The campus policeman, lolling in the shadow of Osborne Hall, said:
“So there you are again, Dink. A fine life you’re leadin’.”
Stover felt this was an unwarranted criticism.
“Never saw anyone take me home,” he said. “Always manage get home. That’s the point, that’s it—see?”
“Go on with you,” said Donnelly. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself—you who ought to be captain of the team.”
Stover approached him.
“Bill—captain?”
“What?”
“I’m goin’ to stop. Solemn promish.”
He went into the campus and steadied himself against an elm, gazing down the long dim way to where in the shadow of the chapel was his entry.
“I see it—see it plainly—perfect self-control. What’s that?” The trees seemed swollen to monstrous shapes, and the façades of the dormitories to be set on a slant, like the leaning tower of Pisa. He laughed cunningly: “Don’t fool me—might fool Dopey—Tom Kelly—weak head—don’t fool me—illushion, pure illushion—know all ’bout it. Worse comes worse, get down hands knees.”
“Well, Dink, pickled again,” said the voice of Le Baron from an outer world.
He straightened up, his mind coming back to his control, as it always did in the presence of others.
“All right,” he said, leaning up against the cold, hard side of Phelp’s, “bit of a party, that’s all.”
“Look here, Dink,” said Le Baron, who was ignorant of the extent of the other’s condition, “let’s have a few plain words—man to man.”
Stover heard him as from a distance, and nodded his head gravely.
“Good.”
“We’ve had our break, but I’ve always respected you. You thought I was a snob then, and a damned aristocrat. Well, was I so far wrong? I believe in the best getting together and keeping together. You’ve chucked that and tried the other, haven’t you? Now look where it’s brought you.”
Stover, his back to the wall, heard him with the clarity that sometimes comes. His head seemed to be among whirling mists, but every word came to him as though it alone were the only sound in a sleeping world. He wanted to answer, he rebelled at the logic, he knew it could be answered, but the words would not come.
“You’re going to the devil, that’s it in good English words,” said Le Baron, not without kindness. “You ought to be the biggest thing in your class, and you’re headed for the biggest failure. And it’s all because you’ve cut loose from your crowd, Dink—from your own kind, because you’ve taken up with a bunch who don’t count, who aren’t working for anything here.”
Suddenly Stover revolted, saying angrily:
“Hugh!”
“I don’t want to hit you when you’re down,” said Le Baron quickly. “But, Dink, man alive, you’re too good to go to the devil. Brace up—be a man. Get back to your own kind again.”
“Hugh, that’s enough!”
He said it sharply, and there was a finality about it.
“I say, Dink.”
“Good night!”
He stood without moving until he had compelled Le Baron to leave, then he set out for his room. A great anger swept over him—at himself, at the Dink Stover who had betrayed the cause, and given Le Baron the right to say what he did.
“It isn’t that,” he said furiously, “it’s not for breaking ’way—democracy—standing on m’ own feet, no! It’s a lie, all a lie. It’s m’ own fault—damn you, Dink Stover, you’re quitter!”
He marched into his entry, his head on fire, but clear with one last resolve, and thundered on Wookey’s door.
“Come out!”
The pink pajamas flashed out as by magic. The little freshman, perceiving Stover’s fierce expression, drew back in alarm.
“Go’n to help you up tonight—able to do it,” said Dink, the idea of assistance to another mingling in some curious way with his great resolve.
He took Wookey firmly by the arm and assisted him up the stairs. Once in his room he motioned him to a chair.
“Sit down—somethin’ to say to you!”
Wookey, frightened, calculating the chances to the door, huddled in the big armchair, his toes drawn up under him, his large eyes over the spectacles never daring to deviate from the imperious glance of Stover.
“Studied today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Wookey, listen to me. I’m a quitter, you understand. I’ve fought fight—good fight—big fight—real democracy—’n then I lost nerve. I’m wrong; I’m all wrong. I know it. Fault’s with me, not what fought for. Wookey, listen to me. Le Baron’s wrong, all wrong, you understand; doesn’t know—realize—see.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wookey, in terror and complete incomprehension.
“I’m fool—big fool, but that’s over, y’understand. Never give Le Baron chance say again what he did tonight. ’M going fight again—good fight. An’ no one’s ever going say saw me like this again, y’understand.”
“Yes, sir,” said the freshman weakly, terrified at the passion that showed in Stover, rocking before the mantelpiece.
“Last time they ever get me this way!”
The green shaded lamp was burning on the table before him.
“The last time—by God,” he said, and lifting his fist he drove it through the shattering glass, reeled, and stretched insensible on the floor.
On the following night, a Saturday, Kelly, Buck Waters, and McNab at Mory’s set up a shout of welcome as Stover came in quietly:
“Good old Dink!”
“Hard old head.”
“What is it, old boy?—get in the game.”
“A toby of musty, Louis,” he said, quietly sitting down.
McNab glanced at him, aware of something new in the sharp, businesslike movements, and the old determined lines of the lips.
“My round,” said Buck Waters presently.
“Another toby for me,” said Stover.
A little later Kelly rang on the table:
“Bring ’em in all over again.”
“Not for me,” said Stover. “I guess two’ll be my limit from now on.”
There was no protest. McNab surreptitiously, while the others were in an argument, leaned over and patted him on the knee.
XXII
What Stover in his fuddled consciousness had said to little Wookey on that last wild night returned to him with doubled force in the white of the day. He had given his
