Stover suddenly comprehended that Le Baron was exposing his own theory, that he, prospective captain of the crew, was imposing on himself.
“Don’t ticket yourself for drinking.”
“I won’t.”
“Or get known for gambling—oh, I’m not preaching a moral lesson; only, what you do, do quietly.”
“I understand.”
“And another thing: no fooling around women; that isn’t done here—that’ll queer you absolutely.”
“Of course.”
“Now, you’ve got to do a certain amount of studying here. Better do it the first year and get in with the faculty.”
“I will.”
“There it is,” said Le Baron, suddenly extending his hand toward the lighted college. “Isn’t it worth working for—to win out in the end? And, Stover, it’s easy enough when you know how. Play the game as others are playing it. It’s a big game, and it’ll follow you all through life. There it is; it’s up to you. Keep your head clear and see straight.”
The gesture of Le Baron, half seen in the darkness, brought a strange trouble to Stover. It was as if, at the height of the eager confidence of his youth, someone had whispered in his ear and a shadowy hand had held before his eyes a gigantic temptation.
“Are there any questions you want to ask me?” said Le Baron, with a new feeling of affection toward the unprotected freshman whom he had so generously advised.
“No.”
They sat silently. And all at once, as Stover gazed, from the high, misty walls and the elm-tops confounded in the night, a monstrous hand seemed to stretch down, impending over him, and the carefree windows suddenly to be transformed into myriad eyes, set on him in inquisition—eyes that henceforth indefatigably, remorselessly would follow him.
And with it something snapped, something fragile—the unconscious, simple democracy of boyhood. And, as it went, it went forever. This was the world rushing in, dividing the hosts. This was the parting of the ways. The standards of judgment were the world’s. It was not what he had thought. It was no longer the simple struggle. It was complex, disturbing, incomprehensible. To win he would have to change.
“It’s been good of you to tell me all this,” he said, giving his hand to Le Baron, and the words sounded hollow.
“Think over what I’ve said to you.”
“I will.”
“A man is known by his friends; remember that, Stover, if you don’t anything else!”
“It’s awfully good of you.”
“I like you, Dink,” said Le Baron, shaking hands warmly; “now you know the game, go in and win.”
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Stover aimlessly. He stood watching Le Baron’s strong, aristocratic figure go swinging across the dim campus in a straight, undeviating, well-calculated path.
“It’s awfully good of him,” he said mechanically, “awfully good. What a wonder he is!”
And yet, and yet, he could not define the new feeling—he was but barely conscious of it; was it rebellion or was it a lurking disappointment?
He stood alone, looking at the new world. It was no longer the world of the honest day. It was brilliant, fascinating, alluring, awakening strange, poignant emotions—but it was another world, and the way to it had just been shown him.
He turned abruptly and went toward his room, troubled, wondering why he was so troubled, vainly seeking the reason, knowing not that it lay in the destruction of a fragile thing—his first illusion.
III
Tough McCarthy was in the communal rooms, busily delving into the recesses of a circus trunk, from which, from time to time, he emerged with the loot of the combined McCarthy family.
“Dink, my boy, cast your eye over my burglaries. Look at them. Aren’t they lovely, aren’t they fluffy and sweet? I don’t know what half of ’em are, but won’t they decorate the room? And every one, ’pon my honor, the gift of a peach who loves me! The whole family was watching, but I got ’em out right under their noses. Well, why not cheer me!”
He deposited on the floor a fragrant pile of assorted embroideries, table-covers, lace pincushions, and filmy mysteries purloined from feminine dressing-tables, which he rapidly proceeded to distribute about the room according to his advanced theories on decoration, which consisted in crowding the corners, draping the gas-jets, and clothing the picture-frames.
Stover sat silently, out of the mood.
“Here’s three new scalps,” continued McCarthy, producing some cushions. “Had to vow eternal love, and keep the dear girls separated—a blonde and two brunettes—but I got the pillows, my boy, I got ’em. And now sit back and hold on.”
He made a third trip to the trunk, unaware of Stover’s distracted mood, and came back chuckling, his arms heaped with photographs to his chin.
“One thousand and one Caucasian beauties, the pride of every State, the only girls who ever loved me. Look at ’em!”
He distributed a score of photographs, mustering them on the mantelpiece, pinning them to the already suspended flags, massing them in circles, ranging them in crosses and ascending files, and announced:
“Finest I could gather in. Only know a third of ’em, but the sisters know the rest. Isn’t it a beauty parlor? Why, it’ll make that blond warbler Stone, downstairs, feel like an amateur canary.” Suddenly aware of Stover’s opposite mood, he stopped. “What the deuce is the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You look solemn as an owl.”
“I didn’t know it.”
“Well, how did you like Le Baron?”
“He’s a corker!” said Stover militantly.
“I’ve been arranging about an eating-joint.”
“You have?”
“We’re in with a whole bunch of fellows. Gimbel, an Andover chap, is running it. Five dollars a week. We can see if we can stand it.”
“Tough, go slow.”
“Why so?”
Stover hesitated, looking at McCarthy’s puzzled expression, and, looking, there seemed to be ten years’ experience dividing them.
“Oh, I only mean we want to pick our
