“Oh, come.”
“Not always. But if you think you can elect a weak member instead of a strong one, you trot out the lame duck. Why? Because at the bottom you are not really social, but political; because your main object is to get as many of your men into senior societies as you can.”
“Well, why not?”
“Because you’re doing it at the expense of the class—by making us bolster up the weak ones with an office.”
“I don’t think that’s entirely fair.”
“You’ll see. Look at the last candidates the sophomores put up. You haven’t answered my questions. Why shouldn’t we non-society men, six-sevenths of the class, have the right to put up our candidates and elect them?”
“You have,” said Stover; “but, Gimbel, you’re not doing it for that. You’re doing it to knock us out.”
“Quite true.”
“That means the whole class goes to smash—that we’re going to have nothing but fights and hard feelings from now on. Is that what you want?”
“Stover, it’s a bigger thing than just the peace of mind of our class.”
“But what is your objection to us?” said Stover.
“My objection is that just that class feeling and harmony you spoke of your societies have already destroyed.”
“In what way?”
“Because you break in and take little groups out of the body of the class and herd together.”
“You exaggerate.”
“Oh, no, I don’t; and you’ll see it more next year. You’ve formed your crowd, and you’ll stick together and you’ll all do everything you can to help each other along. That’s natural. But don’t come and say to me that we fellows are dividing the class.”
“Rats, Gimbel! Just because I’m in a soph isn’t going to make any difference with the men I see.”
“You think so?” said Gimbel, looking at him with real curiosity.
“You bet it won’t.”
“Wait and see.”
“That’s too ridiculous!”
Stover, feeling his anger gaining possession of him, rose abruptly.
“How can it be otherwise?” said Gimbel, persisting.
“Next year the only outsiders you’ll see will be a few bootlickers who’ll attach themselves to you to get pulled into a junior society. The real men won’t go with you, because they don’t want to kowtow and heel.”
“We’ll see.”
“I say, Stover,” said Gimbel abruptly, as Dink, for fear of losing his temper, was leaving. “Now, be square. You’ve come to me frankly—I won’t say impertinently—and I’ve answered your questions and told you openly what we’re going to do. Give me credit for that, will you?”
“I don’t believe in you,” said Stover, facing him.
“I know you don’t,” said Gimbel, flushing a little, “but you will before you get through.”
“I doubt it.”
“And I’ll tell you another thing you’ll do before this sophomore society fight is ended,” said Gimbel, with a sudden heat.
“What?”
“You’ll stand on the right side—where we stand.”
“You think so?”
“I know it!”
XIV
When a freshman has been invited to dinner and in a rash moment accepted the invitation and lived through the agony, he usually pays his party call (always supposing that he has imbibed a certain amount of home etiquette) sometime before graduation. In the balance of freshman year the obligation possesses him like a specter of remorse; in sophomore year he remembers it by fits and starts, always in the middle of the week, in time to forget it by Sunday; in junior year he is tempted once or twice to use it as an excuse for sporting his newly won high hat and frock-coat, but fears he has offended too deeply; and in senior year he watches the local society columns for departures, and rushes around to deposit his cards, with an expression of surprise and regret when informed at the door that the family is away.
Dink Stover temporized, confronted with the awful ordeal of arraying himself in his Sunday prison garb and stiffly traversing the long, tricky, rug-strewn hall of the Story’s, with the chance of suddenly showing his whole person to a dozen inquisitive eyes. He let the first Sunday pass without a qualm, as being too unnecessarily close and familiar. On the second Sunday he decided to wait until he had received the suit made of goods purchased at a miraculous bargain from the unsuspecting Yankee drummer. The third Sunday he completely forgot his duties as a man of fashion. On the fourth Sunday, in a panic, he bound his neck in a shackling high collar, donned his new suit, which looked as lovely as everything that is new and untried can look, and went post-haste in search of Hungerford as a companion in misery and a post to which to cling. To his horror, Hungerford had paid his visit, and felt very doubtful as to the propriety of repeating it before having been again fed.
Dink returned for McNab or Hunter as the lesser of two evils. They were both out. Being in stiff and circumstantial attire, the afternoon was manifestly lost. With a sort of desperate hope for some miraculous evasion, he set out laggingly for the Story mansion, revolving different plans.
“I might leave a card at the door,” he thought to himself, “and tell the girl that my roommate was desperately ill—that I had just run in for a moment because I wanted them to know, to know—to know what?”
The idea expired noiselessly. He likewise rejected the idea of stalking the door Indian fashion, and slipping the card under the crack as if he had rung and not been heard.
“After all, they might be out,” he thought at last, hopefully. “I’ll just go by quietly and see if I can hear anything.”
But at the moment when he came abreast the steps a carriage drove up, the door opened, and Judge Story and his wife came down. Stover came to a balky stop, hastily snatching away his derby.
“Why, bless me if it isn’t Mr. Stover,” said the Judge instantly. “Dressed to kill, too. Never expected
