So he lay back among welcome cushions, book in hand, and listened with a tolerant ear to the rapid-fire comedy of McNab and Buck Waters. He stayed much in his own room, which became a sort of lounging spot where the air was always blue with smoke and a mandolin or guitar was strumming a low refrain or a group near the fireplace was noisy with the hazards of the national game.
Pretty much everyone of importance in the class dropped in on him. The preliminary visiting period of the sophomore societies was nearly over. With the opening of the winter term the hold-offs and elections would begin. He understood that those who were uncertain wished the advantage of being seen in his company—that his, in fact, was now the “right” crowd.
He intended to call on several men who interested him: Brockhurst, who had made his appearance with a story in the Lit which announced him as a possible future chairman; Gimbel, about whose opinions and sincerity he was in doubt; and, above all, Regan, who genuinely attracted him. But, somehow, having now nothing to do, his afternoons and evenings seemed always filled, and he continually postponed until the morrow what suggested itself during the day. Besides, there was a complacent delight in being his own master again and of looking forward to such a period of independent languor.
The first discordant note to intrude itself upon this ideal was a remark of Le Baron’s during one of the evening visits. These embassies were always conducted with punctiliousness and gravity. The inquisitorial sophomores arrived about eight o’clock in groups of three and four. As McCarthy was the object of attention from a different society, Stover, when the former’s inspectors arrived, shook hands gravely, and shortly discovered that he had a letter to post at the corner. When the committee on Stover appeared trimly at the door, McCarthy rose at once to return a hypothetical book, after which the conversation began with about as much spontaneity and zest as would be permitted to a board of alienists sitting in judgment on a victim. The sophomores were embarrassed with their own impromptu dignity, and the freshmen at the constraint of their superiors.
On one such occasion, after the committee of four had spent fifteen minutes in the grave discussion of a kindergarten topic, and had filed out with funereal solemnity, Le Baron returned for a more intimate conversation.
Since the night of his introduction to college, Stover had had only occasional glimpses of Le Baron. True, he was generally of the visiting committee that called every other night for perfunctory inspection, but through it all the sophomore had adopted an attitude of almost defensive aloofness and impartiality.
“I want to talk over some of the men in the class,” said Le Baron, falling into an armchair and picking up a pipe, while his manner changed to naturalness and equality. Stover understood at once that the attitude was a notice served on him of the security of his own position.
“Dink, I want to know your opinion. What do you think of Brockhurst, for instance?”
“Brockhurst? Why, I hardly know him.”
“Is he liked?”
“Why, yes.”
“Who are his friends?”
Stover thought a moment.
“Why, I think he rather keeps to himself. He strikes me as being—well, a little undeveloped—rather shy.”
“Do you like him?”
“I do.”
“And Schley?”
The question was put abruptly, Le Baron raising his eyes to get his answer from Stover’s face.
“Schley?” said Dink, considering a little. “Why, Schley seems to—”
“Regan?” said Le Baron, satisfied.
“One of the best in the class!”
“He seems a rather rough diamond.”
“He’s proud as Lucifer—but he has more to him than anyone I know.”
“It’s a question what he’ll do.”
“I’d back him every time.”
“You are quite enthusiastic about him,” said Le Baron, looking at him with a little quizzical surprise.
“He’s a man,” said Stover stoutly.
“Of course, the football captaincy will probably be between you two.”
“Regan?” said Stover, amazed.
“Either you or Regan.”
Stover had never thought of him as a rival for his dearest ambition. He remained silent, digesting the possibility, aware of Le Baron’s searching inquiry.
“Of course, you have nine chances out of ten, but the race is a long one.”
“He would make a good captain,” Stover said slowly.
“You think so?”
“I hadn’t thought of it before,” Stover said, with a sudden falling inside, “but he has the stuff in him of a leader all right.”
“I wish he weren’t quite so set,” said Le Baron. “He hasn’t made a particularly favorable impression on some of the fellows.”
An involuntary smile came to Stover at the thought of Regan’s probable reception of a committee of inspection.
“He doesn’t perhaps realize the importance of some things,” he said carefully.
“He doesn’t,” said Le Baron, who was not without a sense of humor. “It’s a pity, though, for his sake. I wish you’d talk to him a little.”
“I will.”
Le Baron rose.
“By the way, what are you going out for this spring?”
“This spring?” said Stover, surprised.
“Ever rowed any?”
“Never.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. You learn the stroke quicker—no bad habits.”
“I’m light as mischief.”
“Oh, I don’t know—not for the freshman. We want to stimulate the interest in rowing up here. It’s a good example for a man like you to come out. Ever done anything in baseball or the track?”
“No.”
“Rowing’s the stunt for you.” He went toward the door, and turned. “Have a little chat with Regan. I admire the fellow, but he needs to rub up a bit with you fellows and get
