At the beginning of Senior year, Elmer announced that he desired to be president again. To elect anyone as class-president twice was taboo. The ardent Eddie Fislinger, now president of the Y.M.C.A. and ready to bring his rare talents to the Baptist ministry, asserted after an enjoyable private prayer-meeting in his room that he was going to face Elmer and forbid him to run.
“Gwan! You don’t dare!” observed a Judas who three minutes before had been wrestling with God under Eddie’s coaching.
“I don’t, eh? Watch me! Why, everybody hates him, the darn’ hog!” squeaked Eddie.
By scurrying behind trees he managed to come face to face with Elmer on the campus. He halted, and spoke of football, quantitative chemistry, and the Arkansas spinster who taught German.
Elmer grunted.
Desperately, his voice shrill with desire to change the world, Eddie stammered:
“Say—say, Hellcat, you hadn’t ought to run for president again. Nobody’s ever president twice!”
“Somebody’s going to be.”
“Ah, gee, Elmer, don’t run for it. Ah, come on. Course all the fellows are crazy about you but—Nobody’s ever been president twice. They’ll vote against you.”
“Let me catch ’em at it!”
“How can you stop it? Honest, Elm—Hellcat—I’m just speaking for your own good. The voting’s secret. You can’t tell—”
“Huh! The nominations ain’t secret! Now you go roll your hoop, Fissy, and let all the yellow coyotes know that anybody that nominates anybody except Uncle Hellcat will catch it right where the chicken caught the ax. See? And if they tell me they didn’t know about this, you’ll get merry Hail Columbia for not telling ’em. Get me? If there’s anything but an unanimous vote, you won’t do any praying the rest of this year!”
Eddie remembered how Elmer and Jim had shown a Freshman his place in society by removing all his clothes and leaving him five miles in the country.
Elmer was elected president of the senior class—unanimously.
He did not know that he was unpopular. He reasoned that men who seemed chilly to him were envious and afraid, and that gave him a feeling of greatness.
Thus it happened that he had no friend save Jim Lefferts.
Only Jim had enough will to bully him into obedient admiration. Elmer swallowed ideas whole; he was a maelstrom of prejudices; but Jim accurately examined every notion that came to him. Jim was selfish enough, but it was with the selfishness of a man who thinks and who is coldly unafraid of any destination to which his thoughts may lead him. The little man treated Elmer like a large damp dog, and Elmer licked his shoes and followed.
He also knew that Jim, as quarter, was far more the soul of the team than himself as tackle and captain.
A huge young man, Elmer Gantry; six foot one, thick, broad, big handed; a large face, handsome as a Great Dane is handsome, and a swirl of black hair, worn rather long. His eyes were friendly, his smile was friendly—oh, he was always friendly enough; he was merely astonished when he found that you did not understand his importance and did not want to hand over anything he might desire. He was a barytone solo turned into portly flesh; he was a gladiator laughing at the comic distortion of his wounded opponent.
He could not understand men who shrank from blood, who liked poetry or roses, who did not casually endeavor to seduce every possibly seducible girl. In sonorous arguments with Jim he asserted that “these fellows that study all the time are just letting on like they’re so doggone high and mighty, to show off to those doggone profs that haven’t got anything but lemonade in their veins.”
IV
Chief adornment of their room was the escritoire of the first Gritzmacher, which held their library. Elmer owned two volumes of Conan Doyle, one of E. P. Roe, and a priceless copy of Only a Boy. Jim had invested in an encyclopedia which explained any known subject in ten lines, in a Pickwick Papers, and from some unknown source he had obtained a complete Swinburne, into which he was never known to have looked.
But his pride was in the possession of Ingersoll’s Some Mistakes of Moses, and Paine’s The Age of Reason. For Jim Lefferts was the college freethinker, the only man in Terwillinger who doubted that Lot’s wife had been changed into salt for once looking back at the town where, among the young married set, she had had so good a time; who doubted that Methuselah lived to nine hundred and sixty-nine.
They whispered of Jim all through the pious dens of Terwillinger. Elmer himself was frightened, for after giving minutes and minutes to theological profundities Elmer had concluded that “there must be something to all this religious guff if all these wise old birds believe it, and some time a fellow had ought to settle down and cut out the hell-raising.” Probably Jim would have been kicked out of college by the ministerial professors if he had not had so reverent a way of asking questions when they wrestled with his infidelity that they let go of him in nervous confusion.
Even the President, the Rev. Dr. Willoughby Quarles, formerly pastor of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church of Moline, Ill., than whom no man had written more about the necessity of baptism by immersion, in fact in every way a thoroughly than-whom figure—even when Dr. Quarles tackled Jim and demanded, “Are you getting the best out of our instruction, young man? Do you believe with us not only in the plenary inspiration of the Bible but also in its verbal inspiration, and that it is the only
