All at once, outside, came a clatter of feet, and the door opened on Waring, out of breath and flustered.
“McCarthy, like to see you a moment.”
Stover returned to the window, gazing out. Presently behind his back he heard the two return, the door bang, and McCarthy’s voice saying:
“It’s all right, Dink.”
“All right?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Glad of it.”
“He gave me a little scare, though.”
“Your crowd lost a couple of men; besides, you give more hold-offs.”
“That’s it.”
They abandoned the subject by mutual consent; only Stover remembered for months after the tension he had felt and the tugging at the heartstrings. If he could feel that way for his friend, what would be his sensations when he faced his own crisis on Tap Day?
Fellows from other houses came thronging in with reports of how the class had divided up. Everyone had his own list of the hold-offs, completing it according to the last returns, amid a bedlam of questions.
“How did Story go?”
“Did Schley get a hold-off?”
“Yes, but Troutman didn’t.”
“He did, too.”
“When?”
“Half an hour late.”
“Brockhurst got one.”
“You don’t say so!”
“Gimbel get anythin’?”
“No.”
“Regan?”
“Don’t know.”
“Anyone know about Regan?”
“No.”
“How about Buck Waters?”
“I don’t know. I think not.”
“Damned shame.”
“What, is Buck left out?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Too much sense of humor.”
Stover, off at one side, watched the group, seeing the interested calculation as each scanned his own list, wondering who would have to be eliminated if he were to be chosen. Story, Tommy Bain, and Hunter were in his crowd, as he had foreseen.
He went out and across the campus to South Middle, where Regan was now rooming. By the Co-op he found Bob Story, and together they went up the creaky stairs. Regan was out—just where, the man who roomed on his entry did not know.
“How long has he been out?” said Story anxiously.
“Ever since supper.”
“Didn’t he come in at all?”
“No.”
“Were they going to give him a hold-off?” said Stover, as they went down.
“Yes. They’ve been looking everywhere for him.”
“I don’t think the old boy would take it.”
“Can’t you make him see what it would mean to him?”
“I’ve tried.”
“I’m afraid Regan’s queered himself with a lot of our crowd,” said Story thoughtfully. “They don’t understand him and he doesn’t want to understand them. Didn’t he know this was the night?”
“Yes; I told him.”
“Stayed away on purpose?”
“Probably.”
“Too bad. He’s just the sort of man we ought to have.”
“How do you feel about the whole proposition?” said Stover curiously.
“The sophomore society question?” said Story frankly. “Why, I think there’ve got to be some reforms made; they ought to be kept more democratic.”
“You think that?”
“Yes; I think we want to keep away a good deal from the social admiration game—be representative of the real things in Yale life; that’s why we need a man like Regan. Course, I think this—that we’ve all got too much this society idea in our heads; but, since they exist it’s better to do what we can to make them representative and not snobbish.”
Stover was surprised at the maturity of judgment in the young fellow, as well as his simplicity of expression. He would have liked to talk to him further on deeper subjects, but, as always, the first steps were difficult and as yet he accepted things without a clear understanding of reasons.
He went up with Story for a little chat. There was about the room a tone of quiet good taste and thoughtfulness quite different from the boyish exuberance of other rooms. The pictures were Braunotypes of paintings he did not know, while bits of plaster casts mellowed with wax enlivened the serried contents of the bookshelves.
“You’ve got a lot of books,” said Stover, feeling his way.
“Yes. Drop in and borrow them any time you want.”
While Story flung a couple of cushions on the state armchair and brought out the tobacco, Dink examined the shelves respectfully, surprised and impressed by the quality of the titles, French, German, and Russian.
“Why do you room alone, Bob?” he said, with some curiosity, knowing Story’s popularity.
“I wanted to.” Story was opposite, his face blocked out in sudden shadows from the standing lamp, that accentuated a certain wistful, pensive quality it had. “I enjoy being by myself. It gives me time to think and look around me.”
“Are you going out for anything?” said Stover, wondering a little at the impression Story had made already, through nothing but the charm and sincerity of his character.
“Yes, I’m going out for the News next month, and besides I’m heeling the Lit.”
“Oh, you are?” said Stover, surprised.
“But it comes hard,” said Story, with a grimace. “I have to work like sin over every line. It’s all hammered out. Brockhurst is the fellow who can do the stuff.”
“Do you know him at all?”
“He won’t let anyone know him. I’ve tried. I don’t think he quite knows yet how to meet fellows. I’m sorry. He really interests me.”
“That’s a good photo of your sister,” said Stover, who had held the question in leash ever since his entrance.
“So, so.”
“How much longer has she at Farmington?”
“Last year.”
“Going abroad afterwards?” said Stover carelessly.
“No, indeed. Stay right here.”
“I like her,” said Stover. “It’s quite a privilege to know her.”
Story looked up and a pleased smile came to him.
“Yes, it is,” he said.
“Bob, what do you think about McCarthy’s chances?”
Story considered a moment.
“Only fair,” he said.
“Why, what’s wrong with him?”
“He hasn’t anyone ahead pulling for him,” said Story, “and most of the other fellows have. That’s one fault we have.”
“It would knock him out to miss.”
“It is tough.”
They spoke a little more in a desultory way, and Stover left. He was dissatisfied. He wanted Story to like him, conscious of a new longing in himself for the friendships that did not come, and yet somehow he could find no common ground of conversation. Moreover, and he rather resented it, there was not in Story the least trace of the admiration and reverence that he was accustomed to receive, as a leader
