Read The Guarded Heights Page 2

  PART II

  PRINCETON

  I

  "Young man, you've two years' work to enter."

  "Just when," George asked, "does college open?"

  "If the world continues undisturbed, in about two months."

  "Very well. Then I'll do two years' work in two months."

  "You've only one pair of eyes, my boy; only one brain."

  George couldn't afford to surrender. He had arrived in Princeton theevening before, a few hours after leaving Oakmont. It had been like acrossing between two planets. Breathlessly he had sought and found acheap room in a students' lodging house, and afterward, guided by themoonlight, he had wandered, spellbound, about the campus.

  Certainly this could not be George Morton, yesterday definitely dividedfrom what Old Planter had described as human beings. His exaltationgrew. For a long time he walked in an amicable companionship of broaderspaces and more arresting architecture than even Oakmont could boast;and it occurred to him, if he should enter college, he would have asmuch share in all this as the richest student; at Princeton he wouldlive in the Great House.

  His mood altered as he returned to his small, scantily furnished roomwhose very unloveliness outlined the difficulties that lay ahead.

  He unpacked his suitcase and came upon Sylvia's photograph and herbroken riding crop. In the centre of the table, where he would work, heplaced the photograph with a piece of the crop on either side. Wheneverhe was alone in the room those objects would be there, perpetual lashesto ambition; whenever he went out he would lock them away.

  How lovely and desirable she was! How hateful! How remote! Had ever aman such a goal to strain for? He wanted only to start.

  Immediately after breakfast the next morning he set forth. He had neverseen a town so curiously empty. There were no students, since it was thelong vacation, except a few backward men and doubtful candidates foradmission. He stared by daylight at the numerous buildings which weremore imposing now, more suggestive of learning, wealth, and breeding.They seemed to say they had something for him if only he would fighthard enough to receive it.

  First of all, he had to find someone who knew the ropes. There must beprofessors here, many men connected with this gigantic plant. On NassauStreet he encountered a youth, a little younger than himself, who, witha bored air, carried three books under his arm. George stopped him.

  "I beg your pardon. Are you going here?"

  The other looked him over as if suspecting a joke.

  "Going where?" he asked, faintly.

  George appraised the fine quality of the young man's clothing. He wasalmost sorry he had spoken. The first thing he had to do was to overcomea reluctance to speak to people who obviously already had much that hewas after.

  "I mean," he explained, "are you going to this college?"

  "The Lord," the young man answered, "and Squibs Bailly alone know. I'mtold I'm not very bright in the head."

  George smiled.

  "Then I guess you can help me out. I'm not either. I want to enter inthe fall, and I need a professor or something like that to teach me.I'll pay."

  The other nodded.

  "You need a coach. Bailly's a good one. I'm going there now to be toldfor two hours I'm an utter ass. Maybe I am, but what's the use rubbingit in? I don't know that he's got any open time, but you might comealong and see."

  George, his excitement increasing, walked beside his new acquaintance.

  "What's your name?" the bored youth asked all at once.

  "Morton. George Morton."

  "I'm Godfrey Rogers. Lawrenceville. What prep are you?"

  "What what?"

  "I mean, what school you come from?"

  George experienced a sharp discomfort, facing the first of hisunforeseen embarrassments. Evidently his simple will to crush the pastwouldn't be sufficient.

  "I went to a public school off and on," he muttered.

  Rogers' eyes widened. George had a feeling that the boy had receded. Itwasn't until later, when he had learned the customs of the place, thathe could give that alteration its logical value. It made no difference.He had a guide. Straightway he would find a man who could help him getin; but he noticed that Rogers abandoned personalities, chatting only ofthe difficulties of entrance papers, and the apparent mad desire ofcertain professors to keep good men from matriculating.

  They came to a small frame house on Dickinson Street. Rogers left Georgein the hall while he entered the study. The door did not quite close,and phrases slipped out in Rogers' glib voice, and, more frequently, ina shrill, querulous one.

  "Don't know a thing about him. Just met him on the street looking for acoach. No prep."

  "Haven't the time. I've enough blockheads as it is. He'd better go toCorse's school."

  "You won't see him?"

  "Oh, send him in," George heard Bailly say irritably. "You, Rogers,would sacrifice me or the entire universe to spare your brain fiveminutes' useful work. I'll find out what he knows, and pack him off toCorse. Wait in the hall."

  Rogers came out, shaking his head.

  "Guess there's nothing doing, but he'll pump you."

  George entered and closed the door. Behind a table desk lounged a long,painfully thin figure. The head was nearly bald, but the face carried aluxuriant, carelessly trimmed Van Dyke beard. Above it cheeks andforehead were intricately wrinkled, and the tweed suit, apparently,strove to put itself in harmony. It was difficult to guess how oldSquibs Bailly was; probably very ancient, yet in his eyes George caughta flashing spirit of youth.

  The room was forcefully out of key with its occupant. The desk,extremely neat with papers, blotters, and pens, was arranged accordingto a careful pattern. On books and shelves no speck of dust showed, andso far the place was scholarly. Then George was a trifle surprised tonotice, next to a sepia print of the Parthenon, a photograph of afootball team. That, moreover, was the arrangement around the fourwalls--classic ruins flanked by modern athletes. On a table in thewindow, occupying what one might call the position of honour, stood alarge framed likeness of a young man in football togs.

  Before George had really closed the door the high voice had opened itsattack.

  "I haven't any more time for dunces."

  "I'm not a dunce," George said, trying to hold his temper.

  Bailly didn't go on right away. The youthful glance absorbed each detailof George's face and build.

  "Anyhow," he said after a moment, less querulously, "let's see what youlack of the infantile requirements needful for entrance in an Americanuniversity."

  He probed George's rapid acquaintance with mathematics, history,English, and the classics. With modern languages there was none. Thenthe verdict came. Two years' work.

  "I've got to make my eyes and brain do," George said. "I've got to entercollege this fall or never. I tell you, Mr. Bailly, I am going to do it.I know you can help me, if you will. I'll pay."

  Bailly shook his head.

  "Even if I had the time my charges are high."

  George showed his whole hand.

  "I have about five hundred dollars."

  "For this condensed acquisition of a kindergarten knowledge,or--or----"

  "For everything. But only let me get in and I'll work my way through."

  Again Bailly shook his head.

  "You can't get in this fall, and it's not so simple to work your waythrough."

  "Then," George said, "you refuse to do anything for me?"

  The youthful eyes squinted. George had an odd impression that theysought beyond his body to learn just what manner of man he was. Thequerulous voice possessed more life.

  "How tall are you?"

  "A little over six feet."

  "What's your weight?"

  George hesitated, unable to see how such questions could affect hisentering college. He decided it was better to answer.

  "A hundred and eighty-five."

  "Good build!" Bailly mused. "Wish I'd had a build like that. If yourmind is as well proportioned----Take
your coat off. Roll up yoursleeves."

  "What for?" George asked.

  Bailly arose and circled the desk. George saw that the skeleton manlimped.

  "Because I'd like to see if the atrophying of your brain has furnishedany compensations."

  George grinned. The portrait in the window seemed friendly. He obeyed.

  Bailly ran his hand over George's muscles. His young eyes widened.

  "Ever play football?"

  George shook his head doubtfully.

  "Not what you would call really playing. Why? Would football help?"

  "Provided one's the right stuff otherwise, would being a god help oneclimb Olympus?" Bailly wanted to know.

  He indicated the framed likeness in the window.

  "That's Bill Gregory."

  "Seems to me I've seen his name in the papers," George said.

  Bailly stared.

  "Without doubt, if you read the public prints at all. He exerted muchuseful cunning and strength in the Harvard and Yale games last fall. Hewas on everybody's All-American eleven. I got him into college andman-handled him through. Hence this scanty hair, these prematurefurrows; for although he had plenty of good common-sense, and was one ofthe finest boys I've ever known, he didn't possess, speaking relatively,when it came to iron-bound text-books, the brains of a dinosaur; but hehad the brute force of one."

  "Why did you do it?" George asked. "Because he was rich?"

  "Young man," Bailly answered, "I am a product of this seat of learning.With all its faults--and you may learn their number for yourself someday--its success is pleasing to me, particularly at football. I am veryfond of football, perhaps because it approximates in our puling, modernfashion, the classic public games of ruddier days. In other words, I wasactuated by a formless emotion called Princeton spirit. Don't ask mewhat that is. I don't know. One receives it according to one's concept.But when I saw in Bill something finer and more determined than most menpossess, I made up my mind Princeton was going to be proud of him, onthe campus, on the football field, and afterward out in the world."

  The hollow, wrinkled face flushed.

  "When Bill made a run I could think of it as my run. When he made atouchdown I could say, 'there's one score that wouldn't have been madeif I hadn't booted Bill into college, and kept him from flunking out bysheer brute mentality!' Pardon me, Mr. Morton. I love the silly game."

  George smiled, sensing his way, if only he could make this fellow feelhe would be the right kind of Princeton man!

  "I was going to say," he offered, "that while I had never had a chanceto play on a regular team I used to mix it up at school, but I wasstronger than most of the boys. There were one or two accidents. Theythought I'd better quit."

  Bailly laughed.

  "That's the kind of material we want. You do look as if you could bruisea blue or a crimson jersey. Know where the field house is? Ask anybody.Do no harm for the trainer to look you over. Be there at three o'clock."

  "But my work? Will you help me?"

  "Give me," Bailly pled, "until afternoon to decide if I'll take anotherten years from my life. That's all. Send that fellow Rogers in. Be atthe field house at three o'clock."

  And as George passed out he heard him reviling the candidate.

  "Don't see why you come to college. No chance to make the team or a PhiBeta Kappa. One ought to be a requisite."

  The shrill voice went lower. George barely caught the words certainlynot intended for him.

  "You know I wouldn't be a bit surprised if that fellow you brought me,if he had a chance, might do both."

  II

  George, since he had nothing else to do, walked home. Bailly could gethim in if he would. Did it really depend in part on the inspection hewould have to undergo that afternoon? It was hard there was nothing hecould do to prepare himself. He went to the yard, to which the landladyhad condemned Sylvia's bulldog, and, to kill time, played with thefriendly animal until luncheon. Afterward he sat in his room beforeSylvia's portrait impressing on himself the necessity of strength forthe coming ordeal.

  His landlady directed him glibly enough to the field house. As hecrossed the practice gridiron, not yet chalked out, he saw Bailly on theverandah; and, appearing very small and sturdy beside him, agray-haired, pleasant-faced man whose small eyes were relentless.

  "This is the prospect, Green," George heard Bailly say.

  The trainer studied George for some time before he nodded his head.

  "A build to hurt and not get hurt," he said at last; "but, Mr. Bailly,it's hard to supply experience. Boys come here who have played all theirlives, and they know less than nothing. Bone seems to grow naturally inthe football cranium."

  He shifted back to George.

  "How fast are you?"

  "I've never timed myself, but I'm hard to catch."

  "Get out there," the trainer directed.

  "In those clothes?" Bailly asked.

  "Why not? The ground's dry. A man wouldn't run any faster with moleskinsand cleats. Now you run as far as the end of that stand. Halt there fora minute, then turn and come back."

  He drew out a stop watch.

  "All set? Then--git!"

  George streaked down the field.

  "It's an even hundred yards," the trainer explained to Bailly.

  As George paused at the end of the stand the trainer snapped his watch,whistling.

  "There are lots with running shoes and drawers wouldn't do any better.Let's have him back."

  He waved his arm. George tore up and leant against the railing,breathing hard, but not uncomfortably.

  "You were a full second slower coming back," the trainer said with atwinkle.

  "I'm sorry," George cried. "Let me try it again."

  Green shook his head.

  "I'd rather see you make a tackle, but I've no one to spare."

  He grinned invitation at Bailly.

  "My spirit, Green," the tutor said, "is less fragile than my corpus, butit has some common-sense. I prefer others should perish at the hands ofmy discoveries."

  "You've scrubbed around," the trainer said, appraising George's long,muscular legs. "Ever kick a football?"

  "A little."

  Green entered the field house, reappearing after a moment with afootball tucked under his arm.

  "Do you mind stepping down the field, Mr. Bailly, to catch what hepunts? I wouldn't go too far."

  Bailly nodded and walked a short distance away. The trainer gave Georgethe football and told him to kick it to Bailly. George stepped on thegrass and swung his leg. If the ball had travelled horizontally as faras it did toward heaven it would have been a good kick. For half an hourthe trainer coached interestedly, teaching George the fundamentals ofkicking form. Some of the later punts, indeed, boomed down the field forconsiderable distances, but in George's mind the high light of thatunexpected experience remained the lanky, awkward figure in wrinkledtweeds, limping about the field, sometimes catching the ball, sometimeslooking hurt when it bounded from his grasp, sometimes missing italtogether, and never once losing the flashing pleasure from his eyes orthe excitement out of his furrowed face.

  "Enough," the trainer said at last.

  George heard him confide to the puffing tutor:

  "Possibilities. Heaven knows we'll need them a year from this fall,especially in the kicking line. I believe this fellow can be taught."

  Bailly, his hands shaking from his recent exercise, lighted a pipe. Heassumed a martyr's air. His voice sounded as though someone had done himan irreparable wrong.

  "Then I'll have to try, but it's hard on me, Green, you'll admit."

  George hid his excitement. He knew he had passed his first examination.He was sure he would enter college. Already he felt the confidence mostmen placed in Squibs Bailly.

  "Wouldn't you have taken him on anyway, Mr. Bailly?" the trainerlaughed. "Anyway, a lot of my players are first-group men. I depend onyou to turn him over in the fall for the Freshman eleven. Going totown?"

  "Come on
, Morton," Bailly said, remorsefully.

  Side by side the three walked through to Nassau Street and past thecampus. George said nothing, drinking in the scarcely comprehensibletalk of the others about team prospects and the appalling number ofpowerful and nimble young men who would graduate the following June.

  Near University Place he noticed Rogers loafing in front of a restaurantwith several other youths who wore black caps. He wondered why Rogersstarted and stared at him, then turned, speaking quickly to the others.

  Green went down University Place. George paced on with Bailly. In frontof the Nassau Club the tutor paused.

  "I'm going in here," he said, "but you can come to my house ateight-thirty. We'll work until ten-thirty. We'll do that every nightuntil your brain wrinkles a trifle. You may not have been taught thattwenty-four hours are allotted to each day. Eight for sleep. Two withme. Two for meals. Two at the field. Two for a run in the country. Thatleaves eight for study, and you'll need every minute of them. I'll giveyou your schedule to-night. If you break it once I'll drop you, foryou've got to have a brain beyond the ordinary to make it wrinkleenough."

  "Thanks, Mr. Bailly. If you don't mind, what will it cost?"

  Bailly considered.

  "I'll have to charge you," he said at last, "twenty-five dollars, but Ican lend you most of the books."

  George understood, but his pride was not hurt.

  "I'll pay you in other ways."

  Bailly looked at him, his emaciated face smiling all over.

  "I think you will," he said with a little nod. "All right. Ateight-thirty."

  He limped along the narrow cement walk and entered the club. Georgestarted back. The group, he noticed, still loitered in front of therestaurant. Rogers detached himself and strolled across. He was nolonger suspicious.

  "You been down at the field with Mr. Green?"

  "Yes."

  "What for?"

  "Running a little, kicking a football around."

  "Trust Bailly to guess you played. What did Green say?"

  "If I get in," George, answered simply, "I think he'll give me a show."

  "I guess so," Rogers said, thoughtfully, "or he wouldn't be wasting histime on you now. Come on over and meet these would-be Freshmen. We'llall be in the same class unless we get brain-fever. MostlyLawrenceville."

  George crossed and submitted to elaborate introductions and warmgreetings.

  "Green's grooming him already for the Freshman eleven," Rogersexplained.

  George accepted the open admiration cautiously, not forgetting what hehad been yesterday, what Sylvia had said. Why was Rogers so friendly allat once?

  "What prep?" "Where'd you play?" "Line or backfield?"

  The rapidity of the questions lessened his discomfort. How was he toavoid such moments? He must make his future exceptionally full so thatit might submerge the past of which he couldn't speak withoutembarrassment. In this instance Rogers helped him out.

  "Morton's bummed around. Never went to any school for long."

  George pondered this kind act and its fashion as he excused himself andwalked on to his lodging. There was actually something to hide, andRogers admitted it, and was willing to lend a cloak. He could guess why.Because Green was bothering with him, had condescended to be seen on thestreet with him. George's vision broadened.

  He locked himself in his room and sat before his souvenirs. Sylvia'sprovocative features seemed clearer. For a long time he stared hungrily.He had an absurd impression that he had already advanced toward her.Perhaps he had in view of what had happened that afternoon.

  His determination as well as his strength had clearly attracted Bailly;yet that strength, its possible application to football, had practicallyassured him he would enter college, had made an ally of the carefulRogers, had aroused the admiration of such sub-Freshmen as were in town.It became clear that if he should be successful at football he wouldachieve a position of prominence from which he could choose friendsuseful here and even in the vital future after college.

  His planning grew more practical. If football, a game of which he knewalmost nothing, could do that, what might he not draw from one hethoroughly knew--anything concerning horses, for instance, hunting,polo? The men interested in horses would be the rich, the best--hechoked a trifle over the qualification--the financial and social leadersof the class. He would have that card up his sleeve. He would play itwhen it would impress most. Skill at games, he hazarded, would make iteasier than he had thought to work his way through.

  Whatever distaste such cold calculation brought he destroyed by staringat Sylvia's remote beauty. If he was to reach such a goal he would haveto use every possible short cut, no matter how unlovely.

  He found that evening a radical alteration in Squibs Bailly's study. Theblotter was spattered with ink. Papers littered the desk and driftedabout the floor. Everything within reach of the tutor's hands wasdisarranged and disreputably untidy. Bailly appeared incomparably morecomfortable.

  The course opened with a small lecture, delivered while the attenuatedman limped up and down the cluttered room.

  "Don't fancy," he began, "that you have found in football a key to thescholastic labyrinth."

  His wrinkled face assumed a violent disapproval. His youthful eyesflashed resentfully.

  "Mr. Morton, if I suffered the divine Delphic frenzy and went to theDean and assured him you were destined to be one of our very bestundergraduates and at the same time would make fifteen touchdownsagainst Yale, and roughly an equal number against Harvard, do you knowwhat he would reply?"

  George gathered that an answer wasn't necessary.

  "You might think," the tutor resumed, limping faster than ever, "that hewould run his fingers through his hair, if he had sufficient; wouldfiguratively flame with pleasure; would say: 'Miraculous, Mr. Bailly.You are a great benefactor. We must get this extraordinary youth in theuniversity even if he can't parse "the cat caught the rat."'"

  Bailly paused. He clashed his hands together.

  "Now I'll tell you what he'd actually reply. 'Interesting if true, Mr.Bailly. But what are his scholastic attainments? Can he solve aquadratic equation in his head? Has he committed to memory my favouritepassages of the "Iliad" of Homer and the "Aeneid" of Virgil? Can he namethe architect of the Parthenon or the sculptor of the Aegean pediments?No? Horrible! Then off with his head!'"

  Bailly draped himself across his chair.

  "Therefore it behooves us to get to work."

  III

  That was the first of sixty-odd toilsome, torturing evenings, for Baillyfailed to honour the Sabbath; and, after that first lecture, drabbusiness alone coloured those hours. The multiplicity of subjects wasconfusing; but, although Bailly seldom told him so, George progressedrapidly, and Bailly knew just where to stress for the examinations.

  If it had ended there it would have been bad enough. When he studied theschedule Bailly gave him that first night he had a despairing feelingthat either he or it must break down. Everything was accounted for evento the food he was to eat. That last, in fact, created a littledifficulty with the landlady, who seemed to have no manner ofappreciation of the world-moving importance of football. Rogers wantedto help out there, too. He had found George's lodging. It was whenGreen's interest was popular knowledge, when from the Nassau Club hadslipped the belief that Squibs Bailly had turned his eyes on anotherstar. George made it dispassionately clear to Rogers that Bailly had notallowed in his schedule for calls. Rogers was visibly disappointed.

  "Where do you eat, then?"

  "Here--with Mrs. Michin."

  "Now look, Morton. That's no way. Half a dozen of us are eating at Joe'srestaurant. They're the best of the sub-Freshmen that are here. Comealong with us."

  The manner of the invitation didn't make George at all reluctant to tellthe truth.

  "I can't afford to be eating around in restaurants."

  "That needn't figure," Rogers said, quickly. "Green's probably onlyletting you eat certain things. I'll guarantee Joe'll
take you on forjust what you're paying Mrs. Michin."

  George thought rapidly. He could see through Rogers now. The boy wanted,even as he did, to run with the best, but for a vastly different cause.That was why his manner had altered that first morning when he had sizedGeorge up as the unfinished product of a public school, why it hadaltered again when he had sensed in him a football star. George's heartwarmed, but not to Rogers. Because he rioted around for a period eachafternoon in an odorous football suit he was already, in the carefulRogers' eyes, one of the most prominent of the students in town. For thesame reason he was in a position to wait and make sure that Rogershimself was the useful sort. George possessed no standard by which tojudge, and it would be a mistake to knot ropes that he might want tobreak later; nor did he care for that sort of charity, no matter howwell disguised, so he shook his head.

  "Green and Squibs wouldn't put up with it."

  He wheedled his landlady, instead, into a better humour, paying herreluctantly a little more.

  The problem of expenses was still troublesome, but it became evidentthat there, too, Bailly would be a useful guide.

  "I have actually bearded the dean about you," he said one evening."There are a few scholarships not yet disposed of. If I can prove to himthat you live by syntax alone you may get one. As for the rest, there'sthe commons. Impecunious students profitably wait on table there."

  George's flush was not pretty.

  "I'll not be a servant," he snapped.

  "It's no disgrace," Bailly said, mildly.

  "It is--for me."

  He didn't like Bailly's long, slightly pained scrutiny. There was no usekeeping things from him anyway.

  "I can trust you, Mr. Bailly," he said, quickly, and in a very lowvoice, as if the walls might hear: "I know you won't give me away. I--Iwas too much like a servant until the day I came to Princeton. I'vesworn I'd never be again. I can't touch that job. I tell you I'd ratherstarve."

  "To do so," Bailly remarked, drily, "would be a senseless suicide.You'll appreciate some day, young man, that the world lives by service."

  George wondered why he glanced at the untidy table with a smiletwitching at the corners of his mouth.

  "I'm also sorry to learn your ambition is not altogether unselfish, oraltogether worthy."

  George longed to make Bailly understand.

