“Have you talked with Story?” said Stover, resenting his tone.
“Bob’s got a curious twist—he’s a good deal of a dreamer.”
“Then you wouldn’t make any changes?”
“No, not in our crowd,” said Hunter. “I think we do very well what we set out to get—the representative men of the class, to bring them together into close friendship, and make them understand one another’s point of view and so work together for the best in the university.”
“You think the outsiders don’t count?”
“As a rule, no. Of course, there are one or two men who develop later, but if there’s anything in them they’ll really make good.”
“Rather tough work, won’t it be?”
“Yes; but every system has its faults.”
“What did you come in to see me about?” said Stover abruptly.
“To talk the situation over,” said Hunter, not seeming to perceive the hostility of the question. “I think all of us in the crowd ought to be very careful.”
“About what?”
“About talking too much.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, if you have any criticism on the system, keep it to yourself. Gimbel is raising enough trouble; the only thing is for us to shut up and not encourage them by making the kickers think that any of us agree with them.”
“So that’s what you came in to say to me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re for no compromise.”
“I am.”
“Are there fellows in our crowd, or the classes ahead, who feel as Story does?”
“Yes; of course there are a few.”
“And, Hunter, you see no faults in the system?”
“What other system would you suggest?”
Now, Stover had not yet come to a critical analysis of his own good fortune, nor had he any more than a personal antagonism for Hunter himself. He did not answer, unwilling to let this feeling color his views on what he began to perceive might some day shape itself as a test of his courage.
Hunter left presently, as he had come up, without enthusiasm, always cold, always deliberate. When he had gone, Stover became a little angry at the advice so openly imposed on him, and as a result he decided on a sudden move.
If the split in the class was acute, something ought to be done. If Hunter, as a leader, was resolved on contemptuous isolation, he would do a bigger thing in a bigger way.
In pursuance of this idea, he suddenly set out to find Gimbel and provoke a frank discussion. If anything could be done to hold the class together and stop the rise of political dissension, it was his duty as a responsible leader to do what he could to prevent it.
When he reached the room, it was crowded, and an excited discussion was going on, which dropped suddenly on his entrance. What the subject of conversation was he had a shrewd suspicion, seeing several representatives from Sheff.
“Hello, Stover. Come right in. Glad to see you.” Gimbel, a little puzzled at this first visit, came forward cordially. “You know everyone here, don’t you? Jackson, shake hands with Stover. What’ll you have, pipe or cigarette?”
Stover nodded to the fellows whom he knew on slight acquaintance, settled in an armchair, brought forth his pipe, and said with assumed carelessness:
“What was all the powwow about when I arrived?”
A certain embarrassment stirred in the room, but Gimbel, smiling at the question, said frankly:
“We were fixing up a combination for the baseball managership. We are going to lick you fellows to a scramble. That’s what you’ve come over to talk about, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The crowd, plainly disconcerted at this smiling passage of arms, began to melt away with hastily formed excuses.
“Quite a meeting-place, Gimbel, you have here,” said Stover, nodding to the last disappearing group.
“Politicians should have,” replied Gimbel, straddling a chair, and, leaning his arms on the back, he added, smiling: “Well, fire away.”
Each had grown in authority since their first meeting on the opening of college, nor was the question of war or peace yet decided between them.
“Gimbel, I hope we can talk this thing over openly.”
“I think we can.”
“I’m doing an unusual thing in coming to you. You’re a power in this class.”
“And you represent the other side,” said Gimbel. “Go on.”
“You’re going to run a candidate for the baseball managership.”
“I’m not running him, but I’m making the combination for this class.”
“Same thing.”
“Just about.”
“Are you fellows going to shut out every society man that goes up for a class election?”
“You’re putting a pretty direct question.”
“Answer it if you want to.”
“Yes, I’ll answer it.” Gimbel looked at him, plainly concerned in emulating his frankness, and continued: “Stover, this anti-sophomore society fight is a fight to the finish. We are going to put up an outsider, as you call it, for every election, and we’re going to elect him.”
“Why?”
“Because we are serving notice that we are against a system that is political and undemocratic.”
“What good’ll it do?”
“We’ll abolish the whole system.”
“Do you really believe that?” said Stover, strangely enough, adopting Hunter’s attitude.
“I do; I may know the feeling in the upper classes better than you do.”
“Gimbel, how much of this is real opposition and how much is worked up by you and others?”
“My dear Stover, why ask who is responsible? Ask if the opposition is genuine and whether it’s going to stick.”
“I don’t believe it is.”
“That’s not it. What you want to know is how much is conviction in me, and how much is just the fun of running things and stirring up mischief.”
“That does puzzle me—yes. But what I want you to see is, you’re splitting up the class.”
“I’m not doing it, and you’re not doing it. It’s the class ahead that’s interfering and doing it. Now, Stover, I’ve answered your questions. Will you answer mine?”
“That’s fair.”
“If you put up a candidate, why shouldn’t we?”
“But you make politics out of it.”
“Do you ever support the candidate of another crowd?”
Stover was silent.
“Stover, do you know that
