“Have a pipe—cigarette—anything?” said Hunter over his shoulder, from the trunk to which he had returned.
“No, thanks.”
“Started training?”
“Sort of.”
“Take a chair and make yourself at home,” said Hunter warmly, but without turning.
The talk was immediately of what each was going to do. Stone was out for the glee club, already planning to take singing lessons in the contest for the leadership, three years off. Saunders was to start for the News. Logan had made drawings during the summer and was out for the Record. Hunter was trying for his class team and the crew. Only McNab was defiant.
“None of that for me,” he said, on his back, legs in the air, blowing rings against the ceiling. “I’m for a good time, the best in life. It may be a short one, but it’ll be a lulu!”
“You’ll be out heeling the Record, Dopey, inside of a month,” said Hunter quietly.
“Never, by the Great Horned Spoon—never!”
“And you’ll get a tutor, Dopey, and stay with us.”
“Never! I came to love and to be loved. I’m a lovely thing; that’s sufficient,” said McNab, with a grimace to his elfish face. “I will not be harnessed up. I will not heel.”
“Yes, you will.”
Hunter’s tone had not varied. Stover, studying him, wondered if he had marked out the route of Stone, Saunders, and Logan, just as he felt that McNab would sooner or later conform to the will of the man who had determined to succeed himself and make his own crowd succeed.
Reynolds, a sophomore, an old Andover man, dropped in. Again it was but question of the same challenge, addressed to each:
“What are you trying for?”
The arrival of the sophomore, who installed himself in easy majesty in the armchair and addressed his questions with a quick, analytical staccato, produced somewhat the effect of a suddenly opened window. Even McNab was unwillingly impressed, and Hunter, closing the trunk, allowed the conversation to be guided by Reynolds’ initiative.
He was a fiery, alert, rather undersized fellow, who had been the first in his class to make the News, and was supposed to be in line for that all-important chairmanship.
Inside of five minutes he had gone through the possibilities of each man, advising briefly in a quick, businesslike manner. To Stover he seemed symbolic of the rarefied contending nervousness of the place, a personality that suddenly threw open to him all the nervous panorama of the struggle for position which had already begun.
On top of which there arrived Rogers, a junior, good-natured, popular, important. At once, to Stover’s amused surprise, the role was reversed. Reynolds, from the enthroned autocrat, became the respectful audience, answered a few questions, and found a quick opportunity to leave.
“Let’s go in front and have a little fun,” said Rogers.
Somewhat perplexed, Stover led the way to their room.
“Light up,” said Rogers, with a chuckle. “There’s a sophomore bunch outside just ready to tumble.”
Rogers’ presence brought back a certain ease; they were no longer on inspection, and even in his manner was a more open cordiality than he had showed toward Reynolds. That under all this was some graduated system of authority Stover was slowly perceiving, when all at once from the street there rose a shout:
“Turn down that light!”
“Freshmen, turn down that light!”
“Turn it down slowly,” said Rogers, with a gesture to McNab.
“Faster!”
“All the way down!”
“Turn it up suddenly,” said Rogers.
An angry swelling protest arose:
“Turn that down!”
“You freshmen!”
“Turn it down!”
“The freshest of the fresh!”
“Here, let me work ’em up,” said Rogers, going to the gas-jet.
Under his tantalizing manipulation the noise outside grew to the proportions of a riot.
“Come on and get the bloody freshmen!”
“Ride ’em on a rail!”
“Say, are we going to stand for this?”
“Down with that light!”
“Let’s run ’em out!”
“Break in the door!”
“Out with the freshman!”
Below came a sudden rush of feet. Rogers, abandoning the gas-jet, draped himself nonchalantly on the couch that faced the door.
“Well, here comes the shindy,” thought Stover, with a joyful tensity in every muscle.
The hubbub stormed up the hall, shot open the door, and choked the passage with the suddenly revealed fury of angry faces.
“Hello,” said Rogers’ quiet voice. “Well, what do you want?”
No sooner had the barbaric front ranks beheld the languid, slightly annoyed junior than the fury of battle vanished like a flurry of wind across the water. From behind the more concealed began to murmur:
“Oh, beans!”
“A lemon!”
“Rubber!”
“Sold!”
“Well, what is it?” said Rogers sharply, sending a terrific frown at the sheepish leaders.
At this curt reminder there was a shifting movement in the rear, which rapidly communicated itself to the stammering, apologetic front ranks; the door was closed in ludicrous haste, and down the stairs resounded the stampede of the baffled host.
“My, they are a fierce lot, these man-eating sophomores, aren’t they?” said Rogers, giving way to his laughter. And then, a little apologetically, but with a certain twinkle of humor, he added: “Don’t worry, boys; there was no one in that crowd who’ll do you any harm. However, I might just as well chaperon you to your eating-joint.”
“Le Baron is going to take me out with him,” said Stover, as they rose to go.
“Hugh Le Baron?” said Rogers, with a new interest.
“Yes, sir.”
“I didn’t get your name.”
“Stover.”
“Oh! Captain down at Lawrenceville, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, wish you good luck,” said Rogers, with a more appraising eye. “You’ve got an opening this year. Drop in and see me sometime, will you? I mean it.”
“See you later, Stover,” said Hunter, resting his hand on his shoulder with a little friendly touch.
“Bully you’re with us,” said Stone.
“Come in and chin a little later,” said Logan.
Saunders gave him a duck of the head, with unconcealed admiration in his embarrassed manner.
McCarthy went with them. Stover, left alone, measured the length of the room, smiling to himself. It was all quite amusing, especially when his was the fixed point of view.
In a few moments Le Baron arrived. Together they went across the campus, now swarming like ant runs. At every step Le Baron was halted by a greeting. Recognition