  "It was forced on me," he said. "I worked in my father's livery businessuntil he failed. Then I had to go to a rich man's stable. I was treatedlike dirt. Nobody would have anything to do with me. They won't here,probably, if they find out."

  "Never mind," Bailly sighed. "We will seek other means. Let us get onwith our primers."

  Once or twice, when some knotty problem took George to the house duringthe early morning, he found the spic-and-span neatness he had observedat his first visit. In Bailly's service clearly someone laboured with alove of labour, without shame or discouragement.

  One evening in August the maid who customarily opened the door wasreplaced by a short, plump-looking woman well over thirty. She greetedGeorge with kindly eyes.

  "I daresay you're Mr. Morton. I've heard a great deal about you."

  George had never seen a face more unaffected, more friendly, morecompetent. His voice was respectful.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And I am Mrs. Bailly. We expect much of you."

  There rushed over George a feeling that, his own ambition aside, he hadto give them a great deal. No wonder Squibs felt as he did if his ideasof service had emerged from such a source.

  That portion of his crowded schedule George grew eventually to like. Itbrought him either unrestrained scolding or else a tempered praise; andhe enjoyed his cross-country runs. Sylvia's bulldog usually accompaniedhim, unleashed, for he could control the animal. With surprised eyes hesaw estates as extravagant as Oakmont, and frequently in better taste.Little by little he picked up the names of the families that owned them.He told himself that some day he would enter those places as a guest,bowed to by such servants as he had been. It was possible, he promisedhimself bravely, if only he could win a Yale or a Harvard game.

  He enjoyed, too, the hours he spent at the field. He could measure hisprogress there as well as in Bailly's study. Green was slow with eitherpraise or blame, but sometimes Rogers and his clan would come down, and,sitting in the otherwise empty stands, would audibly marvel at thegraceful trajectory of his punts. He soiled himself daily at thetackling dummy. He sprawled after an elusive ball, falling on it orpicking it up on the run. Meantime, he had absorbed the elements of therules. He found them rather more complicated than the classics.

  The head coach came from the city one day. Like Green, he said nothingin praise or blame, merely criticising pleasantly; but George felt thathe was impressed. The great man even tossed the ball about with him fora while, teaching him to throw at a definite mark. After that Rogers andhis cronies wanted to be more in evidence than ever, but George had notime for them, or for anything outside his work.

  His will to survive the crushing grind never really faltered, but heresented its necessity, sometimes wistfully, sometimes with turbulence.He despised himself for regretting certain pleasanter phases of hisserfdom at Oakmont. The hot, stuffy room on the top floor of the framehouse; the difficult books; the papers streaked with intricate andreluctant figures, contrived frequently to swing his mind to pastoralcorners of the Planter estate. He might have held title to them, theyhad been so much his own. He had used them during his free time for thereading of novels, and latterly, he remembered, for formless dreams ofSylvia's beauty. At least his mind had not been put to the torturethere. He had had time to listen to a bird's song, to ingratiate himselfwith a venturesome squirrel, to run his hands through the long grass, tolie half asleep, brain quite empty save for a temporal content.

  Now, running or walking in the country, he found no time for the happieraspects of woods or fields. He had to drive himself physically in orderthat his mind could respond to Bailly's urgencies. And sometimes, as hasbeen suggested, his revolt was more violent. He paced his room angrily.Why did he do it? Why did he submit? Eventually his eyes would turn toher photograph, and he would go back to his table.

  He was grateful for the chance that had let him pick up that picture.Without its constant supervision he might not have been able to keep upthe struggle. During the worst moments, when some solution mocked him,he would stare at the likeness while his brain fought, while, with asort of self-hypnosis induced by that pictured face, he willed himselfto keep on.

  One night, when he had suffered over an elusive equation beyond hisscheduled bedtime, he found his eyes, as he stared at the picture,blurring strangely; then the thing was done, the answer proved; butafter what an effort! Why did his eyes blur? Because of the intensity ofsome emotion whose significance he failed all at once to grasp. Hecontinued to stare at Sylvia's beauty, informed even here with a sincereintolerance; at those lips which had released the contempt that haddelivered him to this other slavery. Abruptly the emotion, that hadseemed to leap upon him from the books and the complicated figures,defined itself with stark, unavoidable brutality. He reached out andwith both hands grasped the photograph. He wanted to snatch his handsapart, ripping the paper, destroying the tranquil, arrogant features. Hereplaced the picture, leant back, and continued hypnotically to studyit. His hands grasped the table's edge while the blurring of his eyesincreased. He spoke aloud in a clear and sullen voice:

  "I hate you," he said. "With all my heart and soul and body I hate you."

  IV

  About this time one partial break in the schedule came like a strongtonic. Bailly at the close of an evening's session spoke, Georgefancied, with a little embarrassment.

  "My wife wants to speak to you before you go."

  He raised his voice.

  "Martha! The battle's over for to-night."

  She came quietly in and perched herself on the arm of a chair.

  "I'm having a few people for dinner to-morrow," she explained. "There'sone young g
irl, so I want a young man. Won't you help me out?"

  George's elation was shot with doubt of an unexplored territory. Thispromised an advance if he could find the way. He glanced inquiringly atBailly.

  "Women," the tutor said, "lack a sense of values. I shall be chainedanyway to my wife's ill-conceived hospitality, so you might as wellcome. But we'll dine early so we won't destroy an entire evening."

  "Then at seven-thirty, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Bailly said.

  "Thank you," George answered. "I shall be very happy to come."

  As a matter of fact, he was there before seven-thirty, over-anxious tobe socially adequate. He had worried a good deal about the invitation.Could it be traced to his confession to Bailly? Was it, in any sense, atest? At least it bristled with perplexities. His ordinary suit ofclothing, even after an extended pressing and brushing, was, he felt,out of place. It warned him that of the ritual of a mixed dinner he wasblankly ignorant. He established two cardinal principles. He would watchand imitate the others. He wouldn't open his mouth unless he had to.

  Bailly, with tact, wore the disgraceful tweeds, but there were two othermen, a professor and a resident, George gathered in the rapidity of theintroduction which slurred names. These wore evening clothes. Of the twoelderly women who accompanied them one was quite dazzling, displayingmuch jewellery, and projecting an air truly imperial. Side by side withher Mrs. Bailly appeared more than ever a priestess of service; yet toGeorge her serene self-satisfaction seemed ornament enough.

  Where, George wondered, was the girl for whom he had been asked?

  Mrs. Bailly drew him from these multiple introductions. He turned andsaw the girl standing in the doorway, a dazzling portrait in a dingyframe. As he faced her George was aware of a tightening of all hisdefences. Her clothing, her attitude, proclaimed her as of Sylvia'ssort. He ventured to raise his eyes to her face. It was there, too, thehabit of the beautiful, the obvious unfamiliarity with life's grayertones. Yet she did not resemble Sylvia. Her skin was nearly white. Herhair glinted with gold; but she, too, was lovely. George asked himselfif she would have lifted the crop, if all these fortunates reacted to aprecise and depressing formula. Somehow he couldn't imagine this girlstriking to hurt.

  Mrs. Bailly presented him. Her name was Alston, Betty

  Alston, it developed during the succeeding general conversation. Hefixed the stouter of the men in evening clothes as her father and theimperial woman as her mother. He understood then that they were, indeed,of Sylvia's sort, for during his cross-country work he had frequentlypassed their home, an immense Tudor house in the midst of pleasantacres.

  It was because of the girl that the pitfalls of dinner were bridged. Inthe technique of accepting Mrs. Bailly's excellent courses he was alwaysa trifle behind her. She made conversation, moreover, surprisingly easy.After the first few moments, during which no one troubled to probe hispast, the older people left them to themselves. She didn't ask what hisprep was, or where he lived, or any other thing to make him stammer.

  "You look like a football player," she said, frankly.

  They talked of his work. He said he had admired her home during hisruns. She responded naturally:

  "When we are really back you must come and see it more intimately."

  The invitation to enter the gates!

  He fell silent. Would it be fair to go without giving her an opportunityto treat him as Sylvia had done? Why should she inspire such a question?Hadn't he willed his past to oblivion? Hadn't he determined to takeevery short cut? Of course he would go, as George Morton, undergraduate,football player, magician with horses. The rest was none of herbusiness.

  They were in Princeton, she explained, only for a few days from time totime, but would be definitely back when college opened. She, too, wasgoing to be introduced to society that winter. He wanted to ask her howit was done. He pictured a vast apartment, dense with unpleasant people,and a man who cried out with a brazen voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! Thisis Miss Sylvia Planter. This is Miss Betty Alston." Quite like anauction.

  "It must be wonderful to play football," she was saying. "I should havepreferred to be a man. What can a girl do? Bad tennis, rotten golf,something with horses."

  He smiled. He could impress Betty Alston, but there was no point inthat, because she was a girl, and he could think of only one girl.

  Yet he carried home an impression of unexpected interest and kindness.Her proximity, the rustling of her gown, the barely detectable perfumefrom her tawny hair, furnished souvenirs intangible but very warm in hismemory. They made the portrait and the broken crop seem lifeless andunimpressive.

  He forced himself to stare at Sylvia's likeness until the old hypnoticsense returned.

  V

  He saw Betty Alston once more before college opened, unexpectedly,briefly, and disturbingly; but with all that he carried again to hislodging an impression of a distracting contact.

  He was out for a morning run, wearing some ancient flannels Bailly hadloaned him, and a sweater, for autumn's first exhilaration sharpened theair. Sylvia's bulldog barked joyously about him as he trotted through alane not far from the Alston place. He often went that way, perhapsbecause its gates were already half open. As he turned the corner of ahedge he came face to face with Betty. In a short skirt and knittedjacket she was even more striking than she had been at the Bailly's. Theunexpected encounter had brought colour to her rather pale face. Thebulldog sprang for her. George halted him with a sharp command.

  "I am not afraid of him," she laughed. "Come here, savage beast."

  The dog crawled to her and licked her fingers. George saw her examiningthe animal curiously.

  "I hope he didn't frighten you," he said, his cap in his hand.

  She glanced up, and at her voice George straightened, and turned quicklyaway so that she couldn't see the response to her amazing question. Wasit, he asked himself, traceable to Old Planter's threats. Were theygoing to try to smash him at the start and keep him out of Princeton?

  "Do you happen," Betty had said, frowning, "to know Sylvia Planter, or,perhaps, her brother, Lambert?"

  George didn't care to lie; nor was it, his instinct told him, safe tolie to Betty. She knew the Planters, then. But how could Old Planterdrive him out except through his parents? He wasn't going to be drivenout. He turned back slowly. In Betty's face he read only a slightbewilderment.

  "That's a queer thing to ask," he managed.

  "The dog," she said, caressing the ugly snout, "is the image of oneSylvia Planter was very fond of. Sylvia and I were at school togetherlast year. I've just been visiting her the last few days. She said shehad given her dog away."

  She drew the dog closer and read the name on the collar.

  "Roland! What was the name of her dog?"

  George relaxed.

  "That dog," he said, harshly, "belongs to me."

  She glanced at him, surprised, releasing the dog and standing up. Itwasn't Old Planter then, and his parents were probably safe enough; buthad Sylvia, he asked himself angrily, made a story for her guest out ofhis unwary declaration and his abrupt vanishing from Oakmont? Did thisfriendly creature know anything? If she did she would cease to beamiable. His anger diminished as he saw the curiosity leave her face.

  "An odd resemblance! Do you know, Mr. Morton, I rather think you'rebound to meet Lambert Planter anyway. I believe he's a very importantyoung man at Yale. You'll have to play football a little better than hedoes. His sister and he are going to visit me for a few days before hegoes back to New Haven. Perhaps you'll see him then."

  George resented the prospect. He got himself away.

  "Squibs," he told her, "sees everything. If I loiter he finds out andscolds."

  He had an impression that she looked after him until he was out ofsight. Or was it the dog that still puzzled her? Something of her, atleast, accompanied him longer than that--her kindness, her tact in thematter of the Planters. He would take very good care that he didn't meetLambert; the prospect of Sylvia's adjacence, however, filled
him with adisturbing excitement. He wanted to see her, but he felt it wouldn't besafe to have her see him yet.

  Her picture increased his excitement, filled him with a craving for herphysical presence. He desired to look at her, as he had looked at thephotograph, to see if he could tell himself under those conditions thathe hated her. Whether that was true or not, he was more determined thanever to make his boasts good.

  VI

  The day of the immediate test approached and he found himself no longerafraid of it. Even Bailly one early September evening abandonedcynicism.

  "You've every chance, Morton," he said, puffing at his pipe, "to entercreditably. You may have a condition in French, but what of that? We'llhave it off by the divisionals. I'll admit you're far from a dunce.During the next ten days we'll concentrate on the examinationidiosyncrasies of my revered colleagues."

  The scholarship had, in fact, been won for George, but the necessarywork, removed from any suspicion of the servatorial, had not yet beenfound. Bailly, although he plainly worried himself, told George not tobe impatient; then, just before the entrance examinations, the headcoach arrived and settled himself in Princeton. Self-assured young mendrifted to the field now every afternoon--"varsity men," the Rogers clanwhispered with awe. And there were last year's substitutes, and faithfulslaves of the scrub, over-anxious, pouring out to early practice,grasping at one more chance. So far no Freshmen candidates had beencalled, but the head coach was heard to whisper to Green:

  "We'd better work this fellow Morton with the squad until the cubsstart. He'll stand a lot of practice. Give him all the football he'llhold. He's outkicking his ends now. Jack him up without cutting down hisdistance. I'd like to see him make a tackle. He looks good at the dummy,but you never can tell. He may be an ear-puller."

  The magic words slipped through the town. George caught arrivingFreshmen pointing him out. He overheard glowing prophecies.

  "Green says he'll outkick Dewitt."

  It didn't turn his head. To be the greatest player the game had everknown wouldn't have turned his head, for that would have been only onesmall step toward the summit from which Sylvia looked down on him withcontemptuous, inimical eyes.

  The head coach one afternoon gave the ball to a young man of nopronounced value, and instructed him to elude George if he could.

  "You, Morton," the head coach instructed, "see that he doesn't get pastyou. Remember what you've done to the dummy."

  George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with ahundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desireto make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than aman, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by hisrough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept hisglance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going toside-step, and in which direction; lunged at exactly the right moment;clipped the runner about the knees; lifted him; brought him crashing tothe ground. The ball rolled to one side. George released his man,sprawled, and gathered the ball in his arms. A great silence descendedon the field. Out of it, as George got up, slipped the uncertain voiceof his victim.

  "Did anything break off, Green? That wasn't a tackle. It was a badaccident. How could I tell he was a bull when he didn't wear horns?"

  George helped the man to his feet.

  "Hope I didn't hurt you."

  "Oh, no. I'll be all right again in a couple of months."

  He limped about his work, muttering:

  "Maybe mother was right when she didn't want me to play this game."

  The coach wasn't through. He gave the ball to George and signalled oneof the biggest of the varsity men.

  "Let me see you get past that fellow, Morton."

  George didn't get past, although, with the tackler's vise-like gripabout his legs, he struggled with knees and elbows, and kept his feetuntil the coach called to let him go.

  "I'm sorry," George began.

  "Yes," Green said, severely, "you've got to learn to get past tacklers.If you learn to do that consistently I'll guarantee you a place on theteam, provided Mr. Stringham's willing."

  "I'm willing," the head coach said with apparent reluctance.

  Everyone within hearing laughed, but George couldn't laugh, although heknew it was expected.

  "Mr. Stringham," he said, "I will learn to get past them unless theycome too thick."

  The coach patted his shoulder. His voice was satisfied.

  "Run along to the showers now."

  There may have been something in the sequence of these events, for thatvery night Squibs Bailly's face twitched with satisfaction.

  "You have a share," he said, "in the agency of the laundry mostgenerally patronized by our young men. It will pay you enough unless youlong for automobiles and gaiety."

  "No," George said, "but, Mr. Bailly, I need clothes. I can afford to buysome now. Where shall I go? What shall I get?"

  Bailly limped about thoughtfully. He named a tailor of the town. Heprescribed an outing suit and a dinner suit.

  "Because," he said, "if you're asked about, you want to be able to go,and a dinner suit will pass for a Freshman nearly anywhere."

  "If," George asked himself defiantly as he walked home, "Squibs thinksmy ambition unworthy, why does he go out of his way to boost it? Anyway,I'm going to do my best to make touchdowns for him and Mrs. Squibs. Isthat Princeton spirit, or Bailly spirit, or am I fooling myself, and amI going to make touchdowns just for myself and Sylvia Planter?"

  VII

  The meeting he had desired above all things to avoid took place when hewas, for a moment, off his guard. He was on his way to Dickinson Hallfor his first examination. Perhaps that was why he was too absorbed tonotice the automobile drawn up at the curb just ahead, and facing him.He had no warning. He nearly collided with Lambert Planter, who walkedout of a shop. George stopped, drew back, and thought of dodging behindthe procession of worried, sombrely clothed Freshmen; but there wasn'ttime. Lambert's face showed bewilderment and recognition.

  "Certainly it is Mr. Morton," he said in his old mocking fashion.

  George glanced at the surprised features which, in a masculine fashion,were reminiscent of Sylvia; and beyond he saw, in the rear seat of theautomobile, Sylvia herself, lovelier, more removed than ever. BettyAlston sat at her side. Evidently neither had observed the encounter,for they laughed and chatted, probably about the terror-strickenFreshmen.

  George swallowed hard.

  "I heard you were going to be here. I wanted to keep out of your way."

  "But why?" Lambert laughed. "You have a scholastic appearance. You nevermean----"

  "I am taking my entrance examinations," George said. "I want to makegood here."

  He looked straight into Lambert's eyes. His voice became incisive,threatening.

  "I will make good. Don't try giving me away. Don't you tell Miss Alstonwhere I came from----"

  "Yeh. The big fellow! Morton! Stringham and Green say he's going to be awonder."

  It drifted to them from the passing youths.

  Lambert whistled. The mockery left his voice.

  "Go as far as you can," he said.

  And followed it with:

  "Don't be a self-conscious ass."

  He smiled whimsically.

  "Glad to have run into you--George."

  The driver had noticed Lambert. The automobile glided nearer.

  "I--I've got to get away," George said, hastily. "I don't want yoursister to see me."

  Lambert turned. His voice, in turn, was a trifle threatening.

  "That's all nonsense. She's forgotten all about you; she wouldn't knowyou from Adam."

  George couldn't help staring. What a contrast the two young womenoffered! He wanted to realize that he actually looked at Sylvia Planter,Sylvia of the flesh, Sylvia who had expressed for him an endlesscontempt. But he couldn't help seeing also the golden hair and the softcolouring of Betty Alston.

  Lambert sprang into the car. Sylvia and Betty both glanced at
the manhe had left. George waited. What would happen now? Sylvia's colour didnot heighten. Her eyes did not falter. Betty smiled and waved her hand.George took off his cap, still expectant. Sylvia's lifeless starecontinued until the car had rolled away. George sighed, relaxed, andwent on.

  Had Lambert been right? He didn't want to believe that. It hurt toomuch.

  "She saw me," he muttered. "She stared, not as if she saw an unknownman, but as if she wanted to make me think she saw nothing. She saw me."

  But he couldn't be sure. It seemed to him then that he wanted more thananything in the world to be sure.

  And he had not taken advantage of his chance. Instead of looking at herand fixing the stark fact of hatred in his mind, he had only thoughtwith an angry, craving desire:

  "You are the loveliest thing in the world. The next time you'll know me.By God, the next time I'll _make_ you know me."

  VIII

  In the examination hall George called upon his will to drive from hismind the details of that encounter. Lambert might be dependable, but ifSylvia had actually recognized him what might she not say to BettyAlston? He didn't want to see the kindness vanish from Betty's eyes, northe friendliness from her manner. Lambert's assurance, moreover, thatSylvia had forgotten him lingered irritatingly.

  "I will not think of it," George told himself. "I will think of nothingbut this paper. I will pass it."

  This ability to discipline his mind had increased steadily during hishours before Sylvia's portrait. The simple command "I will," was anecessity his brain met with a decreasing reluctance. For two hours nowit excluded everything except his work. At the end of that time hesigned his paper, sat back, and examined the anxious young men crowdedabout him in the long room. From these he must sooner or later detachthe ones of value to himself. That first quick appraisal disclosedlittle; they were clothed too much to a pattern, wearing black jerseys,more often than not, black clothes, with black caps hanging from thesupports of their chairs. In their faces, however, were visibledifferences that made him uneasy. Even from a uniform, then, men, to anextent, projected discrepancies of birth, or training, or habit. Hesighed and turned in his paper.

  At the foot of the stairs groups collected, discussing the ordealpessimistically. As he started to walk through, several spoke to George.

  "How did _you_ hit it, Morton?"

  Already he was well spotted. He paused and joined the apprehensivechatter.

  "It's a toss-up with me," Rogers admitted. "Don't tell me any answers.If ignorance is bliss, I want to stay dumb."

  He caught George's arm.

  "Have you met Dicky Goodhue? Hello, Goodhue!"

  Goodhue gave the impression of not having met Rogers to any extent. Hewas a sturdy young man with handsome, finely formed features. Georgelooked at him closely, because this young man alone of the Freshmen hehad met remained unmoved by his fame.

  "Would like you to meet Morton, Goodhue."

  Goodhue glanced at George inquiringly, almost resentfully.

  "George Morton," Rogers stumbled on, as if an apology were necessary."Stringham, you know, and Green----"

  "Glad to meet you," Goodhue said, indifferently.

  "Thanks," George acknowledged as indifferently, and turned away.

  Goodhue, it came upon him with a new appreciation of difficulties, wasthe proper sort. He watched him walk off with a well-dressed,weak-looking youth, threading a careless course among his classmates.

  "How long have you known this fellow Goodhue?" George asked as hecrossed the campus with Rogers.

  "Oh, Goodhue?" Rogers said, uncomfortably. "I've seen him any number oftimes. Ran into him last night."

  "Good-looking man," George commented. "Where's he come from?"

  "You don't know who Dicky Goodhue is!" Rogers cried. "I mean, you musthave heard of his father anyway, the old Richard. Real Estate forgenerations. Money grows for them without their turning a hand. Dicky'sup at the best clubs in New York. Plays junior polo on Long Island."

  George had heard enough.

  "If I do as well with the other exams," he said, "I'm going to get in."

  With Freshmen customs what they were, he was thinking, he could appearas well dressed as the Goodhue crowd. He would take pains with that.

  He passed Goodhue on his way to the examination hall that afternoon, andGoodhue didn't remember him. The incident made George thoughtful. Wasfootball going to prove the all-powerful lever he had fancied? At anyrate, Rogers' value was at last established.

