“Still, give him credit,” said Stover, smiling to himself, for he felt that he saw for the first time the human side of Brockhurst.
“I did; it was quite an amusing time.”
“What happened?”
“Why, the little grubber came up to me and said, ‘Brocky, old man, you ought to have had it.’ ”
“Why, that was rather decent,” said Stover.
“Rubbish. All form,” said Brockhurst impatiently. “Showed the calibre of his mind—the obvious; nothing but the obvious. He thought it the thing to say, that’s all.”
“Well, what did you answer?” said Stover wondering.
“I said, ‘Well, why didn’t you vote for me then?’ ”
Stover burst out laughing, and Brockhurst, who had lost a coveted honor, was a little mollified by the tribute.
“Of course he stammered and looked annoyed—naturally; situation his imagination couldn’t meet, so I said:
“ ‘Come, Wiggin, no stuff and nonsense. You didn’t think I ought to have it, and I know damn well, now that you’ve won out, you’ll get a Skull and Bones to wear, pose in the middle of the photograph for the Banner, and be thoroughly satisfied at our board meeting to sit back and listen while I do the talking.’ ”
Stover broke into a laugh.
“Brocky, you scandalized him.”
“Not at all. He thought I was joking—the last thing that occurs to the grubber is that wit is only a polite way of calling a man an ass.”
“Brocky, you’re at your best, don’t stop.”
Brockhurst smiled. It was turning a defeat into a victory. He continued:
“After all, Wiggy is interesting. I’ll be revenged. I’ll put him in a book some day. He represents a type—the mathematical mind, quantity not quality. He set out for the chairmanship as a man trains for a long-distance run. Do you know the truth? He rose every morning and took a cold shower, fifty swings to the left with the dumbbell, fifty to the right, ate nothing heavy or starchy for his meals, walked the same distance each afternoon, and worked his two hours each night, hammering out divine literature.”
“Oh, I say!” said Dink, a little in doubt.
Brockhurst began to laugh.
“He may have for all I know. Now I’ll bury him. He will be eminently successful—I like that word eminently. You see he has no sense of humor, and especially no imagination to hinder him.” Brockhurst, in one of his quixotic moods, began to gesture to the stars as he abandoned himself to the delights of his conceit. “Oh, that’s a wonderful thing, to have no imagination—the saving of commonplace minds. If Wiggin had an imagination he would never have written a line, he would have perceived the immense distances that separated him from the Olympians. Instead he read Stevenson, Dumas, Kipling, and, unafraid, wrote little Stevenson echoes of Dumas, capsule Kiplings. He’ll go out in the world, nothing will frighten him. He will rebel against nothing, for he hasn’t an idea. He will choose the woman he needs for his needs, persuade himself that he’s in love, and then persuade her. And he’ll believe that’s a virtuous marriage. He’ll belong to the conservative party, the conservative church, and will be a distinguished subordinate, who will stand for tradition, institutions, and will be said to resemble some great man. Then he’ll die, and will be pointed to as a great example. Requiescat in pace.”
“Off with his head,” said Stover appreciatively. “Now he’s finished, own up, Brocky, that you are furious that you did not buckle down and beat him out.”
“Of course I am—damn it,” said Brockhurst. “I know I did right, but no one else will ever know it. And the strange thing is, Dink, the best thing for me is to have missed out.”
“Why, in Heaven’s name?”
“If I had made the chairmanship, I should probably be tapped for Bones—one of the successful. I might have become satisfied. Do you know that that is the great danger of this whole senior business?”
“What?”
“The fellow who wears his honors like a halo. He’s made Bones or Keys, he’s a success in life. Nothing more awaits him. ‘I was it.’ ”
“Still, you would have liked it.”
“Sure; I’m inconsistent,” said Brocky, with a laugh. “It’s only when I don’t get what I want that my beautiful reason shows me I shouldn’t have had it.”
“Well, there’s no danger of either of us disappearing under the halos,” said Stover shortly.
“I’m not so sure about you,” said Brockhurst.
The casual doubt aroused strange emotions in Stover.
“I thought you didn’t believe in them,” he said slowly.
“I don’t. I don’t believe in organizations, institutions, traditions—that’s my point of view,” said Brockhurst. “But then I’m in the world to be in revolt.”
“You once spoke of the society system—the whole thing as it exists in America—” said Stover, “as a sort of idol worship. I never quite understood your meaning.”
“Why, I think it’s quite obvious,” said Brockhurst surprised. “What was idol worship? A large body of privileged charlatans, calling themselves priests, impressed the masses with all the flummery of mysterious ceremonies, convenient voices issuing from caves or stone idols. What was an idol? An ordinary chunk of marble, let us say, issuing from the sculptor’s chisel. When did it become sacred and awe-inspiring? When it had been placed in an inner shrine of shrines, removed from the public, veiled in shadows, obscured by incense, guarded by solicitous guards; the stone is still a stone but the populace is convinced. Look into a well in daylight—commonplace; look into it at night—a great mystery; black is never empty, the imagination fills it.”
“How does this apply?” said Stover, impatiently.
“Cases are parallel. A group of us come together for the purpose of debate and discussion; no one notices it beyond a casual thought. Suddenly we surround ourselves with mystery, appear on the campus with a sensational pin stuck in our cravats, a bat’s head or a gallows, and when, marvellously enough, someone asks us what the dickens we are wearing, we
