters sat down, enthroned forever afterward master of song and revels.
Bain began to cast estimating glances, calculating on the moment to leave. At the other end Waters was fairly smothered under the rush of delighted comrades, patting him on the back, acclaiming his rise to fame. The tables settled down into a sentimental refrain led by Stone’s clear tenor.
Dink’s glance, traveling down the table, was suddenly attracted by the figure of a young fellow with a certain defiant yet shy individuality in its pose.
“Who’s the rather dark chap just beyond Dopey?” he asked Hungerford.
“Don’t know; ask Schley.”
“Brockhurst—Sidney Brockhurst,” said Schley, not lowering his voice, “from Hill School. Trying for the Lit. Clever chap, they say, but a little long-haired.”
Stover studied him, his curiosity awakened. Brockhurst, of all present, seemed the most solitary and the most self-conscious. He had a long head, high, thin cheeks, and a nervous little habit, when intent or conscious of being watched, of drawing his fingers over his lips. His head was thrown back a little proudly, but the eyes contradicted this attitude, with the acute shyness in them that clouded a certain keen imaginative scrutiny.
At this moment his eyes met Stover’s. Dink, yielding to an instinct, raised his glass and smiled. Brockhurst hastily seized his mug in response, spilling a little of it and dropping his glance quickly. Once or twice, as if unpleasantly conscious of the examination, he turned uneasily.
“He looks rather interesting,” said Stover thoughtfully.
“Think so?” said Schley. “Rather freaky to me.”
Suddenly a shout went up:
“Come in!”
“Yea, Sheff!”
“Yea, Tom Kelly!”
The narrow doorway was suddenly alive with a boisterous, rollicking crowd of Sheff freshmen, led by Tom Kelly, a short, roly-poly, alert little fellow with a sharp pointing nose and a great half-moon of a mouth.
“Come in, Kelly!”
“Crowd in, fellows!”
“Oh, Tom, join us!”
“I will not come in,” said Kelly, with a certain painful beery assumption of dignity. He balanced himself a moment, steadied by his neighbors; and then, to the delight of the room, began, with the utmost gravity, one of his inimitable imitations of the lords that sit enthroned in the faculty.
“I come, not to stultify myself in the fumes of liquor, but to do you good. Beer is brutalizing. With your kind permission, I will whistle you a few verses of a noble poem on same subject.”
“Whistle, Tom?”
“The word was whistle,” said Kelly sternly. Extending his arm for silence, he proceeded, with great intensity and concentrated facial expression, to whistle a sort of improvisation. Then, suddenly ceasing, he continued:
“And what does this beautiful, ennobling little thing teach us, written by a great mind, one of the greatest, greatest minds—what does it teach us?”
“Well, what does it teach?” said one or two voices, after Kelly had preserved a statuesque pose beyond the limits of their curiosity.
“Ask me,” said Kelly, with dignity.
“Mr. Kelly,” said McNab rising seriously, “what does this little gem of intellectuality, this as it were psycho-therapeutical cirrhosis of a paleontological state—you get my meaning, of course—that is, from the point of view of modern introspective excavations, with due regard to whatever the sixth dimension, considered as such, may have of influence, and allowing that a certain amount of error is inherent in Spanish cooking if eggs are boiled in a chafing-dish—admitting all this, I ask you a simple question. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly,” said Kelly, who had followed this serious harangue with strained attention. “And, moreover, I agree with you.”
“You agree?” said McNab, feigning surprise.
“I do.”
“Sir, you are a congenial soul. Shake hands.”
But, in the act of stealing this sudden friendship, Kelly brought forth his hand, when it was perceived that he was tightly clutching a pool-ball, and, moreover, that his pockets were bulging like a sort of universal mumps with a dozen inexplicable companions. A shout went up:
“Why, he’s swallowed a frame of pool-balls!”
“He certainly has.”
“He’s swiped them.”
“He’s wrecked a poolroom.”
“How the deuce did he do it?”
“Why, Tom, where did you get ’em?”
“Testimonial—testimonial of affection,” replied Kelly, “literally showered on me.”
“Tom, you stole them.”
“I did not steal them!”
“Tom, you stole them!”
“Tom, O Tom!”
Kelly, who had proceeded to empty his pockets for an exhibition, becoming abruptly offended at the universal shouted accusation, repocketed the pool-balls and departed, despite a storm of protest and entreaties, carrying with him McNab.
A number of the crowd were passing beyond control; others, inflexible, smiling, continued in their attitude of spectators, Brockhurst because he could not forget himself, Hunter and Bain because they would not.
“Time for us to be cutting out,” said Hunter, with a glance at his watch. “What about it, Stover?”
Dink