  He reported that evening to Bailly:

  "I think it's all right so far."

  The tutor grinned.

  "To-day's beyond recall, but to-morrow's the future, and it cradles,among other dragons, French."

  He pointed out passages in a number of books.

  "Wrestle with those until midnight," he counselled, "and then go tosleep. Day after to-morrow we'll hope you can apply your boot to afootball again."

  Mrs. Bailly stopped him in the hall.

  "How did it go?" she asked, eagerly.

  Her anxiety had about it something maternal. It gave him for the firsttime a feeling of being at home in Princeton.

  "I got through to-day," he said.

  "Good! Good!"

  She nodded toward the study.

  "Then you have made him very happy."

  "I always want to," George said. "That's a worthy ambition, isn't it?"

  She looked at him gropingly, as if she almost caught his allusion.

  IX

  As George let himself out of the gate a closed automobile turned thecorner and drew up at the curb. The driver sprang down and opened thedoor. Betty Alston's white-clad figure emerged and crossed the sidewalkwhile George pulled off his cap and held the gate open for her. Hesuffered an ugly suspense. What would she say? Would she speak to him atall? Phrases that Sylvia might have used to her flashed through hismind; then he saw her smile as usual. She held out her hand. The warmthof her fingers seemed to reach his mind, making it less unyielding. Thefancy put him on his guard.

  "I know you passed," she said.

  He walked with her across the narrow yard to the porch.

  "I think so, to-day."

  She paused with her foot on the lower step. The light from the cornerdisclosed her face, puzzled and undecided; and his uneasiness returned.

  "I am just returning this," she said, holding up a book. "I'd be glad todrop you at your lodging----"

  "I'll wait."

  While she was inside he paced the sidewalk. There had been a question inher face, but not the vital one, which, indeed, she wouldn't havetroubled to ask. Sylvia had not recognized him, or, recognizing him, hadfailed to give him away.

  Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into thepleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her whitefigure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfumeof her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so closeto her. He had no business, anyway----

  She snapped on the light. She laughed.

  "I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter."

  He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might giveway.

  "If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "itwas because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wantedto forget."

  "I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed gladto see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?"

  "Yes," he answered, doubtfully.

  That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced.

  "I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; Imean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?"

  "Yes," he said again.

  Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly ifLambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself upshort. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and LambertPlanter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness o
f hiscompanionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. Itsurrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened,after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he hadcondemned himself.

  "Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in.Dear old Squibs told me so."

  He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her,said good-night, and turned resolutely away.

  It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attackedBailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that hehad actually seen her that day, and that she had either not rememberedhim, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with hisugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape.

  Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him sodifferently?

  The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful tohimself.

  "Because she doesn't know."

  He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. Hewould detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use thatcrop yet.

  X

  He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose aseat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends ofGoodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. Georgenoticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entireroom. At first George thought it was because he was older, then hedecided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lackedlustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examinationsheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first torise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, andsighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him:

  "How do you suppose Spike does it?"

  George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike.

  He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly wellemptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. Hetook a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more thantwo months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased.

  First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly.

  "Lend me a novel--something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open atext-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir,and you haven't given me another."

  Bailly's wrinkled face approved.

  "You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shallhave your novel. I'm afraid----"

  He paused, laughing.

  "I mean, my task with you is about done. You've more brain than adinosaur. It is variously wrinkled where once it was like a babe's.Except for the French, you should handle your courses without superhumaneffort. Don't ever let me hear of your getting a condition. Your nextschedule will come from Stringham and Green."

  He limped to a bookcase and drew out a volume bound in red.

  "Without entirely wasting your time, you may amuse yourself with that."

  "'Treasure Island.'"

  George frowned doubtfully.

  "We studied something about this man. If he's good enough to get in theschool books maybe he isn't just what I'm looking for to-night."

  "Have you ever perused Nick Carter, or, perhaps Old Sleuth?" Baillyasked.

  George smiled.

  "I know I have to forget all that."

  "In intellectual circles," Bailly agreed.

  He glanced slyly around.

  "I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment,so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearlyequal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the mostexalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment isbased on manner rather than matter."

  "You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing itis the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?"

  Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced Georgewith a little show of bewildered temper.

  "See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can'tfasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home andread your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawlessand touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, isalways worth while."

  George's attitude was a challenge.

  "Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if yourhands do get dirty."

  Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need apreacher," he said, "not a tutor."

  XI

  In his room George opened his book and read happily. Never in his lifehad he been so relaxed and content. Entangled in the adventures ofcolourful characters he didn't hear at first the sliding of stealthyfeet in the hall, whispered consultations, sly knockings at variousdoors. Then there came a rap at his own door, and he glanced up,surprised, sweeping the photograph and the broken crop into the tabledrawer.

  "Come in," he called, not heartily.

  A dozen young men crowded slowly into the room. They wore orange andblack jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had theappearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George hadno doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazingwas frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism.

  "Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, andfollow us."

  George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, togive them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should bequalified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledgedhim as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready toobey. Then someone grunted with disgust.

  "Come on. Duck out of here."

  "What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel."

  "It's Morton. We can't monkey with him."

  The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door insearch of victims more available. George became belligerent for anopposite reason.

  "Why not?" he demanded.

  The leader smiled in friendly fashion.

  "You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field."

  As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation.Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an importantcharacter.

  The next morning, packed with the nervous Freshmen in a lecture room, heheard his name read out with the sections. He fought his way into theuniversity offices to scan the list of conditioned men. He didn't appearon a single slip. He had even managed the easy French paper. He attendedto the formalities of matriculating. He was free to play football, totake up the by-no-means considerable duties of the laundry agency, tomake friends. He had completed the first lap.

  When he reported at the field that afternoon he found that the Freshmenhad a coach of their own, a young man who possessed the unreal violenceof a Sophomore, but he knew the game, and the extra invective with whichhe drove George indicated that Stringham and Green had confided to himtheir hopes.

  The squad was large. Later it would dwindle and its members be throwninto a more intimate contact. Goodhue was there, a promisingquarterback. Rogers toiled with a hopeless enthusiasm. George smiled,appreciating the other's logic. It was a good thing to try for the team,even though one had no chance of making it. As a matter of fact, Rogersdisappeared at the first weeding-out.

  The opening fortnight was wholly pleasant--a stressing of fundamentalsthat demanded little severe physical effort. Nor did the curriculumplace any grave demands on George. During the evenings he frequentlysupplemented his work at the field with a brisk cross-country run, moreoften than not in the vicinity of the Alston place. He could see thelights in the huge house, and he tried to visualize that interior where,perhaps, men of the Goodhue stamp sat with Betty. He studied thosefortunates, meantime, and the other types that surrounded him. Therewere many men of a sort, of the Rogers sort particularly, whocontinually suggested their receptivity; and he was invariablycour
teous--from a distance, as he had seen Goodhue respond to Rogers.For George had his eyes focused now. He had seen the best.

  The election of Freshmen class officers outlined several facts. Thevarious men put up for office were unknown to the class in general, werebacked by little crowds from their own schools. Men from less importantschools, and men, like George, with no preparatory past, voted wild.These school groups, he saw, clung together; would determine, it wasclear, the social progress through college of their members. Thatinevitably pointed to the upper-class club houses on Prospect Street.George had seen them from his first days at University Field, but untilnow they had, naturally enough, failed to impress him with any immediateinterest. He desired the proper contacts for the molding of his owndeportment and, to an extent even greater, for the bearing they wouldhave on his battle for money and position after he should leave college.But it became clear to him now that the contest for Prospect Street hadbegun on the first day, even earlier, back in the preparatory schools.

  Were such contacts possible in a serviceable measure without success inthat selfish, headlong race? Was it practicable to draw the attention ofthe eager, half-blind runners to one outside the sacred little groups?Football would open certain doors, but if there was one best club hewould have that or nothing. It might be wiser to stand brazenly aloof,posing as above such infantile jealousies. The future would decide, butas he left the place of the elections he had an empty feeling, asharpened appreciation of the hazards that lay ahead.

  Goodhue would be pointed for the highest. Goodhue would lead in manyways. He was elected the first president of the class.

  The poor or earnest men, ignorant of everything outside their books,come from scattered homes, quite friendless, gravitated together in whatmen like Rogers considered a social quarantine. Rogers, indeed, venturedto warn George of the risk of contagion. As chance dictated Georgechatted with such creatures; once or twice even walked across the campuswith them.

  "You're making a mistake," Rogers advised, "being seen with polers likeAllen."

  "I've been seen with him twice that I can think of," George answered."Why?"

  "That lot'll queer you."

  George put his hand on Rogers' shoulder.

  "See here. If I'm so small that that will queer me, you can put me downas damned."

  He walked on with that infrequently experienced sensation of having madean advance. Yet he couldn't quite see why. He had responded to aninstinct that must have been his even in the days at Oakmont, when hehad been less than human. If he didn't see more of men like Allen it wasbecause they had nothing to offer him; nothing whatever. Goodhue had----

  When their paths crossed on the campus now Goodhue nodded, for each daythey met at the field, both certainties, if they escaped injury, for theFreshmen eleven.

  Football had ceased to be unalloyed pleasure. Stringham that fall usedthe Freshmen rather more than the scrub as a punching bag for thevarsity. The devoted youngsters would take punishment from three or foursuccessive teams from the big squad. They became, consequently, as hardas iron. Frequently they played a team of varsity substitutes off itsfeet. George had settled into the backfield. He was fast with the ball,but he found it difficult to follow his interference, losing patiencesometimes, and desiring to cut off by himself. Even so he madeconsistent gains through the opposing line. On secondary defence he wasrather too efficient. Stringham was continually cautioning him not totackle the varsity pets too viciously. After one such rebuke Goodhueunbent to sympathy.

  "If they worked the varsity as hard as they do us Stringham wouldn'thave to be so precious careful of his brittle backs. Just the same,Morton, I would rather play with you than against you."

  George smiled, but he didn't bother to answer. Let Goodhue come aroundagain.

  George's kicking from the start outdistanced the best varsity punts. Thestands, sprinkled with undergraduates and people from the town, wouldbecome noisy with handclapping as his spirals arched down the field.

  Squibs Bailly, George knew, was always there, probably saying, "I kickedthat ball. I made that run," and he had. The more you thought of it, themore it became comprehensible that he had.

  The afternoon George slipped outside a first varsity tackle, and dodgedtwo varsity backs, running forty yards for a touchdown, Squibs limped onthe field, followed by Betty Alston. The scrimmaging was over. TheFreshmen, triumphant because of George's feat, streaked toward the fieldhouse. Goodhue ran close to George. Bailly caught George's arm. Goodhuepaused, calling out:

  "Hello, Betty!"

  At first Betty seemed scarcely to see Goodhue. She held out her hand toGeorge.

  "That was splendid. Don't forget that you're going to make mecongratulate you this way next fall after the big games."

  "I'll do my best. I want you to," George said.

  Again he responded to the frank warmth of her fingers that seemedunconsciously endeavouring to make more pliable the hard surface of hismind.

  "The strength of a lion," Bailly was saying, "united to the cruelcunning of the serpent. Heaven be praised you didn't seek the highereducation at Yale or Harvard."

  Betty called a belated greeting to Goodhue.

  "Hello, Dicky! Wasn't it a real run? I feel something of a sponsor. Itold him before college opened he would be a great player."

  Goodhue's surprise was momentarily apparent.

  "It was rather nice to see those big fellows dumped," he said.

  Betty went closer to him.

  "Aren't you coming out to dinner soon? I'll promise Green you won'tbreak training."

  The warm, slender fingers were no longer at George's mind. He feltabruptly repulsed. He wanted only to get away. Her eyes caught his, andshe smiled.

  "And bring Mr. Morton. I'm convinced he'll never come unless somebodytakes him by the hand."

  George glanced at her hand. He had a whimsical impulse to reach out forit, to close his eyes, to be led.

  Heavy feet hurried behind the little group. A voice filled with rancourand disgust cried out:

  "You standing here without blankets just to enjoy the autumn breezes?You ought to have better sense, Mr. Bailly."

  "It's my fault, Green," Betty laughed.

  "That's different," the trainer admitted, gallantly. "You can't expect awoman to have much sense. Get to the showers now, and on the run."

  Goodhue and George trotted off.

  "I didn't know you were a friend of Betty Alston's," Goodhue said.

  George didn't answer. Goodhue didn't say anything else.

  XII

  Often after those long, pounding afternoons George returned to his room,wondering dully, as he had done last summer, why the deuce he did it.Sylvia's picture stared the same answer, and he would turn with a sighto one of the novels Bailly loaned him regularly. Bailly was of greatvalue there, too, for he chose the books carefully, and George wascommencing to learn that as a man reads so is he very likely to think.Whenever he spoke now he was careful to modulate his voice, to choosehis words, never to be heard without a reason.

  The little fellow with the moustache whom the Goodhue crowd called Spikemet him on the campus one day after practice.

  "My name," he announced in a high-pitched, slurred voice, "is Wandel.You may not realize it, but you are a very great man, Morton."

  George looked him over, astonished. He had difficulty not to mock theother's manner, nearly effeminate.

  "Why am I great, Mr. Wandel?"

  "Anybody," Wandel answered in his singing voice, "who does one thingbetter than others is inevitably great."

  George smiled vindictively.

  "I suppose I ought to return the compliment. What do you do?"

  Wandel wasn't ruffled.

  "Very many things. I brew good tea for one. What about a cup now? Cometo my rooms. They're just here, in Blair tower."

  George weighed the invitation. Wandel was beyond doubt of thefortunates, yet curiously apart from them. George's diplomacy required aforcing of the fortunates to seek him. W
andel, for that matter, hadsought. Where George might have refused a first invitation from Goodhuehe accepted Wandel's, because he was anxious to know the man's realpurpose in asking him.

  "All right. Thanks. But I haven't much time. I want to do some readingbefore dinner."

  He hadn't imagined anything like Wandel's room existed in college, orcould be conceived or executed by one of college age. The study waslarge and high with a broad casement window. The waning light increasedthe values Wandel had evidently sought. The wall covering and thedraperies at the three doors and the window were a dead shade of greenthat, in fact, suggested a withdrawal from life nearly supernatural, atleast medieval. The half-dozen pictures were designed to complete thisimpression. They were primitives--an awkward but lovely Madonna, aprocession of saints who seemed deformed by their experiences, grotesqueconceptions of biblical encounters. There were heavy rugs, also green infoundation; and, with wide, effective spaces between, stooduncomfortable Gothic chairs, benches, and tables.

  Two months ago George would have expressed amazement, perhapsadmiration. Now he said nothing, but he longed for Squibs' opinion ofthe room. He questioned what it reflected of the pompous little man whohad brought him.

  Wandel stooped and lighted the fire. He switched the heavy greencurtains over the window. In a corner a youth stirred and yawned.

  "Hello, Dalrymple," Wandel said. "Waited long? You know that very greatman, Morton?"

  The increasing firelight played on Dalrymple's face, a countenancewithout much expression, intolerant, if anything, but in a far weakersense than Sylvia's assurance. George recognized him. He had seen himaccompany Goodhue through the crowd the day of the first examination.Dalrymple didn't disturb himself.

  "The football player? How do. Damn tea, Spike. You've got whiskey and asiphon."

  George's hand had been ready. He was thankful he hadn't offered it. Inthat moment a dislike was born, not very positive; the emotion one hasfor an unwholesome animal.

  Wandel disappeared. After a moment he came in, wearing a fantasticembroidered dressing gown of the pervading dead green tone. He lighted aspirit lamp, and, while the water heated, got out a tea canister, cups,boxes of biscuits, cigarettes, bottles, and glasses. Dalrymple poured agenerous drink. Wandel took a smaller one.

  "You," he said to George, "being a very great man, will have some tea."

  "I'll have some tea, anyway," George answered.

  The door opened. Goodhue strolled in. His eyebrows lifted when he sawGeorge.

  "Do you know you're in bad company, Morton?"

  "I believe so," George answered.

  Wandel was pleased. George saw Goodhue glance a question at Dalrymple.Dalrymple merely stared.

  They sat about, sipping, talking of nothing in particular, and thecurious room was full of an interrogation. George lost his earlier fancyof being under Wandel's inspection. It was evident to him now thatWandel was the man to do his inspecting first. Why the deuce had heasked him here? Dalrymple and Goodhue were clearly puzzled by the samequestion.

  When he had emptied his cup George rose and put on his cap.

  "Thanks for the cup of tea, Wandel."

  "Don't go," Wandel urged.

  He waved his hands helplessly.

  "But, since you're a very distinguished person, I suppose I can't keepyou. Come again, any day this time. Every day."

  The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his positionirritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waitingfor the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip,unaffected by this departure.

  Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed Georgeout. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The brokenlight from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision inhis eyes.

  "Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; Imean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?"

  George shook his head. He was quite frank.

  "I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about thatmyself."

  Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand.

  "Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow."

  "Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you callWandel 'Spike'?"

  Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he colouredit.

  "Maybe it's because he's so sharp."

  XIII

  George saw a day or two later a professor's criticism in the _DailyPrincetonian_ of the current number of the _Nassau Literary Magazine_.Driggs Wandel, because of a poem, was excitedly greeted as a man with atouch of genius. George borrowed a copy of the _Lit_ from a neighbour,and read a haunting, unreal bit of verse that seemed a part of the roomin which it had probably been written. Obsessed by the practicality ofthe little man, George asked himself just what Wandel had to gain bythis performance. He carried the whole puzzle to Bailly that night, andwas surprised to learn that Wandel had impressed himself already on thefaculty.

  "This verse isn't genius," Bailly said, "but it proves that the man hasan abnormal control of effect, and he does what he does with no apparenteffort. He'll probably be managing editor of the _Lit_ and the_Princetonian_, for I understand he's out for that, too. He's going tomake himself felt in his class and in the entire undergraduate body.Don't undervalue him. Have you stopped to think, Morton, that he stillwears a moustache? Revolutionary! Has he overawed the Sophomores, or hashe too many friends in the upper classes?"

  Bailly limped up and down, ill at ease, seeking words.

  "I don't know how to advise you. I believe he'll help you delve aftersome treasure, though the stains on his own hands won't be visible.Whether it's just the treasure you want is another matter. Beinscrutable yourself. Accept his invitations. If you can, find out whathe's up to without committing yourself. You can put it down that heisn't after you for nothing."

  "But why?" George demanded.

  Bailly shrugged his narrow shoulders.

  "Anyway, I've told you what I could, and you'll go your own way whetheryou agree or not."

  George did, as a matter of fact. His curiosity carried him a number oftimes to Wandel's rooms. Practically always Dalrymple sat aloof,sullenly sipping whiskey which had no business there. He met a number ofother men of the same crowd who talked football in friendly enoughfashion; and once or twice the suave little fellow made a point ofasking him for a particular day or hour. Always Wandel would introducehim to some new man, offering him, George felt, as a specimen to beaccepted as a triumph of the Wandel judgment. And in every fresh faceGeorge saw the question he continually asked himself.

  Wandel's campaign accomplished one result: Men like Rogers became moreobsequious, considering George already a unit of that hallowed circle.But George wasn't fooled. He knew very well that he wasn't.

  Goodhue, however, was more friendly. Football, after all, George felt,was quite as responsible for that as Betty Alston or Wandel; for it wasthe combination of Goodhue at quarter and George at half that accountedfor the team's work against the varsity, and that beat the Yale and theHarvard Freshmen. Such a consistent and effectual partnership couldn'thelp drawing its members closer out of admiration, out of joy insuccess, out of a ponderable dependence that each learned to place uponthe other. That conception survived the Freshman season. George nolonger felt he had to be careful with Goodhue. Goodhue had even foundhis lodgings.

  "Not palatial," George explained, "because--you may not know it--I amworking my way through college."

  Goodhue's voice was a trifle envious.

  "I know. It must give you a fine feeling to do that."

  Then Betty's vague invitation materialized in a note which mentioned adate and the fact that Goodhue would be there. Goodhue himself suggestedthat George should call at his rooms that evening so they could driveout together. George had never been before, had not suspected thatDalrymple lived with Goodhue. The fact, learned at the door, which borethe two cards, disquieted
him, filled him with a sense nearlypremonitory.

  When he had entered in response to Goodhue's call his doubt increased.The room seemed inimical to him, yet it was a normal enough place. Whatdid it harbour that he was afraid of, that he was reluctant even to lookfor?

  Goodhue was nearly ready. Dalrymple lounged on a window seat. He glancedat George languidly.

  "Will say, Morton, you did more than your share against those CrimsonFreshmen Saturday."

  George nodded without answering. He had found the object the roomcontained for which he had experienced a premonitory fear. On one of thetwo desks stood an elaborately framed replica of the portrait he himselfpossessed of Sylvia Planter. Its presence there impressed him as awrong, for to study and commune with that pictured face he had fanciedhis unique privilege. Nor did its presence in this room seem quitehonest, for Sylvia, he was willing to swear, wasn't the type to scatterher likenesses among young men. George had an instinct to turn onDalrymple and demand a history of the print, since Goodhue, he wascertain, wouldn't have placed it there without authority. After all,such authority might exist. What did he know of Sylvia aside from herbeauty, her arrogance, and her breeding? That was it. Her breeding madethe exposure of her portrait here questionable.

  "What you staring at?" Dalrymple asked, sullenly.

  "Is this your desk?" George demanded.

  "Yes. Why?"

  George faced him abruptly.

  "I was looking at that photograph."

  "What for?" Dalrymple demanded, sitting up.

  "Because," George answered, evenly, "it happens to be where one seesit."

  Dalrymple flushed.

  "Deuced pretty girl," he said with an affectation of indifference. "Ofcourse you don't know her."

  "I have seen her," George said, shortly.

  He felt that a challenge had been passed and accepted. He raised hisvoice.

  "How about it, Goodhue?"

  "Coming."

  Dalrymple opened his mouth as if to speak, but Goodhue slipped into theroom, and George and he went down the stairs and climbed into Goodhue'srunabout.

  "I didn't know," George said when they had started, "that you lived withDalrymple."

  "We were put together at school, so it seemed simple to start out here."

  George was glad to fancy a slight colour of apology, as if such acompanionship needed a reason.

  It was a pleasant and intimate little dinner to which they drove. Mr.and Mrs. Alston recollected meeting George at the Baillys', and theywere kind about his football. A friend of Betty's from a neighbouringhouse made the sixth. George was not uncomfortable. His glass had shownhim that in a dinner suit he was rather better looking than he hadthought. Observation had diminished his dread of social lapses. Thereflowed, however, rather too much talk of strange worlds, which includedsome approaching gaieties in New York.

