With his finger he indicated a space on the front page of the New York newspaper he was reading. Stover took it, reading it seriously. It was only a paragraph, but it rose from the page as though it were stamped in scarlet.
Dink Stover’s Lark
Ends Seriously.
Below followed in suggestive detail an account of the drive with friends “not exactly in recognized New Haven society,” and the sudden seizure of Miss Fanny Le Roy, with an account of his drive back to the hospital.
“That’s pretty bad,” he said, frowning. “What do the others say?”
One paper had it that his presence of mind and prompt action had saved the girl’s life. The third one hinted that the party had been rather gay, and said in a short sentence:
“It is said other students were with young Stover, who prefer not to incur any unnecessary notoriety.”
“It looks ugly,” said Stover grimly.
“Who was with you?” said Hungerford anxiously.
“I prefer not to tell.”
“Troutman and Schley, of course,” said Regan suddenly, and, starting out of his usual imperturbability, he began to revile them.
“But, Dink, old man,” said Hungerford, drawing his arm through his, “how the deuce did you ever get into it?”
“Well, Joe, what’s the use of explanations?” said Stover gloomily. “Everyone’ll believe what they want to. It’s a thoroughly nasty mess. It’s my luck, that’s all.”
“Is that all you can say?” said Hungerford anxiously.
“All just now. I don’t feel particularly affable, Joe.”
The walk from his eating-joint to the chapel was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done. Everyone was reading the news, commenting on it, as he passed along, red, proud, and angry. He felt the fire of amazed glances, the lower classmen looking up at the big man of the junior class in disgrace, his own friends puzzled and uncomprehending.
At the fences there was an excited buzz, which dropped perceptibly as he passed. Regan was at one side, Hungerford loyally on the other. At the junior fence Bob Story, who had just got the report, came out hurriedly to him.
“I say, Dink, it—it isn’t true?” he said. “Something’s wrong—must be!”
“Not very far wrong,” said Stover. He saw the incredulity in Bob’s face, and it hurt him more than all the rest.
“Even Bob thinks I’m that sort, that I’ve been doing things on the sly I wouldn’t stand for in public. And if he thinks it, what’ll others think?”
“Shut up, Bob,” he heard Regan say. “It may look a nasty mess, and Dink may not tell the real story, but one thing I know, he didn’t scuttle off like a scut, but faced the music, and that’s all I want to know.”
Stover laughed, a short, nervous, utterly illogical laugh, defiant and stubborn. He would never tell what had happened—let those who wanted to misjudge him.
Several men in his class—he remembered them ever after—came up and patted him on the back, one or two avoided him. Then he had to go by the senior fence into chapel with every eye upon him, watching how he bore the scandal. He knew he was red and uncomfortable, that on his face was something like a sneer. He knew that what everyone was saying under his voice was that it was hard luck, damned hard luck, that it was a rotten scandal, and that Stover’s chances for Skull and Bones were knocked higher than a kite.
Then something happened that almost upset him. In the press about the chapel doors he suddenly saw Le Baron’s tall figure across the scrambling mass. Their glances met and with a little solemnity Le Baron raised his hat. He understood; they might be enemies to the end of their days, but the hat had been raised as the tribute of a man to a man. Once in his seat he looked about with a little scorn—Troutman and Schley were not there.
After first recitation he went directly to the hospital, stubbornly resolved to give no explanations, stubbornly resolved in his own knowledge of his right to affront public opinion in any way he chose. The news he received was reassuring, the girl was out of danger. Muriel Stacey not yet arrived, for which he was physically thankful.
He returned to his rooms, traversing the difficult campus with erect head.
“Now, boy, see here,” said Hungerford, when he had climbed the stairs, “I want this out with you. What did happen, and who ran away?”
“You’ve got the story in the papers, haven’t you?” said Stover wearily. “The New Haven ones have in a couple of columns and my photograph.”
“Is that all, Dink, you’re going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Is that all you’re going to let Jean Story know?” said Hungerford boldly.
Stover winced.
“Damn you, Joe!”
“Is it?”
“She’ll have to believe what she wants to about me,” said Stover slowly. “It’s a test.”
“No, it isn’t a test or a fair test,” said Hungerford hotly. “I know everything’s all right, boy, but I want to stop anything that might be said. You’re hurt now because you know you’re misjudged.”
“Yes, I am hurt.”
“Sure; a rotten bit of luck has put you in a false position. That’s the whole matter.”
“Joe, I won’t tell you,” said Stover shortly. “I am mad clear through and through. I’m going to shut up on the whole business. If my friends misjudge me—so much the worse for them. If someone else—” He stopped, flung his hat on the couch, and sat down at the desk. “What’s the lesson?”
But at this moment Regan and Story came in, bolting the door.
“Well, we’ve got the truth,” said Story. He came over and laid his hand on Dink’s shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
“Tom and I have had it out with Schley and Troutman. They’ve told the whole thing, the miserable little curs.” His voice shook. “You’re all right, Dink; you always were, but it’s a shame—a damn shame!”
“Oh, well, they lost their nerve,” said Stover heavily.
“Why the devil
