They had come opposite the Brick Row, and Regan, knowing the other’s true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. But he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said:
“Feel all right, old bantam?”
“Fine.” Stover took a step or two, and then returned. “I put ’em to bed, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did.”
“Never ’fects me.”
“You’re a wonder.”
“I thank you for your company.”
“Good night.”
Stover, intent only on making his entry, a hundred yards away, felt a roaring in his ears, and sudden jumble and confusion before him.
“Must get there—self-control—that’s it, self-control,” he said to himself, and by a supreme effort he reached his entry, pushed open the door, and, stumbling in out of Regan’s vision, sat heavily down on the steps.
Some indistinct time after he beheld before him a little spectacled figure in pink pajamas.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Wookey, sir.”
“What’s your class?”
“Freshman, sir.”
“Very well. All right. You can help me—help me up. You know me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The pink pajamas approached, and with an effort he rose, and, grasping the proffered shoulder, tumbled up the steps. When he reached his room his mind seemed to clear a moment, like the sudden drifting to and fro of a fog.
“Who are you?” he said, frowning.
“Wookey, sir.”
“Where do you room?”
“On the first landing, sir.”
“Why do you wear pink ones?”
The little freshman, hero-worshipper, face to face with his first great emotion, the conduct of an intoxicated man, blurted out:
“Don’t you like ’em, sir?”
“Keep ’em on,” said Stover magnanimously. “So you’re a freshman.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly he felt impressed with his duty, his obvious duty to one below him.
“Freshman,” he said thickly, “I want you listen to me. Never drink to excess—understand. You beginning college—school of character—hold on yourself—lead a good life—self-control’s the great thing—take it from me—understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Wookey, awed and a little frightened at the service he was rendering to the great Dink Stover.
“That’s all,” said Stover benignly. “Is—is my bedroom still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may lead me to it.”
When he had been brought to his bed he recalled the pink pajamas, and said:
“I thank you for your courtesy and your kindness.” Then he said to himself: “It does me good—forget—happy now.”
A moment later the fog closed over his consciousness again and he was asleep.
XXI
Night after night, Wookey, the little freshman from a mountain village of Maine, the shadow of a grind, whom no one knew in his class, and who would never know anyone, waited over his books the hour of twelve and the arrival of the great man gone wrong, whose secret only he possessed. Sometimes at the clatter on the stairs, when he went out eagerly, the hero would be in control, and would say:
“Hello, Wookey, how are you tonight?”
“All right, sir,” he would answer, shifting from foot to foot, afraid to volunteer assistance.
“All right myself,” Stover would answer. “See you tomorrow. Good night.”
Gradually, however, to his delight, Stover grew to like the strange meetings, and permitted him to accompany him to his room to open the window, draw off the boots and disappear with the promise to thunder on his door in time for chapel. In the daytime they never met.
Stover never failed to thank him with the utmost ceremony. Often the dialogue that ensued was farcically humorous, only little Wookey, solemn as an owl, never laughed.
One night Stover, draped in difficult equilibrium on the mantelpiece, suddenly, in his new parental solicitude for the freshman, bethought himself of the curriculum.
“Wookey.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One thing must speak about—meant speak about long time ago.”
“What, sir?” said Wookey, looking up apprehensively over his spectacles.
“Study,” said Stover, with terrific solemnity. “Want you be good scholar.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Want you be validict—you understand what mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wookey, college life serious, finest thing in it’s study, don’t neglect study, you understand.”
“Yes, sir; I do study pretty hard.”
“Not enough,” said Stover furiously. “Study all time! What ’cher do today? Recite in—in Greek, Latin, eh?”
“Yes, sir—all right.”
“Good, very good—proud of you, Wookey,” said Stover, satisfied. “Must be good influence—understand that, Wookey. Going to ask every night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Go an’ study now. Study lot more.”
This feeling of the influence he was exerting for Wookey’s academic betterment was so strong in Dink when the hour of midnight had passed that shortly after he brought McNab home with him to witness his works.
When Wookey appeared, something displeased Stover. His protégé was not as he should be presented. Suddenly he remembered—Wookey was not in the pink pajamas!
“Wookey,” he said sternly.
“Yes, sir.”
“The pink ones,” he said solemnly.
“Very well, sir.”
“Hurry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Study’s better in pink,” said Stover wisely to McNab, who was trying to exceed him in dignity. “Most becomin’.”
“Aha!”
“Make him study, Dopey,” continued Stover. “I make him study.”
“Want hear’m reshite,” said McNab, unconvinced.
When Wookey, in changed costume, came puffing upstairs, books under his arm, McNab, who had been exhorted by Stover, viewed the pink pajamas with deliberation, and said:
“Like you in pink, Wookey; always wear ’em. Want to hear you reshite.”
“Reshite,” said Stover.
“Hold up,” said Dopey, scratching his head.
“What’s matter?”
“Where going to sleep?”
“Wookey, suggestions?” said Stover, who added in a thundering whisper to McNab, “Always leave such things to Wookey.”
The freshman busily took down the cushions from the window seat, piled up the pillows at one end before the fire, and brought up a rug.
“Thank Mr. Wookey,” said Stover severely.
“Mr. Wookey, I thank you,” said McNab, who sat down tailor fashion, and, staring at a book of geometry open on his lap, said: “I’m most—interested—most, very fond of Horace—reshite.”
Wookey in the pink pajamas, seated in a sort of spinal bend, overwhelmed by the terrifying delight of being admitted to the company of Olympians, began directly to translate an ode of Horace.
McNab, staring at the geometry, turned a casual page, remarking from time to time severely:
“What’s that!—oh, yes, h’m—quite right—free, rather free, Dink—not bad, not bad for freshman.”
“Is it all right?” said Stover anxiously.
“All right.”
“All my influence,” said Stover.
“Wookey,” said McNab, as a judge