  "You," Betty said casually to him, "must run up to my great affair."

  Her aunt, it appeared, would engineer that a short time before theholidays. George was vague. The prospect of a ballroom was terrifying.He had danced very little, and never with the type of women who wouldthrong Betty Alston's debut. Yet he wanted to go.

  "Betty," her mother said, dryly, "will have all the lions she can trap."

  George received an unpleasant impression of having been warned. Itdidn't affect him strongly, because warnings were wasted there; he wastoo much the slave of a photograph and a few intolerable memories.Sylvia would almost certainly be at that dance.

  Wandel appeared after dinner.

  "I tried to get Dolly to come," he said, "but he was in a mostvillainous temper about something, and couldn't be budged. Don't mindsaying he missed a treat. I hired a pert little mare at Marlin's. If Ican find anything in town nearly as good I'll break the two to tandemthis winter."

  George's suppressed enthusiasm blazed.

  "I'd like to help you. I'd give a good deal for a real fight with ahorse."

  He was afraid he had plunged in too fast. He met the surprise of theothers by saying he had played here and there with other people'shorses; but the conversation had drifted to a congenial topic, and itgot to polo.

  "Because a man was killed here once," Wandel said, "is no reason why thegame should be damned forever."

  "If you young men," Mr. Alston offered, "want to get some ponies down inthe spring, or experiment with what I've got, you're welcome to playhere all you please, and it might be possible to arrange games withscrub teams from Philadelphia and New York."

  "Do you play, Mr. Morton?" Betty asked, interestedly.

  "I've scrubbed around," he said, uncertainly.

  She laughed.

  "Then he's a master. That's what he told dear old Squibs about hisfootball."

  George wanted to get away from horses. He could score only throughaction. Talking was dangerous. He was relieved when he could leave withGoodhue and Wandel.

  The runabout scurried out of Wandel's way. The pert little mare sensed arival in the automobile, and gave Wandel all the practice he wanted.George smiled at the busy little man as his cart slithered from side toside of the driveway.

  "That's Spike's one weakness," Goodhue laughed as they hurried off."He's not a natural horseman, but he loves the beasts, so he takes hisfalls. By the way, I rather think I can guess what he's up to with you."

  "What?" George asked.

  Goodhue shook his head.

  "Learn from Spike. Anyway, I may be wrong."

  Then why had Goodhue spoken at all? To put him on his guard?

  "Wandel," George promised himself, "will get away with nothing as far asI am concerned."

  Yet all that night the thought of the little man made him uncomfortable.

  XIV

  George watched his first big varsity game the following Saturday. It wasthe last of the season, against Yale. He sat with Goodhue and othermembers of the Freshman eleven in an advantageous part of the stands.The moment the blue squad, greeted by a roar, trotted on the field, herecognized Lambert Planter's rangy figure. Lambert's reputation as afullback had come to Princeton ahead of him, and it had scarcely beenexaggerated. Once he had torn through the line he gave the Princetonbacks all they wanted to do. He kicked for Yale. Defensively he was thedeadliest man on the field. He, George and Goodhue agreed, woulddetermine the outcome. As, through him, the balance of the contestcommenced to tip, George experienced a biting restlessness. It wasn'tthe prospect of the defeat of Princeton by Yale that angered him so muchas the fact that Lambert Planter would unquestionably be the cause.George felt it unjust that rules should exist excluding him from thatbruising and muddy contest. More than anything else just then he wantedto be on the field, stopping Planter, avoiding the reluctance of such anissue.

  "We ought to be out there, Morton," Goodhue muttered. "If nothinghappens, we will be next year."

  "It's that fellow Planter," George answered. "He could be stopped."

  "You could stop him," Goodhue said. "You could outkick him."

  George's face was grim.

  "I'm stronger than Planter," he said, simply. "I could beat him."

  The varsity, however, couldn't. Lambert, during the last quarter,slipped over the line for the deciding touchdown. The game ended in adusky and depressing autumn haze. George and Goodhue watched sullenlythe enemy hosts carry Planter and the other blue players about thefield. Appearing as if they had survived a disaster, they joined thecrowd of men and women, relatives and friends of the players, near thefield house. The vanquished and the substitutes had already slippedthrough and out of sight. The first of the steaming Yale men appearedand threaded a path toward the steps. Lambert, because he had beenhonoured most, was the last to arrive, and at that moment out of themultitude there came into George's vision faces that he knew, as if theyhad waited to detach themselves for this spectacular advent.

  He saw the most impressive one first of all, and he stood, as he hadfrequently stood before her portrait, staring in a mood of wilfulobstinacy. It was only for a few moment
s, and she was quite somedistance away. Before he could appreciate the chance, she had withdrawnherself, after a quick, approving tap of her brother's shoulder, amongthe curious, crowding people. George had seen her face glow with a happypride in spite of her effort at repression; but in the second face whichhe noticed there was no emotion visible at all. The hero's mother simplynodded. Dalrymple stood between mother and daughter, smiling inanely.

  Lambert forged ahead, filthy and wet. The steam, like vapour from anoverworked animal, wavered about him. The Baillys and the Alstons pushedclose to George and Goodhue, who were in Lambert's path, pressed thereand held by the anxious people.

  At sight of Betty, Lambert paused and stretched out his hand. She was,George thought, whiter than ever.

  "You'll say hello even to an Eli?"

  She gave her hand quickly, the colour invading her pallor. For aninstant George thought Lambert was going to draw her closer, saw hislips twitch, heard him say:

  "Don't hold it against me, Betty."

  Certainly something was understood between these two, or Lambert, atleast, believed so.

  Betty freed her hand and caught at George's arm.

  "Look at him," she said clearly, indicating Planter. "You're going totake care of him next fall. You're not going to let him laugh at usagain."

  George managed a smile.

  "I'll take care of him, Miss Alston."

  Lambert's dirty face expanded.

  "These are threats! And it's--George. Then we're to have a return boutnext fall. I'll look forward to it. Hello, Dick. Good-bye, Betty. Tillnext fall--George."

  He passed on, leaving an impression of confidence and conquest.

  "Why," Betty said, impulsively, in George's ear, "does he speak to youthat way? Why does he call you George like that?"

  For a moment he looked at her steadily, appealingly.

  "It's partly my own fault," he said at last, "but it hurts."

  Her voice was softer than before.

  "That's wrong. You mustn't let little things hurt, George."

  For the first time in his memory he felt a stinging at his eyes, thedesire for tears. He didn't misunderstand. Her use of his first name wasnot a precedent. It had been balm applied to a wound that she had onlybeen able to see was painful. Yet, as he walked away with Goodhue, hefelt as if he had been baptized again.

  XV

  Wandel, quite undisturbed, joined them.

  "You and Dicky," the little man said, "look as if you had come out of abad wreck. What's up? It's only a game."

  "Of course you're right," George answered, "but you have to play somegames desperately hard if you want to win."

  "Now what are you driving at, great man?" Wandel wanted to know.

  "Come on, Spike," Goodhue said, irritably. "You're always looking fordouble meanings."

  George walked on with them, desolately aware of many factors of his lifegone awry. The game; Lambert's noticeable mockery, all the moreunbearable because of its unaffectedness; Dalrymple's adjacence toSylvia--these remembrances stung, the last most of all.

  "Come on up, you two," Goodhue suggested as they approached the buildingin which he lived, "I believe Dolly's giving tea to Sylvia Planter andher mother."

  George wanted to see if the photograph was still there, but he couldn'trisk it. He shook his head.

  "Not into the camp of the enemy?" Wandel laughed.

  Of course, George told himself as he walked off, Wandel's words couldn'tpossibly have held any double meaning.

  He fought it out that night, sleeping scarcely at all. In the rush ofhis progress here he had failed to realize how little he had reallyadvanced toward his ultimate goal. Lambert had offhand, perhapsunintentionally, shown him that afternoon how wide the intervening spacestill stretched. Was it because of moral cowardice that he shrank fromchallenging a crossing? The answer to such a challenge might easily meanthe destruction of all he had built up, the heavy conditioning of hisfuture which now promised so abundantly.

  He faced her picture with his eyes resolute, his jaw thrust out.

  "I'll do it," he told the lifeless print. "I'll make you know me. I'llteach your brother not to treat me as a servant who has forgotten hisplace."

  The last, in any case, couldn't be safely put off. Lambert's manner hadalready aroused Betty's interest. Had she known its cause she might nothave resented it so sweetly for George. There was no point in frettingany more. His mind was made up to challenge at the earliest possiblemoment.

  In furtherance of his resolution he visited his tailor the next day, andduring the evening called at the Baillys'. He came straight to thepoint.

  "I want some dancing lessons," he said. "Do you know anybody?"

  Bailly limped up, put his hands on George's shoulder, and studied him.

  "Is this traceable to Wandel?"

  "No. To what I told you last summer."

  "He's going to Betty Alston's dance," Mrs. Bailly cried.

  "If I'm asked," George admitted, "but as a general principle----"

  Mrs. Bailly interrupted, assuming control.

  "Move that table and the chairs," she directed the two men. "You'll keepmy husband's secret--tinkling music hidden away between grand operarecords. It will come in handy now."

  George protested, but she had her own way. Bailly sat by, puffing at hispipe, at first scornful.

  "I hate to see a football player pirouetting like a clown."

  But in a little while he was up, awkwardly illustrating steps, hischeeks flushed, his cold pipe dangling from his lips.

  "You dance very well as it is," Mrs. Bailly told George. "You do need alittle quieting. You must learn to remember that the ballroom isn't agridiron and your partner the ball."

  And at the end of a fortnight she told him he was tamed and ready forthe soft and perfumed exercise of the dance floor.

  He was afraid Betty wouldn't remember. Her invitation had been informal,his response almost a refusal.

  On free afternoons Goodhue and he often ran together, trying to keep incondition, already feeling that the outcome of next year's big gameswould depend on them. They trotted openly through the Alston place,hoping for a glimpse of Betty as a break in their grind. When she sawthem from the house she would come out and chat for a time, her yellowhair straying in the wind, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Duringthese brief conferences it was made clear that she had not forgotten,and that George would go up with Goodhue and be a guest at his home thenight of the dance.

  George was grateful for that quality of remoteness in Goodhue which atfirst had irritated him. Now he was well within Goodhue's vision, andacceptably so; but the young man had not shown the slightest interest inhis past or his lack of the right friends before coming to Princeton. Atany moment he might.

  The Goodhue house was uptown between Fifth and Madison avenues. It wasas unexpected to George as Wandel's green study had been. The size ofits halls and rooms, the tasteful extravagance of its decorations, thequiet, liveried servants took his breath. It was difficult not to saysomething, to withhold from his glance his admiration and his lack ofhabit.

  There he was at last, handing his hat and coat to one who bentobsequiously. He felt a great contempt. He told himself he was unjust,as unjust as Sylvia, but the contempt persisted.

  There were details here more compelling than anything he had seen orfancied at Oakmont. The entire household seemed to move according to afeudal pattern. Goodhue's father and mother welcomed George, becausetheir son had brought him, with a quiet assurance. Mrs. Goodhue, Georgefelt, might even appreciate what he was doing. That was the outstanding,the feudal, quality of both. They had an air of unprejudiced judgment,of removal from any selfish struggle, of being placed beyond question.

  Goodhue and George dined at a club that night. They saw Wandel andDalrymple, the latter flushed and talking louder than he should havedone in an affected voice. They went to the theatre, and afterward droveup Fifth Avenue to Betty's party. George was dazzled, and every momentconscious of the effort
to prevent Goodhue's noticing it. His excitementincreased as he came to the famous establishment in the large ballroomof which Betty was waiting, and, perhaps, already, Sylvia. To an extentthe approaching culmination of his own campaign put him at ease; liftedhim, as it were, above details; left him free to face the moment of hischallenge.

  The lower halls were brilliant with pretty, eager faces, noisy withchatter and laughter, a trifle heady from an infiltration of perfumes.

  Wandel joined them upstairs and took George's card, returning it after atime nearly filled.

  "When you see anybody you particularly want to dance with," he advisedsecretly, "just cut in without formality. The mere fact of your presenceought to be introduction enough. You see everybody here knows, or thinkshe knows, everybody else."

  George wondered why Wandel went out of his way, and in that particulardirection. Did the little man suspect? The succeeding moments brushedthe question aside.

  Betty was radiant, lovelier in her white-and-yellow fashion than Georgehad ever seen her. He shrank a little from their first contact, all themore startling to him because he was so little accustomed to the ritualfamiliarity of dancing. With his arm around her, with her hand in his,with her golden hair brushing his cheek, with her lips and eyes smilingup at him, he felt like one who steals. Why not? Didn't people win theirmost prized possessions through theft of one kind or another? It wasbecause those pliant fingers were always at his mind that he wanted torelease them, wanted to run away from Betty since she always made himdesire to tell her the truth.

  "I'm glad you could come. It isn't as bad as football, is it? Have weany more? If I show signs of distress do cut in if you're not too busy."

  He overcame his fear of collisions, avoiding other couples smoothly andrhythmically. Dalrymple, he observed, was less successful, apologizingin a high, excited voice. As in a haze George watched a procession ofelderly women, young girls, and men of every age, with his own tallfigure and slightly anxious face greeting him now and then from amirror. This repeated and often-unexpected recognition encouraged him.He was bigger and better looking than most; in the glasses, at least, heappeared as well-dressed. More than once he heard girls say:

  "Who is that big chap with Betty Alston?"

  With all his heart he wanted to ask Betty why she had been so kind tohim from the beginning, why she was so kind now. He longed to tell herhow it had affected him. She glanced up curiously. Without realizing ithis grasp had tightened. He relaxed it, wondering what had been in hismind. It was this odd proximity to a beautiful girl who had been kind tohim that had for a moment swung him from his real purpose in cominghere, the only purpose he had. He resumed his inspection of the crowdingfaces. He didn't see Lambert or Sylvia. Had he been wrong? It wasincredible they shouldn't appear.

  The music stopped.

  "Thanks," he said. "Three after this."

  His voice was wistful.

  "I did like that."

  He desired to tell her that he didn't care to dance with any one else,except Sylvia, of course.

  "I enjoyed it, too. Will you take me back?"

  But her partner met them on the way, and he commenced to trail his.

  It was halfway through the next number that he knew he had not plannedfutilely. It was like Sylvia to arrive in that fashion--a distractingelement in a settled picture, or as one beyond the general run for whoma special welcome was a matter of course. To George's ears the orchestraplayed louder, as if to call attention to her. To his eyes the dancersslackened their pace. The chatter certainly diminished, and nearlyeveryone glanced toward the door where she stood a little in advance ofher mother and two men.

  George was able to judge reasonably. In dress and appearance she was themost striking woman in the room. Her dark colouring sprang at one,demanding attention. George saw Dalrymple unevenly force a path in herdirection. He caught his breath. The dance resumed its former rhythm. Inits intricacies Sylvia was for a time lost.

  Sometime later Lambert drifted in. George saw him dancing with Betty. Healso found Sylvia. He managed to direct his partner close to her anumber of times. She must have seen him, but her eyes did not waver orher colour heighten. He wouldn't ask for an introduction. There was nopoint. His imagination pictured a number of probable disasters. If heshould ask her to dance would she recognize him, and laugh, and demand,so that people could hear, how he had forced a way into this place?

  George relinquished his partner to a man who cut in. From a harbourclose to the wall he watched Sylvia, willing himself to the point ofaction.

  "I will make her know me before I leave this dance," he said to himself.

  Dalrymple had her now. His weak face was too flushed. He was more thanever in people's way. George caught the distress in Sylvia's manner. Heremembered Wandel's advice, what Betty had asked him to do for her. Hedodged, without further reflection, across the floor, and held out hishand.

  "If I may----"

  Without looking at him she accepted his hand, and they glided off, whileDalrymple stared angrily. George scarcely noticed. There was room in hismind for no more than this amazing and intoxicating experience. She wasso close that he could have bent his head and placed his lips on herdark hair--closer than she had been that unforgettable day. Theexperience was worthless unless she knew who he was.

  "She must know," he thought.

  If she did, why did she hide her knowledge behind an unfathomablemasquerade?

  "That was kind of you," he heard her say. "Poor Dolly!"

  She glanced up. Interrogation entered her eyes.

  "I can't seem to remember----"

  "I came from Princeton with Dick Goodhue," he explained. "It seemed sucha simple thing. Shouldn't I have cut in?"

  He looked straight at her now. His heart seemed to stop. She had to bemade to remember.

  "My name is George Morton."

  She smiled.

  "I've heard Betty talk of you. You're a great football player. It wasvery kind. Of course it's all right."

  But it wasn't. The touch of her hand became unbearable to George becauseshe didn't remember. He had to make her remember.

  They were near the entrance. He paused and drew her apart from thecircling dancers.

  "Would you mind losing a little of this?" he asked, trying to keep hisvoice steady. "It may seem queer, but I have something to tell you thatyou ought to know."

  She studied him, surprised and curious.

  "I can't imagine----" she began. "What is it?"

  It was only a step through the door and to an alcove with a red plushbench. The light was soft there. No one was close enough to hear. Shesat down, laughing.

  "Don't keep me in suspense."

  He, too, sat down. He spoke deliberately.

  "The last two times I've seen you you wouldn't remember me. Even now,when I've told you my name, you won't."

  Her surprise increased.

  "It's about you! But I said Betty had----Who are you?"

  He bent closer.

  "If I didn't tell you you might remember later. Anyway, I wouldn't wantto fight a person whose eyes were closed."

  Her lips half parted. She appeared a trifle frightened. She made amovement as if to rise.

  "Just a minute," he said, harshly.

  He called on the hatred that had increased during the hours of hismental and physical slavery, a hatred to be appeased only through hiscomplete mastery of her.

  "It won't take much to remind you," he hurried on. "Although you talk tome as if I were a man now, last summer I was a beast because I had thenerve to touch you when you were thrown from your horse."

  She stood up quickly, reaching out for the alcove curtain. Her contraltovoice was uneven.

  "Stop! You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have told me."

  All at once she straightened, her cheeks flaming. She started for theballroom. He sprang after her, whispering over her shoulder:

  "Now we can start fair."

  She turned and faced him.

  "
I don't know how you got here, but you ask for a fight, Mr. Morton----"

  He smiled.

  "I am Mr. Morton now. I'm getting on."

  Then he knew again that sickening sensation of treacherous ground eagerto swallow him.

  "Are you going to run and tell them," he asked, softly, "as you did yourfather last summer?"

  She crossed the threshold of the ballroom. He watched her while shehesitated for a moment, seeking feverishly someone in the brilliant,complacent crowd.

  XVI

  George watched Sylvia, fighting his instinct to call out a command thatshe should keep secret forever what he had told her. It was intolerableto stand helpless, to realize that on her sudden decision his futuredepended. Did she seek her mother, or Lambert, who would understandeverything at the first word? Nevertheless, he preferred she should goto Lambert, because he could forecast too easily the alternative--Mrs.Planter's emotionless summoning of Betty and her mother; perhaps ofGoodhue or Wandel or Dalrymple; the brutal advertisement of just what hewas to all the people he knew, to all the people he wanted to know. Thatmight mean the close of Betty's friendliness, the destruction of thefine confidence that had developed between him and Goodhue, a violentreorganization of all his plans. He gathered strength from a warmrealization that with Squibs and Mrs. Squibs Sylvia couldn't possiblyhurt him.

  He became ashamed of his misgivings, aware that for nothing in theworld, even if he had the power, would he rearrange the last fiveminutes.

  He saw her brilliant figure start forward and take an uneven coursearound the edge of the room until a man caught her and swung her outamong the dancers. George turned away. He was sorry it was Wandel whohad interfered, but that would give her time to reflect; and even if sheblurted it out to Wandel, the little man might be decent enough toadvise her to keep quiet.

  George wandered restlessly across the hall to the smoking-room. How longwould the music lilt on, imprisoning Sylvia in the grasp of Wandel oranother man?

  He asked for a glass of water, and took it to a lounge in front of thefire. Here he sat, listening to the rollicking music, to the softerharmonies of feminine voices that seemed to define for him compellingand pleasurable vistas down which he might no longer glance. When thesilence came Sylvia would go to her mother or Lambert.

  "My very dear--George."

  Lambert himself bent over the back of the lounge. George guessed theother had seen him enter and had followed. All the better, even if hehad come to attack. George had things to say to Lambert, too; so heglanced about the room and was grateful that, except for the servants,it held only some elderly men he had never seen before, who sat at adistance, gossiping and laughing.

  "Where," Lambert asked, "will I run into you next?"

  "Anywhere," George said. "Whenever we're both invited to the same place.I didn't come without being asked, so my being here isn't funny."

  Lambert walked around and sat down. All the irony had left his face. Hehad an air of doubtful disapproval.

  "Maybe not funny," he said, "but--odd."

  George stirred. How long would the music and the laughter continue todrift in?

  "Why?"

  "You've travelled a long way," Lambert mused. "I wonder if in footballclothes men don't look too much of a pattern. I wonder if you haven'tlet yourself be carried a little too far."

  "Why?" George asked again.

  "Princeton and football," Lambert went on, "are well enough in theirway; but when you come to a place like this and dance with those girlswho don't know, it seems scarcely fair. Of course, if they knew, andwanted you still--that's the whole point."

  "They wouldn't," George admitted, "but why should they matter if thepeople that count know?"

  Lambert glanced at him. Was the music's quicker measure prophetic of theend?

  "What do you mean?" Lambert asked.

  "What you said last fall has worried me," George answered. "That's thereason I came here--so that your sister would know me from Adam. Shedoes, and she can do what she pleases about it. It's in her hands now."

  Lambert reddened.

  "You've the nerve of the devil," he said, angrily. "You had no businessto speak to my sister. The whole thing had been forgotten."

  George shook his head.

  "You hadn't forgotten it. She told me that day that I shouldn't forget.I hadn't forgotten it. I never will."

  "I can't talk about it," Lambert said.

  He looked squarely at George.

  "Here's what puts your being here out of shape: You're ashamed of whatyou were. Aren't you?"

  "I've always thought," George said, "you were man enough to realize it'sonly what I am and may become that counts. I wouldn't say ashamed. I'msorry, because it makes what I'm doing just that much harder; becauseyou, for instance, know about it, and might cause trouble."

  Lambert made no difficulty about the implied question.

  "I don't want to risk causing trouble for any one unjustly. It's up toyou not to make me. But don't bother my sister again."

  "Let me get far enough," George said, "and you won't be able to maketrouble--you, or your sister, or your father."

  Lambert grinned, the doubt leaving his face as if he had reached adecision.

