Wookey, whether deceived by their drunken assumption of sobriety, or to conciliate dangerous men, remained in his corner, his book closed, blinking out from his wide glasses.
McNab, remembering the beginning of a discussion in which he had engaged with serious purpose, suddenly began, shaking his head:
“Dink, you ought be better infloonce than y’are.”
Stover chose to be offended.
“Why you say that?”
“ ’Cause ’m right; y’oughtn’t drink, not a drop!”
“What right you got to say that?”
“Every right—every,” said McNab, trying to remember what was the original destination of his argument. “I’m bad example ’n you’re good infloonce, there’s diff, see?”
“Ratsh!”
“I remember,” said McNab all at once. “I know what I want say. I’m going to leave it to Wookey. Wookey’ll be the judge—referee—y’willin’?”
“Willin’.”
“ ’M going to give moral lecture,” said McNab rapidly, then paused and considered a long while. “I’m fond of Stover, Wookey, very fond—very worried, too, want him to stop drinking—bad for him—bad for anyone, but bad for him!”
Stover, who could still perceive the argument, laughed a disagreeable laugh.
“He’s laughin’ at me, Wookey,” said McNab in a grieved voice. “He means by that insultin’ laugh that I sometimes drink excess. I admit it; I’m not proud of it, but I admit it. But there’s a difference, and here’s where you ref’ree, judge. When I take ’n occasional glass, I drink to be happy, make others happy—y’understand, excesh of love for humanity, enjoy youth an’ all that sort of thing, you know. That’s the point—you’re ref’ree. When Stover drinks he goes at in bad way, no love humanity, joy of youth. That’s the point, y’understand. I want him to stop it, ’cause he’s my friend, he’s good infloonce—I’m bad example.”
“You’re my friend?” said Stover, overcome.
“You’re besh friend.”
“Shake hands.”
“Shure.”
“Dopey, I tell you truth—confide in you,” said Stover, slipping down beside him. “Swear.”
“Swear.”
“Never tell.”
“Never!”
“I’m unhappy.”
“No!”
“Drink to forget, y’understand.”
“Must stop it,” said McNab, firmly closing one eye, and gazing fearfully at the yellow owls in front.
“Going to shtop it,” said Stover, “soon—stop soon—promise.”
“Promish?”
“Promise! Y’understand, want to forget.”
“Must stop it,” repeated McNab, turning from the yellow-eyed owls to Stover.
“Promish,” repeated Stover solemnly. A moment later he said sleepily: “I shay.”
“Shay it.”
“What—what I going to stop?”
“What you, what—” McNab frowned terrifically at the owls. “Stop—must stop—promish—what—what stop?”
The question being transferred to Stover, he in turn scratched his head and sought to concentrate his memory.
“I promished,” he said slowly, “remember that—stop—promish stop. Wookey!”
“Yes, sir.”
The pink pajamas approached with reluctance, and waited at a safe distance.
“Wookey! What—what’s this all about? What’s it?”
Wookey, facing the crisis of his life, hesitated between two impulses; but at this moment the two took solemn hold of each other’s hands, vacillated and rolled over on the cushions. Wookey, in the pink pajamas, covered them over with the rug, and stole out, like a thief, carrying away a secret.
But despite McNab’s more sober remonstrances and his own proclamation, Stover did not cease his headlong gallop down the hill of Rake’s Progress. He still avoided his old friends—he had not been to the Storys’ home for weeks. Regan occasionally forced himself upon him, but never offered a suggestion. The truth was, Stover began to have a horror of his own society, of being left alone. What he did, he did without restraint. At the card tables to which he wandered he was always clamoring for the raising of the limit; always ready to eat up the night. Even the most inveterate of the gamblers in his class perceived what McNab perceived, that there was no pleasure in what he did, but a sort of self-immolation. They were a little in awe of him, uneasy when he was around. He wandered over into Sheff, and among a group of hard livers in the Law School, getting deeper and deeper into the maelstrom. Several times, returning unsteadily late at night, he had met Le Baron, who stood aside, and watched him go with difficulty towards the haven of his own entry, for Stover always made it a point of pride to reach home and Wookey unaided. He never was offensive or quarrelsome. On the contrary, his struggle was always for self-control and an excess of politeness.
The climax arrived one Friday night when, having outlasted the party, he had put Tom Kelly to bed, and was returning from Sheff alone. He was very well pleased with himself. He had delivered Tom Kelly to his friends and gone away without assistance.
“Weak head, all weak head,” he said to himself valiantly, “all but Stover, Dink Stover, old Rinky Dink. Self-control, great self-control. That’s it, that’s the point. Never taken home—walk myself—self-control.” He began to laugh at the memory of Tom Kelly, who had insisted on going to bed with one boot under the pillow and his watch on the floor. The excruciating humor of it almost made him collapse. He clung to the nearest tree and wept for joy.
“Never hear end of it—Tom Kelly—boots—wonderful—poor old Tom—’n I walkin’ home—alone.”
Someone on the opposite sidewalk, seeing him clinging hilariously, stopped. Stover straightened up instantly, adjusted his hat and started off.
“Mustn’t create false impression—all right! Street corner—careful of street corner.” He crossed with a run and a leap, and continued more sedately. “Know just what ’m doin’.
“Oh, father’s mother
Pays all the bills,
’N I have all the fun.”
Suddenly he remembered he was passing Divinity Hall, and broke off abruptly, raising his hat in apology.
“ ’Scuse me, no offense.”
Then he considered anxiously:
“Mishtake—nothin’ hil-arious—might be Sunday.” He tried to remember the day and could not. He stopped a laborer returning home with his bundle, and said ceremoniously:
“Beg your pardon, don’t mean insult you, can you tell me what day the week it is?”
“Sure, me b’y,” said the Irishman. “It’s tomorrow.”
“Thanks—sorry trouble you,” said Stover, bowing. Then, pondering over the information, he started hurriedly on his way. “Knew it was late—must hurry.”
When he came to the corner of the campus he raised his hat again to the chapel.
“Battell—believe in compulsory chapel—Yale democracy.” He passed along College Street, saluting
