“Sit down.”
“Not disturbing you?”
“Not at all,” said Stover, pleased at this moment at the awe he evidently inspired. “I got sort of restless; thought I’d come out here and smoke a pipe. Amusing old spot.”
“I like it,” said Brockhurst. Then he added tentatively: “You get the feeling of it all.”
“Yes, that’s so.”
They puffed in unison a moment.
“You’re hitting up a good pace on that Lit competition,” said Dink, unconscious of the tone of patronage into which he insensibly fell.
“Pretty good.”
“That’s right. Keep plugging away.”
“Why?” said Brockhurst, with a little aggressiveness.
“Why, you ought to make the chairmanship,” said Dink, surprised.
“Why should I?”
“Don’t you want to?”
“There are other things I want more.”
“What?”
“To go through here as my own master, and do myself some good.”
“Hello!”
Stover sat up amazed at hearing from another the thoughts that had been dominant in his own mind; amazed, too, at the trick of association which had put into his own mouth thoughts against which a moment before he had been rebelling.
“That’s good horse sense,” he said, to open up the conversation. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do the best thing a fellow can do at our age. I’m going to loaf.”
“Loaf!” said Dink, startled again, for the word was like treason.
“Just that.”
“But you’re not doing that. You’re out to make the Lit. You’re heeling something, like all the rest of us,” said Stover, who suddenly found himself on the opposite side of the argument, revolting with a last resistance at the too bold statement of his own rebellion.
“I’m not ‘heeling’ the Lit,” said Brockhurst. His shyness disappeared; he spoke energetically, interested in what he was saying. “If I were, I would make the chairmanship without trouble. I’m head and shoulders over the rest here, and I know it. As it is, some persistent grubber who sits down two hours a day, thirty days a month, nine months of the year for the next two years, who will regularly hand in one essay, two stories, a poem, and a handful of portfolios will probably beat me out.”
“And you?”
“I? I write when I have something to write, because I love it and because my ambition is to write.”
“Still, that’s not exactly loafing.”
“It is from your point of view, from the college point of view. It isn’t what I write that’s doing me any good.”
“What then?” said Stover, with growing curiosity.
“The browsing around, watching you other fellows, seeing your mistakes.”
“Well, what are they?” said Dink, with a certain antagonism.
“Why, Stover, here are four years such as we’ll never get again—four years to revel in; and what do you fellows do? Slave as you’ll never slave again. Why, you’re working harder than a clerk supporting a family!”
“It’s a good training.”
“For a certain type, yes, but a rather low type. Thank you, I prefer to go my own way, to work out my own ideas rather than accept others’. However, I’m a crank. Anyone who thinks differently here must be a crank.”
While they were talking the hour of twelve had struck, and presently across the campus came a mysterious line of senior society men, marching silently, two by two, returning to their rooms.
“What do you think of that?” said Stover, with real curiosity.
“That. A colossal mumbo-jumbo that has got every one of you in its grip.” He paused a moment and gave a short laugh. “Did you ever stop to think, Stover, that this fetish of society secrecy that is spread all over this Christian, democratic nation is nothing but a return of idol-worship?”
This idea was beyond Stover, and so, not comprehending it, he resented it. He did not reply. Brockhurst, perceiving that he had spoken too frankly, rose.
“Well, I must be turning in,” he said. “So long, Stover. You go your way and I’ll go mine; some day we’ll talk it over—four years out of college.”
“The fellow is a crank,” said Dink, going his way. “Got some ideas, but an extremist. One or two things he said, though, are true. I rather like to get his point of view, but there’s a chap who’ll never make friends.”
And he felt again a sort of resentment, for, after all, Brockhurst was still unplaced according to college standards, and he was Stover, probable captain, one of those rated sure for the highest society honors.
When he awoke the next morning, starting rebelliously from his bed, his head was heavy, and he did not at first remember the emotions of the night, as sleepily struggling through his sweater he ran out of his entry for a hurried cup of coffee. Bob Story hailed him:
“Hold up, you crazy man.”
“What’s the matter?”
“What the deuce got into you last night?”
“Last night?” said Stover, rubbing his eyes.
“You hauled me out of bed to shout out a lot of crazy nonsense.”
“What did I say?” said Dink, trying to open his eyes.
“Nothing new,” said Bob maliciously. “You said you were a plain damn fool, and were anxious for me to know it.”
“Oh, I remember.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Explanations?”
Stover did not feel in the mood; besides, the new ideas were too big and strange. He wanted time to understand them. So he said:
“Why, Bob, I just woke up, that’s all. I’ll tell you about it sometime—not now.”
“All right,” said Story, with a quick look. “Drop in soon.”
The following night Stover again went over to Swazey’s rooms. It being Saturday, one or two men had dropped in: Ricketts, a down-East Yankee who recited in his divisions, a drawling, shuffling stripling with a lazy, overgrown body and a quick, roving eye; Joe Lake, a short, rolling, fluent Southerner from Texas; and Bud Brown, from a small village in Michigan, one of the class debaters who affected a Websterian deportment.
“I brought my pipe along,” said Stover genially. “Got a place left where I can stow myself? Hello, Ricketts. Hello, Lake. Glad to shake your hand, Brown. How’s the old News getting along, Pike? By the way, I’ll give you a story Monday.”
“Right in here, sir,” said Lake, making
