“I’m not so sure,” said Hungerford seriously.
“Rats!”
“You know, Dink,” said Joe with a little hesitation, “it is not everyone who understands you or what you’re doing.”
“I know,” said Stover, laughing confidently. “Some have got an idea I’ve got some great political scheme, working in with the outsiders to run for the Junior Prom, or something like that.”
“No, it’s not all that. I don’t think some of our crowd realize what you’re doing—rather fancy you’re cutting loose from them.”
“Let them think,” said Stover carelessly. Then he added with some curiosity: “Has there been much talk?”
“Yes, there has.”
“Anyone spoken to you?”
“Yes.”
“I know—I know they’ve got an idea I’m queering myself—oh, that word ‘queer’; it’s the bogey of the whole place.”
“You’re right there! But, Dink, I might as well let you know the feeling; it isn’t simply in our set, but some of the crowd ahead.”
“Le Baron, Reynolds?”
“Yes. Haven’t they ever—ever said anything to you?”
“Bless their simple hearts,” said Stover, untroubled. “So they’re worrying about me. It’s rather humorous. It’s their inherited point of view. Le Baron, Joe, could no more understand what we are thinking about—and yet he’s a fine type. Sure, he’s stopped me a couple of times and shaken his head in a worried, fatherly way. To him, you see, everything is selective; what he calls the fellow who doesn’t count, the ‘fruit,’ is really outside what he understands, the fellows who are in the current of what’s being done here. I must talk it out with him sometime. We’ve come to absolutely opposite points of view. And yet the curious thing is, he’s fond as the deuce of me.”
“Yes, that’s so,” said Hungerford. He did not insist, seeing that Stover was insensible to the hints he had tried to convey. Not wishing to express openly a point of view which was personally unsympathetic, he hesitated and remained silent.
“Coming up for a chin?” said Dink, as they neared the campus.
“No, I’ve got a date at Heub’s. I say, Dink, I’m serious in what I said. I want to wake up and get around. Work me in.”
“You bet I will, and you’ll meet a gang that really have some ideas.”
“That’s what I want. Well, so long.”
“So long, Joe.”
Dink, turning to the right, entered the campus past Battell. He had never before felt so master of himself, or surer of a clear vision. The thought of his instinctive return to the Storys’, and the knowledge that he had distinguished himself before Jean Story, gave him a certain exhilaration. He began to feel the opportunity that was in his hands. He remembered with pleasure Hungerford’s demand to follow where he had gone, and he said to himself:
“I can make this crowd of mine see what the real thing is—and, by George, I’m going to do it.”
As he delayed in the campus, Le Baron and Reynolds passed him, going toward Durfee.
“Hello, Dink.”
“Hello there.”
He continued on to his entry, and, turning, saw the two juniors stop and watch him. Without heed he went up to his room, lit the dusty gas-jet, and went reverently to his bureau. He was in his bedroom, standing there in a sentimental mood, gazing at the one or two little kodaks he had displayed of Jean Story, when a knock sounded. He turned away abruptly, singing out:
“Let her come.”
The door opened and someone entered, and, emerging from his bedroom, he beheld to his surprise Le Baron and Reynolds.
“Hello,” he said, puzzled.
“Anything doing, Dink?” said Le Baron pleasantly.
“Not a thing. Make yourself at home,” he said hastily. “Take a seat. Pipe tobacco in the jar—cigarettes on the table.”
Each waved his hand in dissent. Reynolds seated himself in a quick, businesslike way on the edge of his chair; Le Baron, more sociable, passed curiously about the room, examining the trophies with interest.
“I wonder what’s up now,” thought Dink, without uneasiness. He knew that it was the custom of men in the class above about to go into the senior societies to acquaint themselves with the tendencies of the next class. “That’s it,” he said to himself; “they want to know if I’m heeling Bones or Keys.”
“You’ve got a great bunch of junk,” said Le Baron, finishing his inspection.
“Yes, it’s quite a mixture.”
Le Baron, refusing a seat, stood before the fireplace, a pocket knife juggling in his hands, seeking an opening.
“Here, I’ll have a cigarette,” he said finally, with a frown.
Reynolds, more businesslike, broke out:
“Dink, we’ve dropped in to have a little straight talk with you.”
“All right.”
He felt a premonition of what was coming, and the short note of authority in Reynolds’s voice seemed to stiffen everything inside of him.
“We’ve dropped a few hints to you,” continued Reynolds, in his staccato manner, “and you haven’t chosen to understand them. Now we’re going to put it right to you.”
“Hold up, Benny,” said Le Baron, who had lit his cigarette, “it’s not necessary to talk that way. Let me explain.”
“No, put it to me straight,” said Stover, looking past Le Baron straight into Reynolds’s eyes. An instinctive antagonism was in him, the revolt of the man of action, the leader in athletics, at being criticized by the man of the pen.
“Stover, we don’t like what you’ve been doing lately.”
“Why not?”
“You’re shaking your own crowd, and you’re identifying yourself with a crowd that doesn’t count. What the deuce has got into you?”
“Just shut up for a moment, Benny,” said Le Baron, giving him a look, “you’re not putting the thing in the right way.”
“I’m not jumping on anyone,” said Reynolds. “I’m giving him good advice.”
Stover looked at him without speaking, then he turned to Le Baron.
“Well?”
“Look here, Dink,” said Le Baron conciliatingly. “A lot of us fellows have spoken to you, but you didn’t seem to understand. Now, what I’m saying is because I like you, and because you are making a mistake. We’re interested personally, and for the society’s sake, in seeing you make out of yourself what you