  "I wouldn't bank on father. I'd keep out of his sight."

  The advice placed him, for the present, on the safe side. Sylvia'sdecision remained, and just then the music crashed into a silence,broken by exigent applause. George got up, thrusting his hands in hispockets. The orchestra surrendered to the applause, but was Sylviadancing now?

  Voices drifted in from the hall, one high and obdurate; others bettercontrolled, but persistent in argument. Lambert grimaced. Georgesneered.

  "But that's all right, because he didn't have to work for his living."

  "If you don't come a cropper," Lambert said, "you'll get fed up withthat sort of thinking. Dolly's young."

  Dalrymple was the first in the room, flushed, a trifle uneven in hismovements. Goodhue and Wandel followed. Goodhue smiled in a pained,surprised way. Wandel's precise features expressed nothing.

  "Why not dancing, Lambert, old Eli?" Dalrymple called jovially. "Haulthese gospel sharks off----Waiter! I say, waiter! Something bubbly, dry,and nineteen hundred, if they're doing us that well."

  The others didn't protest. They seemed to arrange themselves as afriendly screen between Dalrymple and the elderly men. George didn'tcare to talk to Dalrymple in that condition--there was too much thatDalrymple had always wanted to say and hadn't. He started for the door,but Wandel caught his arm.

  "Wait around, very strong person," he whispered. "Dolly doesn't know it,but he's leaving in a minute."

  George shook his head, and started on. Dalrymple glanced up.

  "Morton!" he said.

  Goodhue took the glass from the waiter, but Dalrymple, grinning a shamedsort of triumph and comprehension, reached out for it and sipped.

  "Not bad. Great dancer, Morton. Around the end, and through the centre,and all that----"

  "Keep quiet," Goodhue warned him.

  George knew that the other wouldn't. He shrank from the breaking of thesullen truce between them. Dalrymple glanced at his cuffs, spilling alittle of the wine.

  "Damned sight more useful to stick to your laundry--it's none too good."

  Quite distinctly George caught Lambert's startled change of countenanceand his quick movement forward, Goodhue's angry flush, Wandel's apparentunconcern. In that moment he measured his advance, understood all he hadgot from Squibs and books, from Betty, from Goodhue, from Princeton;but, although he easily conquered his first impulse to strike, his rageglowed the hotter because it was confined. As he passed close he heardLambert whisper:

  "Good man!"

  But even then Wandel wouldn't let him go, and the music had stoppedagain, and only the undefinable shadows of women's voices reached him.He tried to shake off Wandel who had followed him to the hall. Hecouldn't wait. He had to enter that moving, chattering crowd to find outwhat Sylvia had decided.
/>
  "Go downstairs, great man," Wandel was whispering, "get a cab, and waitin it at the door, so that you will be handy when I bring the infantBacchus out."

  "I'd rather not," George said, impatiently. "Someone else will do."

  "By no means. Expediency, my dear friend, and the general welfare.Hercules for little Bacchus."

  He couldn't refuse. Wandel and Goodhue, and, for that matter all ofDalrymple's friends, those girls in there, depended on him; yet he knewit was a bad business for him and for Dalrymple; and he wanted above allother things to pass for a moment through that brilliant screen thatmoved perpetually between him and Sylvia.

  He waited in the shadows of the cab until Dalrymple and Wandel left thebuilding. Wandel motioned the other into the cab. Dalrymple obeyed,willingly enough, swinging his stick, and humming off the key. ProbablyWandel's diplomacy. Wandel jumped in, called an address to the driver,and slammed the door.

  "Where are you taking him?" George asked.

  For the first time Dalrymple seemed to realize who the silent man in theshadows was.

  "I'm not going on any party with Morton," he said, sullenly.

  "You can go to the devil," Wandel said, pleasantly, "as long as you keepaway from decent people until you're decent yourself."

  "No," George said. "He's going home or I have nothing more to do withit."

  "Perhaps you're right," Wandel agreed, "but you can fancy I had to offerhim something better than that to get him out."

  He tapped on the pane and gave the driver the new address. Dalrymplestarted to rise.

  "Won't go home--you keep your dirty hands off me, Morton. You----"

  "Hercules!" softly from Wandel.

  George grasped Dalrymple's arms, pulled him down, held him as in avise. Dalrymple raved. Wandel laughed pleasantly.

  "Dirty hands," flashed through George's brain. Did Dalrymple knowanything, or was it an instinctive suspicion, or merely the explosion ofhelpless temper and dislike?

  The ride was brief, and the block in which Dalrymple lived was,fortunately, at that moment free of pedestrians. Wandel descended andrang the bell. When the door was opened George relaxed his grasp.Dalrymple tried to spring from the opposite side of the cab. Georgecaught him, lifted him, carried him like a child across the sidewalk,and set him down in the twilight of a hall where a flunky gaped.

  "There's your precious friend," he accused Wandel.

  He returned to the cab, rubbing his hands as if they needed cleansing.

  "There's no one like you, great man," Wandel said when he had come backto the cab. "You've done Dolly and everyone he would have seen to-nighta good turn."

  But George felt he had done himself a bad one. During the rest of histime at Princeton, and afterward in New York, he would have a dangerousenemy. Dirty hands! Trust Dalrymple to do his best to give thatqualification its real meaning. And these people! You could trust them,too, to stand by Dalrymple against the man who had done them a goodturn. It had been rotten of Wandel to ask it, to take him away at thatvital moment. Anyway, it was done. He forgot Dalrymple in his presentanxiety. The ride seemed endless. The ascent in the elevator was aunique torture. The cloak-room attendants had an air of utterindifference. When he could, George plunged into the ballroom, escapingWandel, threading the hurrying maze to the other end of the room whereearlier in the evening he had seen Sylvia's mother sitting with Mrs.Alston. George passed close, every muscle taut. Mrs. Planter gave nosign. Mrs. Alston reached over and tapped his arm with her fan. Hepaused, holding his breath.

  "Betty asked me to look for you," she said. "Where have you been? Shewas afraid you had found her party tiresome. You haven't been dancingmuch."

  He answered her politely, and walked on. He braced himself against thewall, the strain completely broken. She hadn't told. She hadn't demandedthat her mother take her home. She hadn't said: "Betty, what kind of mendo you ask to your dances?" Why hadn't she? Again he saw his big,well-clothed figure in a glass, and he smiled. Was it because he wasalready transformed?

  Here she came, dancing with Goodhue, and Goodhue seemed trying to leadher close. George didn't understand at first that he silently asked fornews of Dalrymple. His own eyes studied Sylvia. Her face held too muchcolour. She gave him back his challenge, but the contempt in her eyesbroadened his smile. He managed a reassuring nod to Goodhue, butDalrymple, for the time, was of no importance. Sylvia was going tofight, and not like a spoiled child. He must have impressed her as beingworthy of a real fight.

  He faced the rest of the evening with new confidence. He forgot to beover-careful with these people whose actions were unstudied. He dodgedacross the floor and took Betty from Lambert Planter while Lambertraised his eyebrows, relinquished her with pronounced reluctance, andwatched George guide her swiftly away. Maybe Lambert was right, and heought to tell Betty, but not now. To-night, against all hisexpectations, he found himself having a good time, enjoying more thananything else this intimate and exhilarating progress with Betty. Alwayshe hated to give her up, but he danced with other girls, and found theyliked to dance with him because he was big, and danced well, and wasDicky Goodhue's friend and Betty's, and played football; but, since hecouldn't very well ask Sylvia, he only really cared to dance with Betty.

  He was at Betty's table for supper. He didn't like to hear these prettygirls laughing about Dalrymple, but then with them Dalrymple must haveexercised a good deal of restraint. It ought to be possible to make themsee the ugly side, to bare the man's instinct to go from this party toanother. Then they wouldn't laugh.

  Lambert sat down for awhile.

  "Where's Sylvia?" Betty asked.

  Lambert shrugged his shoulders.

  "It's hard enough to keep track of you, Betty. Sylvia's a sister."

  George gathered that Sylvia's absence from that table had impressed themboth. He knew very well where she was, across the room, focus for aslarge a gathering as Betty's, chiefly of young men, eager for herbrilliancy. Lambert went on, glancing at George his questions of thesmoking-room.

  It wasn't long before the dawn when George said polite things withGoodhue and Wandel, and after their pattern. In the lower hall henoticed that all these pleasure seekers, a while ago flushed and happy,had undergone a devastating change. Faces were white. Gowns lookedrumpled and old. The laughter and chatter were no longer impulsive.

  "The way one feels after a hard game," he thought.

  Goodhue offered to take Wandel in and drop him. The little man aloneseemed as fresh and neat as at the start of the evening.

  "Had a good time, great person?" he asked as they drove off. "But thenwhy shouldn't great men always have good times?"

  Wandel's manner suggested that he had seen to George's good time. Whathe had actually done was to involve him in an open hostility withDalrymple. The others didn't mention that youth. Was there a tactfulthought for him in their restraint?

  They left Wandel at an expensive bachelor apartment house overlookingthe park. George gathered from Goodhue, as they drove on, that Wandel'sattitude toward his family was that of an old and confidential friend.

  "You see Driggs always has to be his own master," he said.

  XVII

  Because of the restless contrast of that trip George brought back toPrinceton a new appreciation; yet beneath the outer beauty there, heknew, a man's desires and ambitions lost none of their ugliness. Hestared at Sylvia's portrait, but it made him want the living body thathe had touched, that was going to give him a decent fight. Already heplanned for other opportunities to meet her, although with her attitudewhat it was he didn't see how he could use them to advance his cause;and always there was the possibility of her resenting his persistence tothe point of changing her mind about telling.

  He had decided to avoid Dalrymple as far as possible, but that firstnight, as he drowsed over a book, he heard a knock at his door, notloud, and suggestive of reluctance and indecision. He hid the photographand the riding crop, and called:

  "Come in!"

  The door open
ed slowly. Dalrymple stood on the threshold, his weak facewhite and perverse. George waited, watching him conquer a bitterdisinclination. He knew what was coming and how much worse it would makematters between them.

  "It seems," the tortured man said, "that I was beastly rude to you lastnight. I've come to say I didn't mean it and am sorry."

  "You've come," George said, quietly, "because Goodhue and Wandel havemade you, through threats, I daresay. If you hadn't meant it youwouldn't have been rude in just that way. I'm grateful to Goodhue andWandel, but I won't have your apologies, because they don't mean a damnthing."

  Dalrymple's face became evil. He started to back out.

  "Wait a minute," George commanded. "You don't like me because I'mworking my way through college. That's what you shot at me last nightwhen you'd drunk enough to give you the nerve, but it's been in yourmind all along. I'd pound a little common-sense and decency into you,only I wouldn't feel clean after doing it."

  That, to an extent, broke down his severity. It sounded queer, from him.If Lambert Planter could have heard him say that!

  "Let the others think they've done us a good turn," he went on. "We haveto live in the same class without clawing each other's faces every timewe meet, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes, and I won't try topull it over yours. Now get out, and don't come here alone again."

  He felt better and cleaner after that. When Dalrymple had gone hefinished his chapter and tumbled into bed.

  XVIII

  George was glad of the laundry, indeed, as the holidays approached. Itgave him a sound excuse for not dashing joyously from Princeton with therest, but it didn't cure the depression with which he saw the collegeempty. He wandered about a campus as deserted as a city swept bypestilence, asking himself what he would have done if his father andmother hadn't exiled him as thoroughly as Old Planter had. There was nopoint thinking about that; it wasn't even a question. He took long walksor stayed in his room, reading, and once or twice answering regretfullyinvitations that had sprung from encounters at Betty's party. It wasnice to have them, but of course he couldn't go to such affairs alonejust yet. Besides, he didn't have the money.

  Squibs Bailly limped all the way up his stairs one day, scolding him forsulking in his tent.

  "I only heard last night that you were in town. I'm not psychic. Whyhaven't you been around?"

  "I didn't want to bother----"

  Bailly interrupted him.

  "I'm afraid I didn't appreciate you went quite so much alone."

  "Altogether alone," George said. "But I don't want anybody to feel sorryfor me because of that. It has some advantages."

  "You're too young to say such things," Bailly said.

  He made George go to the Dickinson Street house for Christmas dinner.There was no other guest. The rooms were bright with holly, and a verysmall but dazzling Christmas tree stood in a corner, bearing a gift forhim. Mrs. Bailly, as he entered, touched his cheek with her lips andwelcomed him by his first name. She created for him an illusion thatmade him choke a trifle. She made him feel as if he had come home.

  "And," he thought, "Squibs and she know."

  He wondered if it was that knowledge that made Squibs go into his socialviews one evening when he sat with him in the study. It was then thatGeorge realized he had no such views apart from his own case. Vaguely heknew that somewhere outside of Princeton strikes multiplied these days,that poor people complained of the cost of food and housing, thatcommunistic propaganda was talked with an increasing freedom, that nowand then a bomb burst, destroying more often than not the people it wasdesigned to help. He saw that Squibs sought to interest him, and he gavea close attention while the tutor elaborated his slight knowledge of thegrowing unrest.

  "But it's all so far away, sir," he said. "I've so much of moreimportance to me to bother about right here."

  Bailly relighted his pipe.

  "The happy, limited vision of youth!" he sighed. "You'll be through youra, b, c's before you know it. Are you going to face such big issueswithout any forethought?"

  He smoked for a few moments, then commenced to speak doubtfully.

  "And in another sense it isn't as far away as you think. It all goes on_in petto_, right here in undergraduate Princeton. The views a man takesaway from college should be applicable to the conditions he meetsoutside."

  "I don't quite see what you mean, sir."

  Why was Bailly going at it so carefully?

  "I mean," Bailly said, "that here you have your poor men, your earnestmen, and your lords of the land. I mean there is no real community ofinterest here. I mean you've made friends because you're bigger andbetter looking than most, and play football like a demon. You haven'tmade any friends simply because you are poor and earnest. And the poorstudents suffer from the cost of things, and the rich men don't know anddon't care. And the poor men, and the men without family or a goodschool behind them, who haven't football or some outstandingusefulness, are as submerged as the workers in a mine. Prospect Streetis Fifth Avenue or Park Lane, and the men who can't get in the clubs,because of poverty or lack of prominence, remind me of the ragged oneswho cling to the railings, peering through at plenty with evil in theirhearts."

  "You're advocating communism, sir?"

  Bailly shook his head.

  "I'm advocating nothing. I'm trying to find out what you advocate."

  "I can't help feeling," George said, stubbornly, "that a man has to lookafter himself."

  And as he walked home he confessed freely enough in his own mind:

  "I'm advocating George Morton. How can Squibs expect me to bother withany one else when I have so far to go?"

  XIX

  He thrust Squibs' uncomfortable prods from his brain. He applied himselfto his books--useful books. Education and culture were more important tohim than the physical reactions of overworked labour or the mentalprocesses of men who advocated violence. Such distracting questions,however, were uncomfortably in the air. Allen, one of the poor menagainst whom the careful Rogers had warned him long ago, called on himone cold night. The manner of his address made George wonder if Squibshad been talking to him, too.

  "Would like a few minutes' chat, Morton. No one worth while's inPrinceton. It won't queer you to have me in your room."

  No, George decided. That was an opening one might expect from Allen. Theman projected an appreciable power from his big, bony figure; hisangular face. George had heard vaguely that he had worked in a factory,preparing himself for college. He knew from his own observation thatAllen wasn't above waiting at commons, and he had seen the lesser menturn to him as a leader.

  "Sit down," George said, "and don't talk like an ass. You can't queerme. What do you want me to do--offer to walk to classes with my arm overyour shoulder? There's too much of that sensitive talk going around."

  "You're a plain speaker," Allen said. "So am I. You'll admit you've seena lot more of the pretty crowd than you have of me and my friends. Ithought it might be useful to ask you why."

  "Because," George answered, "I'm in college to get everything I can. Youand your crowd don't happen to have the stuff I want."

  Allen fingered a book nervously.

  "I came," he said, "to see if I couldn't persuade you that we have."

  "I'm listening," George said, indifferently.

  "Right on the table!" Allen answered, quickly. "You're the biggest poorman in the class. You're logically the poor men's Moses. They admireyou. You've always been talked of in terms of the varsity. Everybodyknows you're Princeton's best football player. The poor men would doanything for you. What will you do for them?"

  "I won't have you split the class that way," George cried.

  "Every class," Allen said, "is split along that line, only this class isgoing to let the split be seen. You work your way through college, butyou run with a rich crowd, led by the hand of Driggs Wandel."

  So even Allen had noticed that and had become curious.

  "Wandel," Allen went on, "will use you to hurt us--the
poor men; andwhen he's had what he wants of you he'll send you back to the muckheap."

  George shook his head, smiling.

  "No, because you've said yourself that whatever power I have comes fromfootball and not from an empty pocket-book."

  "Use all the power you have," Allen urged. "Come in with us. Help thepoor men, and we'll know how to reward you."

  "You're already thinking of Sophomore elections?" George asked. "I don'tcare particularly for office."

  Allen's face reddened with anger.

  "I'm thinking of the clubs first. What I said when I came in is true.The selfish men intriguing for Prospect Street don't dare be friendlywith the poor men; afraid it might hurt their chances to be seen with apoler. By God, that's vicious! It denies us the companionship we've cometo college to find. We want all the help we can get here. The clubs area hideous hindrance. Promise me you'll keep away from the clubs."

  George laughed.

  "I haven't made up my mind about the clubs," he said. "They have badfeatures, but there's good in them. The club Goodhue joins will be thebest club of our time in college. Suppose you knew you could get anelection to that; would you turn it down?"

  The angular face became momentarily distorted.

  "I won't consider an impossible situation. Anyway, I couldn't afford it.That's another bad feature. If you want, I'll say no, a thousand timesno."

  "I wouldn't trust you," George laughed, "but you know you haven't achance. So you want to smash the thing you can't get in. I call _that_vicious. And let me tell you, Allen. You may reform things out ofexistence, but you can't destroy them with a bomb. Squibs Bailly willtell you that."

  "You think you'll make a good club," Allen said.

  "I'll tell you what I think," George answered, quite unruffled, "when Imake up my mind to stand for or against the clubs. Squibs says half theevils in the world come from precipitancy. You're precipitate. Thrash itout carefully, as I'm doing."

  He wondered if he had convinced Allen, knowing very well that his ownattitude would be determined by the outcome of the chance he had toenter Goodhue's club.

  "We've got to make up our minds now," Allen said. "Promise me thatyou'll keep out of the clubs and I'll make you the leader of the class.You're in a position to bring the poor men to the top for once."

  George didn't want to break with Allen. The man did control a largesection of the class, so he sent him away amicably enough, merelyrepeating that he hadn't made up his mind; and ending with:

  "But I won't be controlled by any faction."

  Allen left, threatening to talk with him again.

  George didn't sleep well that night. Squibs and Allen had made himuncomfortable. Finally he cleared his mind with the reflection that hisprivate attitude was determined. No matter whom it hurt he was going tobe one of the fortunates with a whip in his hand; but he, above mostpeople, could understand the impulses of men like Allen, and therestless ones in the world, who didn't hold a whip, and so desiredfeverishly to spring.

  XX

  The cold weather placed a smooth black floor on Lake Carnegie. Georgewent down one evening with the Baillys. They brought Betty Alston, whowas just home from New York and had dined with them. A round moon smiledabove the row of solemn and vigilant poplars along the canal bank. Theshadows of the trees made you catch your breath as if on the edge ofperilous pitfalls.

  Going down through the woods they passed Allen. Even in thatyellow-splashed darkness George recognized the bony figure.

  "Been skating?" he called.

  "Hello, Morton! No, I don't skate."

  "Then," George laughed, "why don't you smash the ice?"

  Allen laughed back mirthlessly, but didn't answer; and, as they went on,Betty wanted to know what it was all about. George told her of Allen'svisit.

  "But congenial people," she said, "will always gather together. It wouldbe dreadful to have one's friends arbitrarily chosen. You'll go to aclub with your friends."

  "But Allen says the poor men can't afford it," he answered. "I'm one ofthe poor men."

  "You'll always find a way to do what you want," she said, confidently.

  But when they were on the lake the question of affording the things onewanted slipped between them again.

  George had a fancy that Mrs. Bailly guided her awkward husband away fromBetty and him. Why? At least it was pleasant to be alone with Betty,gliding along near the bank, sometimes clasping hands at a half-seen,doubtful stretch. Betty spoke of it.

  "Where are my guardians?"

  "Let's go a little farther," he urged. "We'll find them easily enough."

  It didn't worry her much.

  "Why did you come back so soon?" she asked.

  He hesitated. He had hoped to avoid such questions.

  "I haven't been away."

  She glanced up, surprised.

  "You mean you've been in Princeton through the holiday?"

  "Yes, I feel I ought to go easy with what little I have."

  "I knew you were working your way through," she said, "but I neverguessed it meant as much denial as that."

  "Don't worry," he laughed, "I'll make money next summer."

  "I wish I'd known. And none of your friends thought!"

  "Why should they? They're mostly too rich."

  "That's wrong."

  "Are you driving me into Allen's camp?" he asked. "You can't; for Iexpect to be rich myself, some day. Any man can, if he goes about it inthe right way. Maybe Allen doubts his power, and that's the reason he'sagainst money and the pleasant things it buys. Does it make anydifference to you, my being poor for a time?"

  "Why should it?" she asked, warmly.

  "Allen," he said, "couldn't understand your skating with me."

  Why not tell Betty the rest in this frozen and romantic solitude theyshared? He decided not. He had risked enough for the present. When sheturned around he didn't try to hold her, skating swiftly back at herside, aware of a danger in such solitude; charging himself with ascarcely definable disloyalty to his conception of Sylvia.

  XXI

  He fancied Betty desired to make up for her thoughtlessness during theholidays when she asked him for dinner on a Saturday night. With thatdinner, no matter what others might think of his lack of money andbackground, she had put herself on record, for it was a large, formalparty sprinkled with people from New York, and drawing from theUniversity only the kind of men Allen was out to fight. Wandel, Georgethought, rather disapproved of his being there, but as a result, he madetwo trips to parties in New York during the winter. Both were failures,for he didn't meet Sylvia, yet he heard of her always as a dazzlingsuccess.

  He answered Dalrymple's cold politeness with an irritating indifference.In the spring, however, he detected a radical alteration in Dalrymple'smanner.

