Stover at Yale

under the flaps at the slightest sound in the corridor. Stover himself began to feel the possibilities of vistas and the sense of lurking shadows. He was utterly disappointed in the material for a suit which he had bought from the unsuspecting Yankee. It had a yielding characteristic way about it that brought the most surprising baggings and stretchings, and he had a suspicion that it was pining away and fading in the sun. By the time the tailor’s bill had been presented (not paid), the suit might have been on the fashion account of a prince. Then there were little notes, polite but insistent, from the haberdasher’s whence the glowing green shirt, now sadly yellowed, had come. In order to make a show of settling, he went over to Commons to eat, and, being on an allowance for clothes, economized on such articles of apparel as were visible only to himself and McCarthy, who was in the same threadbare state.

His candidacy for the class crew kept him in strict training, though he ranked no better than third substitute. His afternoons thus employed and his evenings occupied with consultations, he found his life as narrowed as it had been in the season of football. Everyone knew him, and he had learned the trick of a smile and an enthusiastic bob of the head to everyone. He was a popular man even among the outsiders now more and more openly opposed to the sophomore society system. He was perhaps, at this period, the most popular man in his class; and yet, he had made scarcely a friend, nor did he understand quite what was the longing in him.

With the end of May and the coming of society week for the first time the full intensity and seriousness of the social ambition was brought before him. The last elections in his own crowd were given out, Regan and Brockhurst failing to be chosen. In McCarthy’s society the last place narrowed down to three men; and Stone, who had made the News, won the choice.

Stover was sitting alone with McCarthy on the critical night, when the door opened and Stone entered. One look at his face told McCarthy what had happened.

“I’m sorry, Tough,” said Stone, a little over-tense. “They gave me the pledge. It’s hard luck.”

“Bully for you!” There wasn’t a break in McCarthy’s voice. “I knew you’d get it all along.”

“I came up to let you know right away,” said Stone, looking down at the floor. “Of course, I wanted it myself, but I’m sorry⁠—deuced sorry.”

“Nonsense. You’ve made the News. You ought to have it.” McCarthy, calm and smiling, held out his hand. “Bully for you! Shake on it!”

Stone went almost immediately and the roommates were left alone. McCarthy came back whistling, and irrelevantly went to his bureau, parting his hair with methodical strokes of the brush.

“That was real white of Stone to come up and tell me,” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll go on with that geometry now.”

He came back and sat down at the desk quite calmly, as if a whole outlook had not been suddenly closed to him.

Stover, cut to the heart, watched him with a genuine thrill. He rose, drew a long breath, walked to the window, and, coming back, laid his hand on his roommate’s shoulder.

McCarthy looked up quickly, with a little flush.

“Good grit, old man,” said Dink, “darned good grit.”

“Thank you.”

“It won’t make any difference, Tough.”

“Of course not.” McCarthy gave a little laugh and said: “Don’t say any more, Dink.”

Stover took his place opposite, saying:

“I won’t, only this. You take it better than I could do. I’m proud of you.”

“You remember what the old man said to you fellows after that Princeton slaughter?” said Tough solemnly. “ ‘Take your medicine.’ Well, Dink, I’m going to swallow it without a wink, and I rather guess, from what I’ve seen, that’s the biggest thing they have to teach us up here.”

“It’ll make no difference,” said Dink obstinately.

“Of course not.”

But each knew that for McCarthy, who would never be above the substitute class, the issue of the senior society was settled, once and for all.

The excitement of being initiated, the outward manifestation of Calcium Light Night and the spectacular parade of the cowled junior societies with their swelling marching songs, and the sudden arrival of Tap Day for a while drove from Stover all thoughts but his personal dreams.

On the fateful Thursday in May, shortly after half past four, he and Tough went over to the campus. By the fence the junior class, already swallowed up by the curious body of the college, were waiting the arrival of the senior elections which would begin on the stroke of five.

“Lots of others will take their medicine today,” said McCarthy a little grimly.

“You bet.”

Hungerford and McNab, seeing them, came over.

“Gee, look at the way the visitors are on the campus,” said McNab.

“They’re packed in all the windows of Durfee and over on the steps of Dwight Hall,” said Hungerford. “I didn’t know they came on like this.”

“If you want a sensation,” said McNab, “just go over to that bunch of juniors. You can hear every one of them breathe. They’re scared to death. It’s a regular slaughter.”

Stover looked curiously at McNab, amazed to note the excitement on his usually flippant countenance. Then he looked over at the herd huddled under the trees by the fence. It was all a spectacle still⁠—dramatic, but removed from his own personality. The juniors, with but a few exceptions, were only names to him. His own society men meant something, and Captain Dudley of next year’s eleven, who, of course, was absolutely sure. He felt a little thrill as he looked over and saw the churning mass and thought that in two years he would stand there and wait. But, for the moment, he was only eagerly curious and a little inclined to be amused at the excessive solemnity of the performance.

“Who do you think will be first tapped for Bones?” said McNab, at his side.

“Dudley,”