At this moment an abrupt resonant voice said at his side:
“Got a bit of room left beside you?”
Stover shifted his coat, saying:
“Certainly; come on in.”
He saw a man of twenty-two or -three, with the head and shoulders of a bison, sandy hair, with a clear, blue, steady glance, heavy hands, and a face already set in the mold of stern purpose. He stood a moment, holding a decrepit handbag stuffed to the danger point, hesitating whether to stow it in the rack above, and then said:
“Guess I won’t risk it. That’s my trunk. I’ll tuck it in here.” He settled in the vacant seat, saying: “What are you—an upper classman?”
Something like a spasm passed over the well-ironed shoulders of Schley in front.
“No, I’m not,” said Stover, and, extending his hand, he said: “I guess we’re classmates. My name’s Stover.”
“My name’s Regan—Tom Regan. Glad to know you. I’m sorry you’re not an upper classman, though.”
“Why so?” said Stover.
“I wanted to get a few pointers,” said Regan, in a matter-of-fact way. “I’m working my way through and I want to know the ropes.”
“I wish I knew,” said Stover, with instinctive liking for the blunt elemental force beside him. “What are you going to try?”
“Anything—waiting, to start in with.” He gave him a quick glance. “That’s not your trouble, is it?”
“No.”
“It’s a glorious feeling, to be going up, I tell you,” said Regan, with a sudden lighting up of his rugged features. “Can hardly believe it. I’ve been up against those infernal examinations six times, and I’d have gone up against them six more but I’d down them.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Pretty much everywhere. Des Moines, Iowa, at the last.”
“It’s a pretty fine college,” said Stover, with a new thrill.
“It’s a college where you stand on your own feet, all square to the wind,” said Regan, with conviction.
“That’s what got me. It’s worth everything to get here.”
“You’re right.”
“I wonder if I could get hold of some upper classman,” said Regan uneasily.
That this natural desire should be the most unnatural in the world was already clear to Stover; only, somehow, he did not like to look into Regan’s eyes and make him understand.
“How are you, Stover? Glad to see you.”
Dink, looking up, beheld the erect figure and well-mannered carriage of Le Baron, a sophomore, already a leader of his class, whom he had met during the summer. In the clean-cut features and naturally modulated voice there was a certain finely aristocratic quality that won rather than provoked.
Stover was on his feet at once, a little embarrassed despite himself, answering hurriedly the questions addressed to him.
“Get your room over in York Street? Good. You’re in a good crowd. You look a little heavier. In good shape? Your class will have to help us out on the eleven this year.”
Stover introduced Regan. Le Baron at once was sympathetic, gave many hints, recommended certain people to see, and smilingly offered his services.
“Come around any time; I’ll put you in touch with several men that will be of use to you. Get out for the team right off—that’ll make you friends.” Then, turning to Stover, he added, with just a shade of difference in his tone: “I was looking for you particularly. I want you to dine with me tonight. I’ll be around about seven. Awfully glad you’re here. At seven.”
He passed on, giving his hand to the right and left. Stover felt as if he had received the accolade. Schley ahead was squirmingly impressed; one or two heads across the aisle turned in his direction, wondering who could be the freshman whom Le Baron so particularly took under his protection.
“Isn’t he a king?” he said enthusiastically to Regan, with just a pardonable pleasure in his exuberance. “He made the crew last year—probably be captain; subtackle on the eleven. I played against him two years ago when he was at Andover. Isn’t he a king, though!”
“I don’t know,” said Regan, with a drawing of his lips.
Stover was astounded.
“Why not?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Hard to tell. He sizes up for a man all right, but I don’t think we’d agree on some things.”
The incident momentarily halted the conversation. Stover was a little irritated at what seemed to him his companion’s oversensitiveness. Le Baron had been more than kind in his proffer of help. He was at a loss to understand why Regan should not see him through his eyes.
“You think I’m finicky,” said Regan, breaking the silence.
“Yes, I do,” said Stover frankly.
“I guess you and I’ll understand each other,” said Regan, approving of his directness. “Perhaps I am wrong. But, boy, this place means a great deal to me, and the men that are in it and lead it.”
“It’s the one place where money makes no difference,” said Stover, with a flash—“where you stand for what you are.”
Regan turned to him.
“I’ve fought to get here, and I’ll have a fight to stay. It means something to me.”
The train began to slacken in the New Haven station. They swarmed out on to the platform amid the returning gleeful crowd, crossing and intercrossing, caught up in the hubbub of shouted recognition.
“Hello, Stuffy!”
“There’s Stuffy Davis!”
“Hello, boys.”
“Oh, Jim Thompson, have we your eye?”
“Come on.”
“Get the crowd together.”
“All into a hack.”
“Back again, Bill!”
“Join you later. I’ve got a freshman.”
“Where you rooming?”
“See you at Mory’s.”
Buffeted by the crowd they made their way across the depot to the street.
“I’m going to hoof it,” said Regan, extending his hand. “Glad to have met you. I’ll drop in on you soon.”
Stover watched him go stalwartly through the crowd, his bag under one arm, his soft hat set a little at defiance, looking neither to the right nor left.
“Why the deuce did he say that about Le Baron?” he thought, with a feeling of irritation.
Then, obeying an impulse, he signaled an expressman, consigned his bag,
