“One moment.” Le Baron rose as Stover moved towards the bedroom. “There’s another side to it.”
“What other side?”
“Whatever you decide, and I won’t take your answer until the morning,” said Le Baron solemnly, “I want you to give me your word that what’s happened tonight remains a secret.”
“I won’t give my word to that or anything else,” said Dink defiantly. “I shall do exactly what I think is right to be done, and for that reason only. Now you’ll have to excuse me. Good night.”
He went to his bedroom, shut the door, and without undressing tumbled on the bed, and, still hearing in a confused jumble the murmur of voices, dropped off to sleep.
He was startled out of heavy dreams by a beating in his ears, and sprang up to find Bob Story thundering on his door. He looked at his watch. It was still an hour before chapel.
When he entered his dim study, Story was waiting, and Hungerford uncoiling from the couch where he had passed the night.
“Have you fellows been here all night?” said Stover, stopping short.
“Dink, we want a last chance to talk this over,” said Story solemnly. “We’ve all had a chance to sleep it out. Le Baron isn’t here, just Joe and myself—your friends.”
“You make it hard for me, boys,” said Dink, shaking his head.
Hungerford rose with the stiffness of the night, and coming to Stover, took him by the shoulders.
“Damn you, Dink,” he said, “get this straight, we’re not thinking about the society, we’re thinking about you—about your future. And I want you to know this: whatever you decide, I’m your friend and proud to be it.”
“What Joe says is what I feel,” said Story, as Stover, much affected, stood looking at the ground. “We’re sticking by you, Dink—that’s why I’m going to try once more. Can’t you go on in the society, make no open break, and still fight for what you believe in—what Joe and I believe in, too?”
“But, Bob, I think they’re wrong through and through—you don’t understand—I’m for wiping them out now.”
“That whole question’s coming up, and coming up soon,” continued Story earnestly, “and a lot of our own crowd will line up for you. Work inside the crowd, if you can see it that way, Dink. There are only five of us know what’s happened, and no one else need know.”
“Wait a moment, Bob, old fellow,” said Dink, stopping him. “You two have got down under my skin, and I won’t forget it. Now I’m going to ask you fellows a couple of questions. First: you think if I stick to my determination that most of the crowd’ll turn on me?”
“Yes.”
“That I have as much chance of being tapped for Bones as Jackson, the sweep?”
“Yes, Dink.”
“Now, boys, honest, if I took back my pin for any such reason as that, wouldn’t I be a spineless, calculating little quitter?”
Neither answered.
“What would you think of me, Joe—Bob?”
“Damn the luck,” said Hungerford. He did not attempt to answer the question. Neither did Bob Story. They shook hands with Stover, and went out defeated.
Just how big a change in his college career his renunciation would make, Stover had not understood until in the weeks that succeeded he came to feel the full effects of the resentment he had aroused in the society crowds, now at bay before a determined opposition.
The second morning, as he went down High Street to his eating-joint, Hungerford was loafing ahead of him, ostensibly conning a lesson. Stover joined him, unaware of the friendly intent of the action. They went inside, laughing together, to where a score of men were rubbing their eyes over hasty breakfasts. Four-fifths of them belonged to sophomore societies.
“Morning, everybody,” said the new arrivals, in unison, and the answer came back:
“Hello, Joe.”
“Hello, Dink.”
“Shove in here.”
At their arrival a little constrained silence was felt, for the news had somehow passed into rumor. Opposite Stover, Jim Hunter was sitting. He nodded to Hungerford, and then with deliberation continued a conversation with Tommy Bain, who sat next to him.
Stover perceived the cut instantly, as others had perceived it. He sat a moment quietly, his glance concentrated on Hunter.
“Oatmeal or hominy?” said the waiter at his back.
“One moment.” He raised his hand, and the gesture concentrated the attention of the table on him. “Why, how do you do, Jim Hunter?” he said, with every word cut sharp.
There was a breathless moment, and a nervous stirring under foot, as Hunter turned and looked at Stover. Their glances matched one another a long moment, and then Hunter, with an excess of politeness, said:
“Oh, hello—Stover.”
Instantly there was a relieved hum of voices, and