  By that time, the scheme discussed carelessly at the Alstons' in thefall had been worked out. On good afternoons, when their work allowed, afew men, all friends of the Alstons, drove out, and, with passableponies, played practice matches at polo on the field Mr. Alston had hadarranged. The neighbours fell into a habit of concentrating there, andGeorge was thrown into intimate contact with them, seeing other gatesopen rather eagerly before him, for he hadn't miscalculated his abilityto impress with horses. When Mr. Alston had first asked him he hadaccepted gladly. Because of his long habit in the saddle and hisaccuracy of eye he played better from the start than these othernovices. As in football, he teamed well with Goodhue.

  "Goodhue to Morton," Wandel complained, "or Morton to Goodhue. Whatchance has a mere duffer like me against such a very distinguishedcombination?"

  It was during these games that Goodhue fell into the practice ofshouting George's first name across the field, and when George becameconvinced that such familiarity was not chance, but an expression of adeepening friendship, he responded unaffectedly. It was inevitable theothers should adopt Goodhue's example. Even Dalrymple did, and Georgeasked himself why the man was trying to appear friendly, for he knewthat in his heart Dalrymp
le had not altered.

  It filled George with a warm and formless pleasure to hear Betty usinghis Christian name, to realize that a precedent had this time beenestablished; yet it required an effort, filled him with a greatconfusion, to call her familiarly "Betty" for the first time.

  He chatted with her at the edge of the field while grooms led the poniesup and down.

  "What are your plans for the summer?" she asked.

  "I don't quite know what will happen."

  "We," she said, "will be in Maine. Can't you run up in August? DickyGoodhue's coming then."

  He looked at her. He tried to hide his hunger for the companionship, therelaxation such a visit would give. He glanced away.

  "I wish I could. Have you forgotten I'm to make money? I've got to tryto do that this summer, Betty."

  There, it was out. Colour stole into her white cheeks.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  He had another reason for refusing. He was growing afraid of Betty. Hewas conscious of an increasing effort to drive her memory from thelittle room where Sylvia's portrait watched. It was, he told himself,because he didn't see Sylvia oftener, couldn't feel his heart respond tothe exciting enmity in her brilliant eyes.

  Goodhue and Dalrymple, it developed, were parting, amicably enough asfar as any one knew.

  "Dolly thinks he'll room alone next year," was Goodhue's explanation.Dalrymple explained nothing.

  Driving back to town one afternoon Goodhue proposed to George that hereplace Dalrymple.

  "Campus rooms," he said, "aren't as expensive as most in town."

  He mentioned a figure. George thought rapidly. What an opportunity! Andaside from what Goodhue could do for him, he was genuinely fond of theman. George craved absolute independence, and he knew Goodhue would givehim all of that he asked for.

  "I'd like to," he said.

  Goodhue smiled.

  "That's splendid. I think we'll manage together."

  Wandel frowned at the news. So did Allen. Allen came frequently now totalk his college socialism. George listened patiently, always answering:

  "I've made up my mind to nothing, except that I'll take my friends whereI find them, high or low. But I'm not against you, Allen."

  Yet George was uneasy, knowing the moment for making up his mindwouldn't be long delayed. He understood very well that already some menknew to what club they'd go more than a year later. Secretly, perhapsillegally, the sections for the clubs were forming in his class. Smallgroups were quietly organizing under the guidance of the upper classes.During Sophomore year these small groups would elect other men to thelimit of full membership. It was perfectly clear that unless he went inahead of Dalrymple his chances of making the club he wanted wereworthless. As a result of his talks with Allen, moreover, he felt thatWandel didn't want him. If Wandel could persuade Goodhue that Georgecould serve the interests of the fortunates best from the outside theissue would be settled.

  "But I won't be used that way," George decided. "I'm out for myself."

  Along that straight line he had made his plans for the summer. Somehowhe was going to study the methods of the greatest financial market inthe country, so that later he could apply them serviceably to his ownfortune. Bailly had other ideas. One night while they lounged on thefront campus listening to senior singing the long tutor suggested thathe take up some form of manual labour.

  "It would keep you in good condition," he said, "and it might broadenyour vision by disclosing the aims and the dissatisfactions of those wholive by the sweat of their brows."

  George frowned.

  "I know enough of that already. I've been a labourer myself. I haven'tthe time, sir."

  Bailly probably knew that he was dealing with a point of view far moredetermined and mature than that of the average undergraduate. He didn'targue, but George felt the need of an apology.

  "I've got to learn how to make money," he said.

  "Money isn't everything," Bailly sighed.

  "I've started after certain things," George justified himself. "Money'sone of them. I'll work for next to nothing this summer if I have to.I'll be a runner, the man who sweeps out the office, anything that willgive me a chance to watch and study Wall Street. I'm sorry if you don'tapprove, sir."

  "I didn't say that," Bailly answered, "but the fact was sufficientlyclear."

  Yet George knew perfectly well a few days later that it was Bailly whohad spoken about his ambition to Mr. Alston.

  "Blodgett, I fancy," Mr. Alston said, "will offer you some small start."

  He handed George a letter addressed to one Josiah Blodgett, of the firmof Blodgett and Sinclair.

  "Good luck, and good-bye until next fall."

  "If you do change your mind----If you can manage it----" Betty said.

  So George, two or three days before commencement, left Princeton forWall Street, and presented his letter.

  The offices of Blodgett and Sinclair were gorgeous and extensive, rawwith marble, and shining with mahogany. They suggested a hotel in badtaste rather than a factory that turned out money in spectacularquantities.

  "Mr. Blodgett will see you," a young man announced in an awed voice, asif such condescension were infrequent.

  In the remote room where Blodgett lurked the scheme of furnishingappeared to culminate. The man himself shared its ornamental grossness.He glanced up, his bald head puckering half its height. George saw thatalthough he was scarcely middle-aged Blodgett was altogether too fat,with puffy, unhealthily coloured cheeks. In such a face the tiny eyeshad an appearance nearly porcine. The man's clothing would have put anhabitue of the betting ring at ease--gray-and-white checks,dove-coloured spats, a scarlet necktie. Pudgy fingers twisted Mr.Alston's letter. The little eyes opened wider. The frown relaxed. A bassvoice issued from the broad mouth:

  "If you've come here to learn, you can't expect a million dollars aweek. Say fifteen to start."

  George didn't realize how extraordinarily generous that was. He onlydecided he could scrape along on it.

  "Mr. Alston," the deep voice went on, "tells me you're a great footballplayer. That's a handicap. All you can tackle here is trouble, and theonly kicking we have is when Mundy boots somebody out of a job. He's myoffice manager. Report to him. Wait a minute. I'd give a ping-pongplayer a job if Mr. Alston asked me to. He's a fine man. But then I'mthrough. It's up to the man and Mundy. If the man's no good Mundydoesn't even bother to tell me, and it's twenty stories to the street."

  George started to thank him, but already the rotund figure was pressedagainst the desk, and the tiny eyes absorbed in important-lookingpapers.

  Mundy, George decided, wasn't such an ogre after all. He wore glasses.He was bald, thin, and stoop-shouldered. He had the benign expression ofa parson; but behind that bald forehead, George soon learned, was storedall the knowledge he craved, without, however, the imagination to makeit personally very valuable.

  If he didn't sweep the office at first, George approximated such labour,straightening the desks of the mighty, checking up on the contents ofwaste-paper baskets, seeing that the proper people got mail andnewspapers, running errands; and always, in the office or outside, hekept his ears open and his eyes wide. He absorbed the patter of theStreet. He learned to separate men into classes, the wise ones, whoalways made money, and the foolish, who now and then had good luck, butmost of the time were settling their losses. And at every opportunity hewas after what Mundy concealed behind his appearance of a parson.

  At night he dissected the financial journals, watching the alterationsin the market, and probing for the causes; applying to this novitiatethe same grim determination he had brought to Squibs Bailly's lessons ayear before. Never once was he tempted to seek a simple path to fortune.

  "When I speculate," he told himself, "there'll be mighty little riskabout it."

  Even in those days his fifteen dollars a week condemned him to a cheaplodging house near Lexington Avenue, the simplest of meals, andpractically no relaxation. He exercised each morning, and walke
d eachevening home from the office, for he hadn't forgotten what Princetonexpected from him in the fall.

  Sylvia's photograph and the broken riding crop supervised his labours,but he knew he couldn't hope, except by chance, to see her this summer.

  One Saturday morning Goodhue came unexpectedly into the office andcarried him off to Long Island. George saw the tiny eyes of Blodgettnarrow.

  Blodgett, perhaps because of Mr. Alston's letter, had condescended tochat with George a number of times in the outer office. On the Mondayfollowing he strolled up and jerked out:

  "Wasn't that young Richard Goodhue I saw you going off with Saturday?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Know him well?"

  "Very. We're in the same class. We're rooming together next year."

  Blodgett grunted and walked on, mopping his puffy face with a shiny bluehandkerchief. George wondered if he had displeased Blodgett by goingwith Goodhue. He decided he hadn't, for the picturesquely dressed manstopped oftener after that, chatting quite familiarly.

  Whatever one thought of Blodgett's appearance and manner, one admiredhim. George hadn't been in the Street a week before he realized that thehouse of Blodgett and Sinclair was one of the most powerful in America,with numerous ramifications to foreign countries. There was no phase offinance it didn't touch; and, as far as George could see, it was allJosiah Blodgett, who had come to New York from the West, by way ofChicago. In those offices Sinclair was scarcely more than a name in goldon various doors. Once or twice, during the summer, indeed, George sawthe partner chatting in a bored way with Blodgett. His voice was highand affected, like Wandel's, and he had a house in Newport. According tooffice gossip he had little money interest in the firm, lending theprestige of his name for what Blodgett thought it was worth. As hewatched the fat, hard worker chatting with the butterfly man, Georgesuddenly realized that Blodgett might want a house in Newport, too. Wasit because he was Richard Goodhue's room-mate that Blodgett stopped himin the hall one day, grinning with good nature?

  "If I were a cub," he puffed, "I'd buy this very morning all the KatydidI could, and sell at eighty-nine."

  George whistled.

  "I knew something was due to happen to Katydid, but I didn't expectanything like that."

  "How did you know?" Blodgett demanded.

  He shot questions until he had got the story of George's closeobservation and night drudgery.

  "Glad to see Mundy hasn't dropped you out the window yet," he grinned."Maybe you'll get along. Glad for Mr. Alston's sake. See here, if I werea cub, and knew as much about Katydid as you do, I wouldn't hesitate toborrow a few cents from the boss."

  "No," George said. "I've a very little of my own. I'll use that."

  He had, perhaps, two hundred dollars in the bank at Princeton. He drew acheck without hesitation and followed Blodgett's advice. He hadcommenced to speculate without risk. Several times after that Blodgettjerked out similar advice, usually commencing with: "What does youngPierpont Morgan think of so and so?" And usually George would give hisemployer a reasonable forecast. Because of these discreet hints hisbalance grew, and Mundy one day announced that his salary had beenraised ten dollars.

  All that, however, was the brighter side. Often during those hot, heavynights, while he pieced together the day's complicated pattern, Georgeenvied the fortunates who could play away from pavements and bakingwalls. He found himself counting the days until he would go back toPrinceton and football, and Betty's charm; but even that prospect wasshadowed by his doubt as to how he would emerge from the club tangle.

  He didn't meet Sylvia, but one day he saw Old Planter step from anautomobile and enter the marble temple where he was accustomed tosacrifice corporations and people to the gods of his pocket-book. Thegreat man used a heavy stick and climbed the steps rather slowly,flanked by obsequious underlings, gaped at by a crowd, buzzing andover-impressed. Somehow George couldn't fancy Blodgett with the gout--itwas too delightfully bred.

  He peered in the automobile, but of course Sylvia wasn't there, nor, hegathered from his mother's occasional notes to thank him for the littlemoney he could send her, was she much at Oakmont.

  "I'll see her this fall," he told himself, "and next winter. I'vestarted to do what I said I would."

  As far as Wall Street was concerned, Blodgett evidently agreed with him.

  "I can put up with you next summer," he said at parting. "I'll write Mr.Alston you're fit for something besides football."

  Mundy displayed a pastoral sadness.

  "You ought to stay right here," he said. "College is all right if youdon't want to amount to a hill of beans. It's rotten for making money."

  Nevertheless, he agreed to send George a weekly letter, giving his wiseviews as to what was going on among the money makers. They all made himfeel that even in that rushing place his exit had caused a perceptibleripple.

  XXII

  The smallness, the untidiness, the pure joy of Squibs Bailly's study!

  The tutor ran his hands over George's muscles.

  "You're looking older and a good deal worn," he said, "but thank Godyou're still hard."

  Mrs. Bailly sat there, too. They were both anxious for his experiences,yet when he had told them everything he sensed a reservation in theirpraise.

  "I think I should turn my share of the laundry back," he said,defiantly. "I've something like three thousand dollars of my own now."

  "Does it make you feel very rich?" Mrs. Bailly asked.

  He laughed.

  "It's a tiny start, but I won't need half of it to get through thewinter."

  Bailly lighted his pipe, stretched his legs, and pondered.

  "You're giving the laundry up," he said, finally, "because--because itsavours of service?"

  George didn't get angry. He couldn't with Squibs in the first place;and, in the second, hadn't that thought been at the bottom of his mindever since Dalrymple's remark about dirty hands?

  "I don't need it any more," he said, "and I'd like to have you disposeof it where it will do the most good."

  His voice hardened.

  "But to somebody who wants to climb, not to any wild-eyed fellow whothinks he sees salvation in pulling down."

  "You've just returned from the world," Bailly said, "and all you'vebrought is three thousand dollars and a bad complexion. I wish you'ddirected your steps to a coal mine. You'd have come back richer."

  XXIII

  Goodhue got in a few hours after George. There was a deep satisfactionin their greetings. They were glad to be together, facing varsityfootball, looking ahead to the pleasures and excitements of anotheryear, but George would have been happier if he could have shared hisroom-mate's unconcern about the clubs. Of course, Goodhue was settled.Did he know about George? George was glad the other couldn't guess howcarefully he had calculated the situation--to take the best, or adignified stand against all clubs with Allen getting behind him with allthe poor and unknown men. But wasn't that exactly Wandel's game?

  Stringham and Green were glad enough to see him, but Green thought hehad been thoughtless not to have kept a football in the office forkicking goals through transoms.

  It was good to feel the vapours of the market-place leaving his lungsand brain. Goodhue and he, during the easy preliminary work, resumedtheir runs. He felt he hadn't really gone back. If he didn't get hurt hewould do things that fall that would drive the perplexed frown fromBailly's forehead, that would win Betty's applause and Sylvia'sadmiration. Whatever happened he was going to take care of her brotherin the Yale game.

  Betty was rather too insistent about that. She had fallen into the habitagain of stopping George and Goodhue on their runs for a moment'sgossip.

  "See here, Betty," Goodhue laughed once, "you're rather too interestedin this Eli Planter."

  George had reached the same conclusion--but why should it bother him? Itwas logical that Betty and Lambert should be drawn together. He blamedhimself for a habit of impatience that had grown upon him. Had it comeout of the strain of the
Street, or was it an expression of hisknowledge that now, at the commencement of his second year, heapproached the culmination of his entire college course? With the clubmatter settled there would remain little for him save a deepening ofuseful friendships and a squeezing of the opportunity to acquireknowledge and a proper manner. For the same cause, the approachingelection of officers for Sophomore year was of vital importance. It wasgenerally conceded that the ticket put through now, barring accident,would be elected senior year to go out into the world at the head of theclass. The presidency would graduate a man with a patent of nobility, asone might say. George guessed that all of Wandel's intrigues led to there-election of Goodhue. He wanted that influential office in his owncrowd. Even now George couldn't wholly sound Wandel's desires with him.He yielded to the general interest and uneasiness. Squibs had beenright. Princeton did hold a fair sample of it all. He understood thatvery much as this affair was arranged he would see the politicaldestinies of the country juggled later.

  Allen got him alone, begging for his decision.

  "Have you been asked for a club yet?"

  "None of your business," George said, promptly.

  "You've got to make up your mind in a hurry," Allen urged. "Promise menow that you'll leave the clubs alone, then I can handle Mr. Wandel."

  "You're dickering with him?" George asked, quickly.

  "No. Mr. Wandel is trying to dicker with me."

  But George couldn't make up his mind. There were other problems ascritical as the clubs. Could he afford to fight Dick Goodhue for thathigh office? If only he could find out what the Goodhue crowd thought ofhim!

  He had an opportunity to learn one evening, and conquered a passionatedesire to eavesdrop. As he ran lightly up the stairs to his room heheard through the open study door Wandel and Goodhue talking with anunaccustomed heat.

  "You can't take such an attitude," Wandel was saying.

  "I've taken it."

  "Change your mind," Wandel urged. "I've nursed him along as the onlypossible tie between two otherwise irreconcilable elements of the class.I tell you I can't put you over unless you come to your senses."

  George hurried in and nodded. From their faces he gathered there hadbeen a fair row. Wandel grasped his arm. George stiffened. Something wascoming now. It wasn't quite what he had expected.

  "How would you like," Wandel said, "to be the very distinguishedsecretary of your class?"

  George gazed from the window at the tree-bordered lawns where lesser mencontentedly kicked footballs to each other.

  "It ought to be what the class likes," he muttered. "I'm really onlyinterested in seeing Dicky re-elected."

  "If," Wandel said, "I told you it couldn't be done without yourdistinguished and untrammelled name on the ticket?"

  George flushed.

  "What do you mean by untrammelled?"

  "You stop that, Spike," Goodhue said, more disturbed than George hadever seen him. "It's indecent. I won't have it."

  George relaxed. Untrammelled had certainly meant free from the taint ofthe clubs. He was grateful Goodhue had interfered.

  "Why don't you run for something yourself, Mr. Wandel?" he asked, dryly.

  Goodhue laughed.

  "Carry your filthy politics somewhere else."

  He and George, with an affectation of good nature, pushed Wandel out ofthe room. They looked at each other. Neither said anything.

  George had to call upon his will to keep his attention on his books thatnight. In return for Allen's support for Goodhue Wandel wanted to giveAllen for a minor place on the ticket a poor man untrammelled by theclubs. The realization angered George. Aside from any otherconsideration he couldn't permit himself to be bartered about to saveany one--even Goodhue. But was Goodhue trying to spare him at asacrifice? George, with a vast relief, decided that that was so whenGoodhue mentioned casually one day that he was a certainty for the club.

  "Don't say anything about it," he advised. "The upper classmen have beengetting a few of us together. I'm glad you're among us. We'll elect thefull section later."

  "Of course I came here a stranger," George began, trying to hide hispleasure.

  "Quite a lot of us have learned to know you pretty well," Goodhuesmiled.

  George wouldn't accept this coveted gift without putting himself onrecord.

  "I needn't ask you," he said, "if Dalrymple's already in."

  Goodhue shook his head.

  "Maybe later."

  "I think," George said, distinctly, "that the men who are responsiblefor my election should know I'll hold out against Dalrymple."

  "You're a conscientious beggar," Goodhue laughed. "It's your ownbusiness now, but there'll be a nice little rumpus just the same."

  George was conscientious with Allen, too.

  "I feel I ought to tell you," he said, "that I've made up my mind, ifI'm asked, to join a club. Anything that has so much to offer can't beas bad as you think."

  Without answering Allen flushed and walked off angrily.

  It was the next day that the parties gathered on the top floor ofDickinson Hall for the election. George went as an amused spectator. Hehad played the game on the level and had destroyed his own chances, buthe was afraid he had destroyed Goodhue's, too, or Goodhue had destroyedhis own by insisting on taking George into the club. That was asacrifice George wanted to repay.

  Wandel, as usual, was undisturbed. Allen's angular figure wanderedrestlessly among the groups. George had no idea what the line-up was.

  George sensed weakness in the fact that, when the nominations wereopened, Wandel was the first on his feet. He recited Goodhue's virtuesas an athlete and a scholar. Like a real political orator at aconvention he examined his record as president the previous year. Heplaced him in nomination amid a satisfactory applause. Now what wascoming? Who did Allen have?

  When he arose Allen wore an air of getting through with a formality. Heinsisted on the fact that his candidate was working his way throughcollege, and would always be near the top scholastically. He representeda section of the class that the more fortunate of the students wereprone to forget. And so on--a condensation of his complaints to George.The room filled with suspense, which broke into loud laughter when Allennamed a man of absolutely no importance or colour, who couldn't pollmore than the votes of his personal friends. A trick, George guessed it,and everyone else. But Wandel was quickly moving that the nominations beclosed. Allen glanced around with a worried, expectant air. Then Georgesaw that Rogers was up--a flushed, nervous figure--and had got thefloor. He spoke rapidly, nearly unintelligibly.

  "My candidate doesn't need any introduction," he recited. "All factionscan unite on him--the man that smashed the Yale and Harvard Freshmen.The man who is going to smash the Yale and Harvard varsities thisyear--George Morton!"

  A cheer burst out, loud, from the heart. George saw that it came fromboth sides. The poor men had been stampeded, too.

  Goodhue was on his feet, his arms upraised, demanding recognition.Suddenly George realized what this meant to Goodhue, and temper replacedhis amazement. He sprang up, shouting:

  "I won't have it----"

  A dozen pairs of hands dragged him down. A dozen voices cried in hisears:

  "Shut up, you damned fool!"

  XXIV

  Goodhue got the floor and withdrew his name, but the chairman wouldn'tsee or hear George. He declared the nominations closed. It was as if heand all the lesser men, who weren't leading factions, had seen inGeorge the one force that could pull the class together. The vote wasperfunctory, and Allen lazily moved to make it unanimous. George tookthe chair, frowning, altogether unhappy in his unforeseen victory. Hehad a feeling of having shabbily repaid Goodhue's loyalty and sacrifice,yet it hadn't been his fault; but would Goodhue know that?

  "Speech! Shoot something, George! Talk up there, Mr. President!"

  He'd give them a speech to chew over.

  "Back-door politicians have done their best to split the class. Theclass has taken matters into its own hands. T
here isn't going to be asplit. It won't be long before you'll have Prospect Street off yourminds. That seems to be two thirds of the trouble. Let's forget it, andpull together, and leave Princeton a little better than we found it. Ifyou think anything needs reform let's talk about it openly and sensibly,clubs and all. I appreciate the honour, but Dick Goodhue ought to havehad it, would have had it, if he hadn't been born with a silver spoon.Ought a man's wealth or poverty stand against him here? Think it over.That's all."

  There was no opposition to Goodhue's election as Secretary.

  Allen slipped to George at the close of the meeting.

  "About what I'd have expected of you, anyway."

  But George was looking for Goodhue, found him, and walked home with him.

  "Best thing that could have happened," Goodhue said. "They're allmarvelling at your nerve for talking about Prospect Street as you did."

