With fine enthusiasm, but poor judgment, Eugene paid the widow two months in advance. Her name was Bradley: she was a flabby petulant woman with a white face and heart-disease. But her food was excellent. Mrs. Bradley’s student son answered to his initial letters—“G. T.” G. T. Bradley, a member of the sophomore class, was a surly scowling youth of nineteen—a mixture, in equal parts, of servility and insolence. His chief, but thwarted, ambition was to be elected to membership in a fraternity. Having failed to win recognition by the exercise of his natural talents, he was driven by an extraordinary obsession that fame and glory would come to him if he were known as the slave-driver of a number of Freshmen.
But these tactics, tried on Eugene, produced at once defiance and resentment. Their hostility was bitter: G. T. set himself to thwart and ruin the beginnings of the boy’s university life. He trapped him into public blunders, and solicited audiences to witness his humiliation; he wheedled his confidence and betrayed it. But there is a final mockery, an ultimate treachery that betrays us into shame; our capacity for villainy, like all our other capacities, is so small. The day came when Eugene was free from bondage. He was free to leave the widow’s house of sorrow. G. T. approached him, scowling, diffidently.
“I hear you’re leaving us, ’Gene,” he said.
“Yes,” said Eugene.
“Is it because of the way I’ve acted?”
“Yes,” said Eugene.
“You take things too seriously, ’Gene,” he said.
“Yes,” said Eugene.
“I don’t want you to go having hard feelings, ’Gene. Let’s shake hands and be friends.”
He thrust his hand out stiffly. Eugene looked at the hard weak face, the furtive, unhappy eyes casting about for something they might call their own. The thick black hair was plastered stiff with grease; he saw white points of dandruff at the roots. There was an odor of talcum powder. He had been borne and nourished in the body of his white-faced mother—for what? To lap the scornful stroking fingers of position; to fawn miserably before an emblem. Eugene had a moment of nausea.
“Let’s shake hands, ’Gene,” said the boy once more, waggling his out-thrust fingers.
“No,” said Eugene.
“You don’t hate me, do you?” whined G. T.
“No,” said Eugene.
He had a moment of pity, of sickness. He forgave because it was necessary to forget.
Eugene lived in a small world, but its ruins for him were actual. His misfortunes were trifling, but their effect upon his spirit was deep and calamitous. He withdrew deeply and scornfully into his cell. He was friendless, whipped with scorn and pride. He set his face blindly against all the common united life around him.
It was during this bitter and desperate autumn that Eugene first met Jim Trivett.
Jim Trivett, the son of a rich tobacco farmer in the eastern part of the State, was a good tempered young tough of twenty years. He was a strong, rather foul-looking boy, with a coarse protruding mouth, full-meated and slightly ajar, constantly rayed with a faint loose smile and blotted at the corner with a brown smear of tobacco juice. He had bad teeth. His hair was light-brown, dry, and unruly: it stuck out in large untidy mats. He was dressed in the last cheap extreme of the dreadful fashion of the time: skintight trousers that ended an inch above his oxford shoes exposing an inch of clocked hose, a bobtailed coat belted in across his kidneys, large striped collars of silk. Under his coat he wore a big sweater with high-school numerals.
Jim Trivett lived with several other students from his community in a lodging-house near Mrs. Bradley’s but closer to the west gate of the university. There were four young men banded together for security and companionship in two untidy rooms heated to a baking dryness by small cast-iron stoves. They made constant preparations for study, but they never studied: one would enter sternly, announcing that he had “a hell of a day tomorrow,” and begin the most minute preparations for a long contest with his books: he would sharpen his pencils carefully and deliberately, adjust his lamp, replenish the red-hot stove, move his chair, put on an eyeshade, clean his pipe, stuff it carefully with tobacco, light, relight, and empty it, then, with an expression of profound relief, hear a rapping on his door.
“Come in the house, Goddamn it!” he would roar hospitably.
“Hello, ’Gene! Pull up a chair, son, and sit down,” said Tom Grant. He was a thickly built boy, gaudily dressed; he had a low forehead, black hair, and a kind, stupid, indolent temper.
“Have you been working?”
“Hell, yes!” shouted Jim Trivett. “I’ve been working like a son-of-a-bitch.”
“God!” said Tom Grant, turning slowly to look at him. “Boy, you’re going to choke to death on one of those some day.” He shook his head slowly and sadly, then continued with a rough laugh: “If old man Trivett knew what you were doing with his money, damn if he wouldn’t bust a gut.”
“ ’Gene!” said Jim Trivett, “what the hell do you know about this damned English, anyway?”
“What he doesn’t know about it,” said Tom Grant, “you could write out on the back of a postage stamp. Old man Sanford thinks you’re hell, ’Gene.”
“I thought you had Torrington,” said Jim Trivett.
“No,” said Eugene, “I wasn’t English enough. Young and crude. I changed, thank God! What is it you want, Jim?” he asked.
“I’ve got a long paper to write. I don’t know what to write about,” said Jim Trivett.
“What do you want me to do? Write it for you?”
“Yes,” said Jim Trivett.
“Write your own damn paper,” said Eugene with mimic toughness, “I won’t do it for you. I’ll help you if I can.”
“When are you going to let Hard Boy take you to Exeter?” said Tom Grant, winking at Jim Trivett.
Eugene flushed, making a defensive answer.
“I’m ready to go any time he is,” he said uneasily.
“Look here, Legs!” said Jim Trivett, grinning loosely. “Do you really