  George spied Rogers, and beckoned the freshly prominent youth.

  "See here, young man, please come to my room after practice."

  Rogers, with a frightened air, promised. Wandel appeared before, quiteas if nothing had happened. He wouldn't even talk about the election.

  "Just the same, Warwick," George said, "I'm not at all sure a polernamed Allen couldn't tell you something about juggling crowns."

  "A penetrating as well as a great president," Wandel smiled. "I haven'tthanked you yet for joining our club."

  George looked straight at him.

  "But I've thanked Dicky for it," he said.

  Rogers, when he arrived after Wandel's departure, didn't want toconfess, but George knew how to get it out of him.

  "You've put your finger in my pie without my consent," he said. "I'llhold that against you unless you talk up. Besides, it won't go beyondGoodhue and me. It's just for our information."

  "All right," Rogers agreed, nervously, "provided it doesn't go out ofthis room. And there's no point mentioning names. A man we all know cameto me this morning and talked about the split in the class. He couldn'tget Goodhue elected because he didn't have any way of buying the supportof the poor men. Allen, he figured, was going to nominate a lame duck,and then have somebody not too rich and not too poor spring his ownname, figuring he would get the votes of the bulk of the class whichjust can't help being jealous of Goodhue and his little crowd. This chapthought he could beat Allen at that game by stampeding the class for youbefore Allen could get himself up, and he wanted somebody representativeof the bulk of the class, that holds the balance of power, to put you innomination. He figured even the poor men would flock to you in spite ofAllen's opposition."

  "And what did he offer you?" George sneered.

  Rogers turned away without answering.

  "Like Driggs," Goodhue said, when Rogers had gone. "He couldn't havewhat he wanted, but he got about as good. Politically, what's thedifference? Both offices are in his crowd, but he's avoided making youlook like his president."

  George grinned.

  "I don't wonder you call him Spike."

  XXV

  George, filled with a cold triumph, stared for a long time at Sylvia'sportrait that night. If she thought of him at all she would have toadmit he had come closer. At Princeton he was as big a man as her richbrother was at Yale. He belonged to a club where her own kind gathered.Give him money--and he was going to have that--and her attitude mustalter. He bent the broken crop between his fingers, his triumph fading.He had come closer, but not close enough to hurt.

  The Baillys and Betty congratulated him at practice the next day.

  "You were the logical man," Betty said, "but the politicians didn't seemto want you."

  Bailly drew him aside.

  "It was scandal in the forum," he said, "that money and the clubs werean issue in this election."

  George fingered his headgear, laughing unpleasantly.

  "Yes, and they elected a poor man; a low sort of a fellow with ashadowed past."

  "Forget your past," Bailly pled, "and remember in the present that thepoor men, who helped elect you, are looking for your guidance. They needhelp."

  "Then," George said, "why didn't they get themselves elected so theycould help themselves?"

  "Into the world there are born many cripples," Bailly said, softly."Would you condemn them for not running as fast as the congenitallysound?"

  "Trouble is, they don't try to run," George answered.

  He looked at the other defiantly. Bailly had to know. It was his right.

  "I can guess what house I'm going to on Prospect Street."

  "Which?" Bailly sighed.

  "To the very home of reaction," George laughed. "But it's easier toreform from the inside."

  "No," Bailly said, gravely. "The chairs are too comfortable."

  He pressed George's arm.

  "It isn't the clubs here that worry me in relation to you. It's theprinciple of the lights behind the railing in the restless world. Trynot to surrender to the habit of the guarded light."

  George was glad when Stringham called from the field.

  "Jump in here, Morton!"

  He took his turn at the dummy scrimmage. Such exercise failed to offerits old zest, nor was it the first day he had appreciated that. Theintrusion of these unquiet struggles might be responsible, yet, withthem determined in his favour, his anxiety did not diminish. Was Baillyto blame with his perpetual nagging about the outside world where gravedecisions waited? George frankly didn't want to face them. They seemedhalf-decipherable signposts which tempted him perplexingly andprecariously from his path. What had just happened, added to the passageof a year and his summer in Wall Street, had brought that headlong worldvery close, had outlined too clearly the barriers which made itdangerous; so even here he spent some time each night studying thechanging lines in the battle for money.

  Yet Goodhue, with a settled outlook, shared George's misgivings at thefield.

  "It isn't the fun it was Freshman year," he grumbled one night. "We usedto complain then that they worked us too hard. Now I don't believe theywork us hard enough."

  That was a serious doubt for two men who realized they alone might saveinferior if eager material from defeat; and it grew until they resumedsurreptitiously the extra work they had attempted hitherto only outsideof the season or just at its commencement. Then it had not interferedwith Green's minutely studied scheme of physical development. Now itdid. The growth of their worry, moreover, measured the decline of theircondition. These apprehensions had a sharper meaning for George than forhis room-mate. Almost daily he saw his picture on the sporting pages ofnewspapers. "Morton of Princeton, the longest kicker in the game." "Thekeystone of the Princeton attack." "The man picked to lead Stringham'shopes to victory over Harvard and Yale." And so on. Exaggeration, Georgetold himself, that would induce the university, the alumni, the Baillys,Betty, and Sylvia--most of all Sylvia--to expect more than he couldreasonably give at his best.

  "Don't forget you've promised to take care of Lambert Planter----"

  In some form Betty repeated it every time George saw her. It irritatedhim--not that it really made any difference--that Lambert Planter shouldoccupy her mind to that extent. No emotion as impersonal as collegespirit would account for it; and somehow it did make a difference.

  George suspected the truth a few days before the Harvard game, andpersuaded Goodhue to abandon all exercise away from Green's watchfuleye; but he went on the field still listless, irritable, and stale.

  That game, as so frequently happens, was the best played and theprettiest to watch of the season. George wondered if Sylvia was in thecrowd. There was no question about her being at New Haven next week. Hewanted to save his best for that afternoon when she would be sure to seehim, when he would take her brother on for another thrashing. But itwasn't in him to hold back anything, and the cheering section, whereSquibs sat, demanded all he had. To win this game, it became clear afterthe first few plays, would take an exceptional effort. Only George'slong and well-calculated kicking held down the Harvard attack. Towa
rdthe close of the first half a fumble gave Princeton the ball onHarvard's thirty-yard line, and Goodhue for the first time seriouslycalled on George to smash the Harvard defence. With his effort some ofthe old zest returned. Twice he made it first down by inches.

  "Stick to your interference," Goodhue was begging him between each play.

  Then, with his interference blocked and tumbling, George yielded to hisold habit, and slipped off to one side at a hazard. The enemy secondarydefence had been drawing in, and there was no one near enough to stophim within those ten yards, and he went over for a touchdown, andcasually kicked the goal.

  When, a few minutes later, he walked off the field, he experienced noelation. He realized all at once how tired he was. Like a child hewanted to go to Stringham and say:

  "Stringham, I don't want to play any more games to-day. I want to liedown and rest."

  He smiled as he dreamed of Stringham's reply.

  It was Stringham, really, who came to him as he sat silently and withdrooping shoulders in the dressing-room.

  "What's wrong here? When you're hurt I want to know it."

  George got up.

  "I'm not hurt. I'm all right."

  Green arrived and helped Stringham poke while George submitted, wishingthey'd leave him alone so he could sit down and rest.

  "We've got to have him next week," Stringham said, "but this game isn'twon by a long shot."

  "What's the matter with me?" George asked. "I'll play."

  He heard a man near by remark:

  "He's got the colour of a Latin Salutatorian."

  They let him go back, nevertheless, and at the start he suffered hisfirst serious injury. He knew when he made the tackle that the strap ofhis headgear snapped. He felt the leather slide from his head,experienced the crushing of many bodies, had a brief conviction that thesun had been smothered. His next impression was of bare, white walls ina shaded room. His brain held no record of the hushing of the multitudewhen he had remained stretched in his darkness on the trampled grass; ofthe increasing general fear while substitutes had carried him from thefield on a stretcher; or of the desertion of the game by the Baillys, byBetty and her father, by Wandel, the inscrutable, even by therevolutionary Allen, by a score of others, who had crowded the entranceof the dressing room asking hushed questions, and a few moments laterhad formed behind him a silent and frightened procession as he had beencarried to the infirmary. Mrs. Bailly told him about it.

  "I saw tears in Betty's eyes," she said, softly, "through my own. It wasso like a funeral march."

  "And you missed the end of the game?" George asked.

  She nodded.

  "When my husband knew Harvard had scored he said, 'That wouldn't havehappened if George had been there.' And it wouldn't have."

  But all George could think of was:

  "Squibs missed half a game for me, and there were tears in Betty'seyes."

  Tears, because he had suggested the dreadful protagonist of a funeralmarch.

  His period of consciousness was brief. He drifted into the darkness oncemore, accompanied by that extraordinary and seductive vision of Betty intears. It came with him late the next morning back into the light.Sylvia's portrait was locked in a drawer far across the campus. Whatsuperb luxury to lie here with such a recollection, forecasting no nearphysical effort, quite relaxed, dreaming of Betty, who had always meantrest as Sylvia had always meant unquiet and absorbing struggle.

  He judged it wise to pretend to be asleep, but hunger at last made himstir and threw him into an anxious agitation of examinations byspecialists, of conferences with coaches, and of doubts and prayers andexhortations from everyone admitted to the room; for even thespecialists were Princeton men. They were non-committal. It had been anasty blow. There had been some concussion. They would guarantee him intwo weeks, but of course he didn't have that long. One old fellow turnedsuspiciously on Green.

  "He was overworked when he got hurt."

  "I'll be all right," George kept saying, "if you'll fix a headgear tocover my new soft spot."

  And finally:

  "I'll be all right if you'll only leave me alone."

  Yet, when they had, Squibs came, totally forgetful of his grave problemsof the classes, foreseeing no disaster nearly as serious as a defeat byYale--"now that we've done so well against Harvard, and would have donebetter if you hadn't got hurt"--limping the length of the sick-roomuntil the nurse lost her temper and drove him out. Then Goodhue arrivedas the herald of Josiah Blodgett, of all people.

  "This does me good," George pled with the nurse.

  And it did. For the first time in a number of weeks he felt amused asBlodgett with a pinkish silk handkerchief massaged his round, unhealthyface.

  "Thought you didn't like football," George said.

  "Less reason to like it now," Blodgett jerked out. "Only sensible placeto play it is the front yard of a hospital. Thought I'd come down andwatch you and maybe look up what was left afterward."

  George fancied a wavering of the little eyes in Goodhue's direction, andbecame even more amused, for he believed a more calculating man thanBlodgett didn't live; yet there seemed a real concern in the man'sinsistence that George, with football out of the way, should spend arecuperative Thanksgiving at his country place. George thought he would.He was going to work again for Blodgett next summer.

  Betty and Mrs. Bailly were the last callers the nurse would give in to,although she must have seen how they helped, one in a chair on eitherside of the bed; and it was difficult not to look at only one. In hereyes he sought for a souvenir of those tears, and wanted to tell her howsorry he was; but he wasn't really sorry, and anyway she mustn't guessthat he knew. Why had Mrs. Bailly bothered to tell him at all? Could hermotherly instinct hope for a coming together so far beyond belief? Hismemory of the remote portrait reminded him that it was incredible inevery way. He sighed. Betty beckoned Mrs. Bailly and rose.

  "Don't go," George begged, aware that he ought to urge her to go.

  "Betty was having tea with me," Mrs. Bailly offered.

  "I would have asked to be brought anyway," Betty said, openly. "Youfrightened us yesterday. We've all wanted to find out the truth."

  There was in her eyes now at least a reminiscent pain.

  "Don't worry," he said, "I'll take care of Lambert Planter for you afterall."

  She stooped swiftly and offered her hand.

  "You'll take care of yourself. It would be beastly if they let you playat the slightest risk."

  He grasped her hand. The touch of her flesh, combined with such amemory, made him momentarily forgetful. He held her hand too long, toofirmly. He saw the colour waver in her pale cheeks. He let her hand go,but he continued to watch her eyes until they turned uncertainly to Mrs.Bailly.

  When they had left he slept again. He slept away his listlessness of thepast few weeks. As he confided to his callers, who were confined to anhour in the afternoon, he did nothing but sleep and eat. He was morecontent than he had been since his indifferent days, long past, atOakmont. All these people had deserted the game for him when he was nolonger of any use to the game. Then he had acquired, even for suchclashing types as Wandel and Allen, a value that survived his football.He had advanced on a road where he had not consciously set his feet. Hetreasured that thought. Next Saturday he would reward these friends, forhe was confident he could do it now. By Wednesday he was up and dressed,feeling better than he had since the commencement of the season. If onlythey didn't hurt his head again! The newspapers helped there, too. If heplayed, they said, it would be under a severe handicap. He smiled,knowing he was far fitter, except for his head, than he had been theweek before.

  Until the squad left for New Haven he continued to live in theinfirmary, watching the light practice of the last days without evenputting on his football clothes.

  "The lay-off won't hurt me," he promised.

  Stringham and Green were content to accept his judgment.

  As soon as he was able he went to his room and got Sy
lvia's portrait. Hedisciplined himself for his temporary weakness following the accident.He tried to force from his memory the sentiment aroused by Betty's tearsthrough the thought that he approached his first real chance to impressSylvia. He could do it. He was like an animal insufficiently exercised,straining to be away.

  XXVI

  He alone, as the squad dressed in the gymnasium, displayed no signs ofmisgiving. Here was the climax of the season. All the better. The largerthe need the greater one's performance must be. But the others didn'tshare that simple faith.

  He enjoyed the ride to the field in the cold, clear air, throughhurrying, noisy, and colourful crowds. He liked the impromptu cheersthey gave the team, sometimes himself particularly.

  In the field dressing-room, like men condemned, the players receivedtheir final instructions. Already they were half beaten because theywere going to face Yale--all but George, who knew he was going to playbetter than ever, because he was going to face one Yale man, LambertPlanter, with Sylvia in the stands. He kept repeating to himself:

  "I will! I _will_!"

  He laughed at the others.

  "There aren't any wild beasts out there--just eleven men like ourselves.If there's going to be any wild-beasting let's do it to them."

  They trotted through an opening into a vast place walled by men andwomen. At their appearance the walls seemed to disintegrate, and achaotic noise went up as if from that ponderous convulsion.

  George dug his toes into the moist turf and looked about. Sylvia wasthere, a tiny unit in the disturbed enclosure, but if she had sat aloneit would have made no difference. His incentive would have beenunaltered.

  Again the convulsion, and the Yale team was on the field. George singledPlanter out--the other man that Sylvia would watch to-day. He did lookfit, and bigger than last year. George shrugged his shoulders.

  "I will!"

  Nevertheless, he was grateful for his week of absolute rest. He smiledas the crowd applauded his long kicks to the backs. He wasn't exertinghimself now.

  The two captains went to the centre of the field while the teams trottedoff. Lambert came up to George.

  "The return match," he said, "and you won't want another."

  George grinned.

  "I've heard it's the Yale system to try to frighten the young opponent."

  "You'll know more about the Yale system after the first half," Lambertsaid, and walked on.

  George realized that Lambert hadn't smiled once. In his face not a traceof the old banter had shown. Yale system or Yale spirit, it possessedvisible qualities of determination and peril, but he told himself hecould lick Lambert and smile while doing it.

  At the whistle he was off like a race horse, never losing sight ofLambert until he was reasonably sure the ball wouldn't get to him. Theyclashed personally almost at the start. Yale had the ball, and Lamberttook it, and tore through the line, and lunged ahead with growing speedand power. George met him head on. They smashed to the ground. As hehugged Lambert there for a moment George whispered:

  "Nothing fantastic about that, is there? Now get past me, Mr. Planter."

  The tackle had been vicious. Lambert rose rather slowly to his feet.

  George's kicks outdistanced Lambert's. Once he was forced by a Princetonfumble, and a march of thirty yards by Yale, to kick from behind his owngoal line. He did exert himself then, and he outguessed the two menlying back. As a result Yale put the ball in play on her own thirty-yardline, while the stands marvelled, the Princeton side demonstratively,yet George, long before the half was over, became conscious of somethingnot quite right. Since beyond question he was the star of his team hereceived a painstaking attention from the Yale men. There is plenty oflegitimate roughness in football, and it can be concentrated. In everyplay he was reminded of the respect Yale had for him. Perpetually hetried to spare his head, but it commenced to ache abominably, and aftera tackle by Lambert, to repay him for some of his own deadly and painfulones, he got up momentarily dazed.

  "Let's do something now," he pled with Goodhue, when, thanks to hiskicks, they had got the ball at midfield. He wanted a score before thissilly weakness could put him out. With a superb skill he went after ascore. His forward passes to Goodhue and the ends were well-conceived,beautifully executed, and frequently successful. Many times he took theball himself, fighting through the line or outside of tackle to runagainst Lambert or another back. Once he got loose for a run of fifteenyards, dodging or shaking off half the Yale team while the stands withprimeval ferocity approved and prayed.

  That made it first down on Yale's five-yard line. He was absolutelyconfident that the Yale team could not prevent his taking the ball overin the next few plays.

  "I will! I will! I will!" he said to himself.

  Alone, he felt, he could overcome that five yards against the eleven ofthem.

  "Let's have it, Dicky," he whispered. "I'm going over this play or thenext. Shoot me outside of tackle."

  On the first play Goodhue fumbled, and a Yale guard fell on the ball.George stared, stifling an instinct to destroy his friend. The chancehad been thrown away, and his head made him suffer more and more. Thenhe saw that Goodhue wanted to die, and as they went back to placethemselves for the Yale kick, George said:

  "You've proved we can get through them. Next time!"

  Would there be a next time? And Goodhue didn't seem to hear. With allhis enviable inheritance and training he failed to conceal a passionateremorse; his conviction of a peculiar and unforgivable criminality.

  In the dressing-room a few minutes later some of the players bitterlyrecalled that ghastly error, and a coach or two turned furiously on theculprit. It was too bad Squibs and Allen weren't there to watchGeorge's white temper, an emotion he didn't understand himself, born, hetried to explain it later, of his hurt head.

  "Cut that out!" he snarled.

  The temper of one of the coaches--an assistant--flamed back.

  "It was handing the game on a----"

  George reached out and caught the shoulders of that man who during theseason had ordered him around. The ringing in his head, the increasingpain, had destroyed all memory of discipline.

  "Say another word and I'll throw you out of here."

  The room fell silent. Some men gasped. The coach shrank from the furiousface, tried to elude the powerful grasp. Stringham hurried up. Georgelet the other go.

  "Mr. Stringham," he said, quietly, "if there's any more of this I'llquit right now, and so will the rest of the team if they've any pluck."

  Stringham motioned the coach away, soothed George, led him to a chair,where Green and a doctor got off his battered headgear. George wanted toscream, but he conquered the brimming impulse, and managed to speakrationally.

  "You've done all you can for us. We've got to play the game ourselves,and we're not giving anything away. We're not making any mistakes we canhelp."

  Goodhue came up and gripped his shoulder. The touch quieted him.

  "This man oughtn't to go back, Green," the doctor announced.

  George stiffened. He hadn't made that score. He hadn't smashed LambertPlanter half enough. Better to leave the field on a stretcher, and indarkness again, than to quit like this: to walk out between the halves;not to walk back. He began to lie, overcoming a physical agony of whichhe had never imagined his powerful body capable.

  "No, that doesn't hurt, nor that," he replied, calmly, to the doctor'squestions. "Don't think I'm nutty because I lost my temper. My head'sall right. That gear's fine."

  So they let him go back, and he counted the plays, willing himself toreceive and overcome the pounding each down brought him, continuing bypure force of will to outplay Lambert; to save his team from dangerousgains, from possible scores; nearly breaking away himself half-a-dozentimes, although the Princeton eleven was tiring and much of the play wasin its territory.

  The sun had gone behind heavy clouds. A few snowflakes fluttered down.It was nearly dark. In spite of his exertions he felt cold, and knew itfor an evil sign. Onc
e or twice he shivered. His throbbing head gave himan illusion of having grown enormously so that it got in everybody'sway. Instinctively he caught a Yale forward pass on his own thirty-yardline and tore off, slinging tacklers aside with the successful fury of ayoung bull all of whose dangerous actions are automatic. He had come along way. He didn't know just how far, but the Yale goal posts werenear. Then, quite consciously, he saw Lambert Planter cutting across tointercept him. The meeting of the two was unavoidable. He thought heheard Lambert's voice.

  "Not past me!"

  Lambert plunged for the tackle. George's right hand shot out and smashedopen against Lambert's face. He raced on, leaving Lambert sprawled andclawing at the ground.

  The quarterback managed to bring him down on the eight-yard line, thenlost him; yet, before George could get to his feet others had pounced,and his heavy, awkward head had crashed against the earth again.

  They dragged him to his feet. For a few moments he lurched about,shaking off friendly hands.

  "Only five minutes more, George," somebody prayed.

  Only five minutes! Good God! For him each moment was a century ofunspeakable martyrdom. Flecks of rain or snow touched his face, liftedin revolt. The contact, wet and cold, cleared his brain a trifle--let inthe screaming of the multitude, hoarse and incoherent, raised at firstin thanksgiving for his run, then, after its close, altering to menacingdisappointment and command. What business had they to tell him what todo? Up there, warm and comfortable, undergoing no exercise more violentthan occasional excited rising and sitting down, they had the selfishimpudence to order him to make a touchdown. Why should he obey, or eventry? He had done his job, more than any one could reasonably have askedof him. He had outplayed Lambert, gained more ground than any man on thefield, made more valuable tackles. Could he really impress Sylvia anyfurther? Why shouldn't he walk off now in the face of those unjustcommands to the rest he had earned and craved with all his body andmind?

  "Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown! Morton! Morton! Morton!"

  Damn them! Why not, indeed, walk off, where he wouldn't have to listento that thoughtless and autocratic impertinence?

  He glanced down at his blackened hands, at his filthy breeches, at hisjersey striped about the sleeves with orange; and with a wave ofself-loathing he knew why he couldn't go. He had sworn never to wearanything like livery again, yet here he was--in livery, a servant to menand women who asked dreadful things without troubling even toapproximate the agony of obedience.

  "I'll not be a servant," he had told Bailly.

  Bailly had made him one after all, and an old phrase of the tutor'sslipped back:

  "Some day, young man, you'll learn that the world lives by service."

  George had not believed. Now for a moment his half-conscious brain knewBailly had been right. He had to serve.

  He knocked aside the sponge Green held to his face. He indicated thebucket of cold water the trainer had carried out.

  "Throw it over my head," he said, "the whole thing. Throw it hard."

  Green obeyed. He, too, who ought to have understood, was selfish andimperious.

  "You make a touchdown!" he commanded hoarsely.

  The water stung George's eyes, rushed down his neck in thrillingstreams, braced him for the time. The teams lined up while thePrinceton stands roared approval that their best servant should remainon the job.

  Goodhue called the signal for a play around the left tackle. Every Yaleplayer was confident that George would take the ball, sensed thedirection of the play, and, over-anxious, massed there, all but thequarter, who lay back between the goal posts. George saw, and turnedsharply, darting to the right. Suddenly he knew, because of thatover-anxiety of Yale, that he had a touchdown. Only the Yale quarterbackhad a chance for the tackle, and he couldn't stop George in thatdistance.

  Out of the corner of his eye George noticed Goodhue standing to theright and a little behind. He, too, must have seen the victoriousoutcome of the play, and George caught in his attitude again that air ofa unique criminal. They'd hold that fumble against Dicky foreverunless--if Goodhue had the ball the Yale quarter couldn't even get hishands on him until he had crossed the line.

  "Dicky!"

  The dejected figure sprang into action. Without weighing his sacrifice,without letting himself think of the crime of disobeying a signal, ofthe risks of a hurried throw or of another fumble, George shot the ballacross, then forged ahead and put the Yale quarterback out of the play,while Goodhue strolled across the line and set the ball down behind thegoal posts.

  As he went back to kick the goal George heard through the crashingcacophony from the stands Goodhue's uncertain voice:

  "Why didn't you make that touchdown yourself? It was yours. You had it.You had earned it."

  "It was the team's," George answered, shortly. "I might have beenspilled. Sure thing for you."

  "You precious idiot!" Goodhue whispered.

  As George kicked the goal there came to him again, across his pain, thatsensation of being on a road he had not consciously set out to explore.He wondered why he was so well content.

  Eternity ended. With the whistle and the crunching of the horn Georgestaggered to his feet. Goodhue and another player supported him whilethe team clustered for a cheer for Yale. The Princeton stands were aterrific avalanche descending upon that little group. Green tried torescue him, shouting out his condition; but the avalanche wouldn't haveit. It dashed upon him, tossed him shoulder high, while it emittedcrashing noises out of which his name emerged.

  Goodhue was up also, and the others. Goodhue was gesturing and talking,pointing in his direction. Soon Goodhue and the others were down. Thehappy holocaust centred its efforts on George. Why? Had Goodhue giventhings away about that touchdown? Anyhow, they knew how to reward theirservants, these people.

  They carried George on strong shoulders at the head of their careeningprocession. His dazed brain understood that they desired to honour theman who had done the giant's share, the one who had made victorypossible, and he sensed a wrong, a sublime ignorance or indifferencethat they should carry only him. The victory went back of George Morton.He bent down, screaming into the ears of his bearers.

  "Squibs Bailly! He found me. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't have playedto-day. Bailly, or let me down! Bailly made that run! I tell you, Baillyplayed that game!"

  In his earnestness he grew hysterical.

  Maybe it was because they wanted to humour the hero, or perhaps theycaught his own hysteria, realizing what Bailly had done for him. Theystopped in front of the stands to which Bailly's bad foot had condemnedhim during this triumphant march. They commenced a high-pitched, franticchant.

  "We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly!"

  George waved his hands, holding the column until the slender figure,urged by the spectators remaining in the stands, came down withdifficulty and embarrassment to be caught and lifted tenderly up besideGeorge.

  Then, with these two aloft in the very front, the wild march was resumedthrough the Yale goal posts while Squibs' wrinkled face twitched, whilein his young eyes burned the unsurpassable light of a hopeless wishmiraculously come true.

  XXVII

  Green rescued George when his head was drooping and his eyes blurred. Hegot him to the gymnasium and stretched him out there and set the doctorsto work on his head.

  A voice got into George's brain. Who was talking? Was it Goodhue, orStringham?

  "I guess you can see him, but he's pretty vague. Played the whole gamewith a broken head. Lied to the doctors."

  George forced his eyes open. Lambert Planter, still in his stainedfootball clothes, bent over him.

  "Hello, Planter!"

  Lambert grasped the black hand.

  "Hello, George Morton!"

  That was all. Lambert went away, but George knew that what he had reallysaid was:

  "It's only what you've made of yourself that counts."

  XXVIII

  At Princeton they kept him in the i
nfirmary for a few days, but hedidn't like it. It filled him with a growing fear. Since it made noparticular difference now how long he was ill, they let him see too manycallers. He distrusted hero worship. Most of all was he afraid when suchdevotion came from Betty.

  "Being a vicarious hero," Mrs. Bailly said, "has made my husband thehappiest man in Princeton."

  After that she didn't enter the conversation much, and again Georgesensed, with a reluctant thrill, a maternal caring in her heart for him.

  "You never ought to have gone back in the second half," Betty said.

  "If I hadn't," he laughed, "who would have taken care of Lambert Planterfor you?"

  "Squibs says you might have been killed."

  "He's a great romancer," George exploded.

  "Just the same, it was splendid of you to play at all."

  She touched the white bandage about his head.

  "Does it hurt a great deal?"

  "No," he said, nearly honestly. "I only let them keep me here to cutsome dull lectures."

  He glanced at Betty wistfully.

  "Did I take care of Lambert Planter as you wanted?"

  She glanced away.

  "Are you punishing me? Haven't you read the papers? You outplayed himand every man on the field."

  "That was what you wished?"

  She turned back with an assumption of impatience.

  "What do you mean?"

  He couldn't tell her. He couldn't probe further into her feelings forLambert, her attitude toward himself. He had to get his mind in handagain.

  Betty brought her mother one day. Mrs. Alston was full of praise, butshe exuded an imperial distaste for his sick-room. Both times he had toovercome an impulse to beg Betty not to go so soon. That more thananything else made him afraid of himself. It was, he felt, an excellentchange to escape to an active life.

  Blodgett's place gave him a massive, tasteless welcome. It was one ofthose houses with high, sloping roofs, numerous chimneys, and muchsculptured stone, slightly reminiscent of Mansart, and enormouslysuggestive of that greatest architect of all, the big round dollar. Inits grounds it fitted like a huge diamond on a flowered shirt-front.There were terraces; and a sunken garden, a little self-conscious withcoy replicas of regency sculpture; and formal walks between carefullybarbered trees and hedges. It convinced George that his original choiceof three necessities had been wise. Blodgett had the money, but hedidn't have Squibs Bailly and Goodhue or the things they personified.And how Blodgett coveted The Goodhue Quality! George told himself thatwas why he had been asked, because he was so close to Goodhue. ButBlodgett let him see that there was another motive. After those gamesGeorge was temporarily one of the nation's famous men.

  It wasn't until he had arrived that George understood how nearBlodgett's place was to Oakmont--not more than fifteen miles. He wasinterested, but he had no idea, even if the Planters were there forThanksgiving, that he would see any of them.

  At Blodgett's bachelor enormity people came and went. At times the huge,over-decorated rooms were filled, yet to George they seemed depressinglyempty because he knew they didn't enclose the men and the women Blodgettwanted. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, indeed, motored out for Thanksgivingdinner--a reluctant concession, George gathered, to a profitablepartnership. Blodgett brought him forth as a specimen, and the specimenimpressed, for it isn't given to everyone to sit down at the close ofthe season with the year's most famous football player. It puzzledGeorge that in the precious qualities he craved he knew himself superiorto everyone in the house except these two who made him feel depressinglyinferior. Would he some day reach the point where he would reactunconsciously, as they did, to every social emergency?

  When the dinner party had scattered, Blodgett and he walked alone on theterrace in an ashen twilight. There the surprise was sprung. It wasclearly no surprise to his host, who beamed at George, pointing to thedrive.

  "I 'phoned him he would find an old football friend here if he'd takethe trouble to drive over."

  "But you didn't tell him my name?" George gasped.

  "No, but why----"

  Blodgett broke off and hurried his heavy body to the terrace edge togreet these important arrivals.

  Lambert sprang from the runabout he had driven up and helped Sylviadown. She was bundled in becoming furs. The sharp air had heightened herrich colouring. How beautiful she was--lovelier than George hadremembered! Here was the tonic to kill the distracting doubts raised byBetty. Here was the very spring of his wilful ambition. Glancing atSylvia, Betty's tranquil influence lost its power.

  At her first recognition of him she stopped abruptly, but Lambert ranacross and grasped his hand.

  "How do, Morton. Never guessed Blodgett's message referred to you."

  George disapproved of Blodgett's methods. Why had the man made him amystery at the very moment he used him as a bait to attract Lambert andSylvia? Wasn't he important enough, or was it only because he was aPrinceton man and Blodgett had feared some enmity might linger?

  Lambert's manner, at least, was proof that he had, indeed, meant to giveGeorge a message that night in the dressing-room at New Haven. Georgeappreciated that "How do, Morton"--greeting at last of a man for a maninstead of a man for a servant or a former servant; nor was Lambert'scall to his sister without a significance nearly sharp enough to hurt.

  "Sylvia! Didn't you meet this strong-armed Princetonian at Betty's dancea year ago?"

  George understood that she had no such motives as Lambert's for alteringher attitude, so much more uncompromising from the beginning than his.There had been no contact or shared pain. Only what she might haveobserved from a remote stand that Saturday could have affected her. Howwould she respond now?

  She advanced slowly, at first bewildered, then angry. But Blodgett hadnothing but his money to recommend him to her. She wouldn't, George wascertain, bare any intimacies of emotion before him.

  "I rather think I did."

  In her eyes George recognized the challenge he had last seen there.

  "Thanks for remembering me," he said rather in Wandel's manner.

  "A week ago Saturday----" she began, uncertainly, as though herremembering needed an apology.

  "Who could forget the great Morton?" Lambert laughed. "With a brokenhead he beat Yale. That was a hard game to lose."

  "I'd heard," she said, indifferently, "that you had been hurt."

  George would have preferred words as ugly and unforgettable as those shehad attacked him with the day of her accident. She turned to Blodgett.George had an instinct to shake her as she chatted easily and casually,glancing at him from time to time. He could have borne it better if shehadn't included him at all.

  He was glad her brother occupied him. Lambert was for dissecting eachplay of the game, and he made no attempt to hide the admiration forGeorge it had aroused. He gave the impression that he knew very well mendidn't do such things--particularly that little trick withGoodhue--unless they were the right sort.

  Blodgett said something about tea. They strolled into the house. A fireburned in the great hall. That was the only light. George came last,directly after Sylvia.

  "So you're a friend of Mr. Blodgett's!" she said with an intonationintended to hurt.

  "I wouldn't have expected," he answered, easily, "to find you a callerhere."

  She paused and faced him. Lights from the distant fire got as far as herface, disclosing her contempt. He wouldn't let her speak.

  "I won't have you think I had anything to do with bringing you. I neverguessed until I saw your brother drive up."

  She didn't believe him, or she tried to impress him with that affront.Blodgett and Lambert had gone on into the library. They remained quitealone in the huge, dusky hall, whose shadow masses shifted as the fireblazed and fell. For the first time since their ancient rides he couldtalk to her undisturbed. He wouldn't let that fact tie his tongue. Shecouldn't call him "stable boy" now, although she did try to say "beast"in another way. This solitude in the dusk, shared with her, strippedevery d
istracting thought from his mind. He was as hard as steel andhappy in his inflexibility.

  "You believe me," he said.

  She shook her head and turned for the door.

  "Let me say one thing," he urged. "It's rather important."

  She came back through the shadows, her attitude reminiscent of the oneshe had assumed long ago when she had sought to hurt him. He caught hisbreath, waiting.

  "There is nothing," she said, shivering a little in spite of the hall'swarmth and the furs she still wore, "that you would think of saying tome if you had changed at all from the impertinent groom I had to havedischarged."

  He laughed.

  "Oh! Call me anything you please, only I've always wanted to thank youfor not making a scene at Miss Alston's dance a year ago."

  He would be disappointed if that failed to hurt back. The thought ofSylvia Planter making a scene! At least it fanned her temper.

  "What is there," she threatened, defensively, "to prevent my telling Mr.Blodgett, any one I please, now?"

  "Nothing, except that I'm a trifle more on my feet," he answered. "I'mnot sure your scandal would blow me over. We're going to meet againfrequently. It can't he helped."

  "I never want," she said, as if speaking of something unclean andrevolting, "to see you again."

  His chance had come.

  "You're unfair, because it was you yourself, Miss Planter, who warned meI shouldn't forget. I haven't. I won't. Will you? Can't we shake handson that understanding?"

  With a hurried movement she hid her hands.

  "I couldn't touch you----"

  "You will when we dance."

  He thought her lips trembled a little, but the light was uncertain.

  "I will never dance with you again."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to," he said with a confident smile, "unless youcare to make a scene."

  She drew away, unfastening her cloak, her eyes full of that oldchallenge.

  "You're impossible," she whispered. "Can't you understand that I dislikeyou?"

  His heart leapt, for didn't he hate her?

  XXIX

  Lambert appeared in the doorway.

  "Blodgett's rung for tea----"

  He glanced curiously from one to the other. The broken shadows disclosedlittle, but the fact that she had lingered at all was arresting.

  "What's up, Sylvia?"

  She went close to her brother.

  "This--this old servant has been impertinent again."

  Lambert smiled.

  "He's rather more than that now, sis. That's over--forgotten. Still ifthe Princeton fellow Morton's been impertinent----"

  He spread his arms, smiling.

  "Have I got to submit myself to a trouncing more than once a year?"

  Sylvia shrugged her shoulders.

  "No," she said, impatiently. "You say it's forgotten. All right."

  George knew it would never be forgotten now by either of them. Lambert'sunruffled attitude made him uneasy. Her brother's scoffing response toher accusation suggested that Lambert saw, since they would be more orless thrown together, a beneficial side to such encounters as the onejust ended. For George didn't dream that Lambert had forgotten, either,those old boasts.

  Another depressing thought made him bad company for Blodgett after thecallers had driven away. It came from a survey, following his glimpse ofSylvia's beauty, of all the blatant magnificence with which Blodgett hadsurrounded himself. Blodgett after dinner, a little flushed with wine,and the triumph of having had in his house on the same day two Sinclairsand two Planters, attempted an explanation.

  "I didn't build this, Morton, or my place in town, just for JosiahBlodgett."

  George wasn't in a mood for subtleties of expression.

  "I've often wondered why you haven't married. With your money you oughtto have a big choice."

  Blodgett sipped a liqueur. He smiled in a self-satisfied way.

  "Money will buy about anything--even the kind of a wife you want. I'm inno hurry. When I marry, young man, it will be the right kind."

  And George understood that he meant by the right kind some popular andwell-bred girl who would make the Blodgett family hit a social average.

  He carried that terrifying thought of marriage back to Princeton. He hadno fear Sylvia would ever look seriously in Blodgett's direction. Moneycould scarcely bribe her. This, however, was her second season. Ofcourse she would marry someone of her own immediate circle. She couldtake her choice. When that happened what would become of hisdetermination and his boasts? Frequently he clenched her riding crop andswore:

  "Nothing--not even that--can keep me from accomplishing what I've setout to do. I'll have my way with her."

  He shrank, nevertheless, from the thought of her adopting such adefence. It was intolerable. He read the New York papers with growingsuspense. As an antidote he attacked harder than ever his study of causeand effect in the Street. With football out of the way he could give agood deal of time to that, and Blodgett now and then enclosed a hint inMundy's letters. It was possible to send a fair amount of money to hisparents; but his mother's letters never varied from their formality ofthanks and solicitations as to his health. His father didn't write atall. Of course, they couldn't understand what he was doing. The shadowof the great Planter remained perpetually over their little home.

  Another doubt troubled George. With the club matter out of the way, andthe presidency of the class his, and a full football garland resting onhis head, was he wasting his time at Princeton? The remembrance ofBlodgett steadied him. He needed all that Princeton and itscompanionships could give.

  Purposefully he avoided Betty. Was she, indeed, responsible for thatsoftness he had yielded to in the infirmary and during the final game?In his life, he kept telling himself, there was no room for sentiment.Sentiment was childish, a hindrance. Hadn't he decided at the start thatnothing should turn him from his attempt for the summit? Still hecouldn't avoid seeing Betty now and then in Princeton, or at the dancesin New York to which he went with Goodhue. The less he saw of Betty,moreover, the stronger grew his feeling of something essential lackingfrom his life; and it bothered that, after a long separation, she wasinvariably friendly instead of reproachful. He found that he couldn'tlook at her eyes without hungrily trying to picture them wet with tearsfor him.

  To some extent other demands took his mind from such problems. Therumpus Goodhue had foreseen developed. Important men came or wrote fromNew York or Philadelphia in Dalrymple's cause, but at the meetings ofthe section George sat obdurate, and, when the struggle approached acrisis, Goodhue came out openly on the side of his room-mate.

  "You can have Dalrymple in the club," was George's ultimatum, "or youcan have me, but you can't have us both."

  If George resigned, Goodhue announced, he would follow. Dalrymple wasdoomed. The important men went back or ceased writing. Then Wandelslipped Rogers into the charmed circle--the payment of a debt; andGeorge laughed and left the meeting, saying:

  "You can elect anybody you please now."

  Cynically, he was tempted to try to force Allen in.

  "You're not honest even with your own group," he said afterward toWandel.

  The club lost its value as a marker of progress. Besides, he didn'tlook forward to eating with that little snob, Rogers, for two years. Nordid he quite care for Wandel's reply.

  "You've enough class-consciousness for both of us, heroic and puissantApollo."

  For the first time George let himself go with Wandel.

  "You'll find Apollo Nemesis, little man, unless you learn to say whatyou mean in words of one syllable."

  And the discussion of the clubs went on, breeding enmities butdetermining no radical reform.

  The struggle at Princeton was over. George looked often at the youngermen, who didn't have to prepare themselves minutely for the greaterstruggle just ahead, envying them their careless play, their pronenessto over-indulgence in beer and syncopated song. While he worked withhigh and low prices and variations in exc
hange he heard them callingcheerily across the campus, gathering parties for poker or bridge or asession at the Nassau. Goodhue, even Wandel, found some time forfrivolity. George strangled his instinct to join them. He had too muchto do. In every diversion he took he wanted to feel there was a phasepersonally valuable to him.

  He counted the days between his glimpses of Sylvia, and tried not tomeasure the hours dividing his meetings with Betty. If only he dared lethimself go, dared cease battle for a little, dared justify Sylvia'sattitude! Even Goodhue noticed his avoidance of Betty.

  He encountered Sylvia in New York; asked her to dance with him; wasrefused; cut in when she was, in a sense, helpless; and glided aroundthe room with a sullen, brilliant body that fairly palpitated withdistaste.

  Even during the summer he ran into her once on Long Island. Then he wasalways missing her. Perhaps she had learned to avoid him. He shrank eachmorning from his paper, from any bit of rumour connecting her with aman; and Blodgett, he noticed, was still making money for a bachelorbank account.

  He came to conceive a liking for his flabby employer, although he wasquite sure Blodgett wouldn't have bothered with him a moment if hehadn't been a prominent college man with such ties among the great asBlodgett hadn't been able to knot himself. What was more to the point,the stout man admired George's ambition. He was more generous with hissurreptitious advice. He paid a larger salary which he admitted was lessthan George earned during that summer. George, therefore, went back toPrinceton with fuller pockets. Again Mundy was loath to let him depart.

  "You know more about this game than men who've worked at it for years."

  His face of a parson grimaced.

  "You'd soon be able to hire me, if you'd stick on the job instead ofgoing back to college to get smashed up at football."

  George, however, didn't suffer much damage that year. He playedbrilliantly through a season that without him would have been far moredisastrous than it was.

  When it was all over Squibs sat one night silently for a long time. Atlast he stirred, lighted his pipe, and spoke.

  "I ought to say to you, George, that I was as satisfied with you indefeat as I was in victory."

  "I outplayed Planter, anyway, didn't I?"

  Bailly studied him.

  "Did that mean more to you than having Princeton beaten?"

  "It kept Princeton from being beaten worse than it was."

  "Yes," Bailly admitted, "and, perhaps, you are right to find a personalvictory somewhere in a general defeat."

  "But you really think it selfish," George said.

  "I wish," Bailly answered, "I could graft on your brain some of Allen'smental processes, even his dissatisfactions."

  "You can't," George said, bluntly. "I'm tired of Allen's smash talk.Most people like him could be bought with the very conditions theyattack."

  Bailly arose and limped up and down. When he spoke his voice vibratedwith an unaccustomed passion:

  "I don't know. I don't think so. But I want you to realize thatprostrate worship of the fat old god success is as wicked as any otheridolatry. I want you to understand that Allen and his kind may besincere and right, that a vision unblinded by the bull's-eye may seethe target all awry. My fear goes back to your first days here. You arestill ashamed of service."

  "I've served," George said, hotly.

  "Was it real service," Bailly asked gently, "or a shot at thebull's-eye?"

  Almost involuntarily George clapped his fingers to his head.

  "You're wrong, sir," he cried. "I've served when nothing but the thoughtof service brought me through."

  Mrs. Bailly hurried in. She put one hand on George's shoulder. With theother she patted his hair.

  "What's he scolding my boy for?"

  George grinned at Bailly.

  "Don't you see, sir, if I were as bad as you think she couldn't dothat?"

  Bailly nodded thoughtfully.

  "If you've served as you say you must be merely hiding the good."

  XXX

  To himself at times George acknowledged his badness, in Bailly's termsat least. He sometimes sympathized with Allen's point of view, evenwhile he heckled that angular man who often sat with him and Goodhue,talking about strikes, and violence, and drunkenness as the quickestrecreation for men who had no time for play. He longed to tell Allen injustification that he had walked out of the working class himself.Later, staring at Sylvia's portrait, he would grow hard again. Men, hewould repeat, wanted to smash down obstacles only because they didn'thave the strength to scramble over. He had the strength. But Baillywould intrude again. What about the congenitally unsound?

  "I'm not unsound," he would say to himself, studying the picture.

  And he suspected that it was because he didn't want to be good that hewas afraid of seeing too much of Betty Alston and her kindliness and thereminiscence of tears in her eyes. If Squibs only knew how blessedlyeasy it would be to turn good, to let ambition and Sylvia slip into aremote and ugly memory! More frequently now he stared at her portrait,forcing into his heart the thought of hatred and into her face theexpression of it; for the more hatred there was between them, thesmaller was the chance of his growing weak.

  He longed for the approaching escape from his gravest temptation. Whenhe was through college and definitely in New York he would find itsimpler to be hard. For that matter, why should he grow weak? He hadachieved a success far beyond the common. He would graduate president ofhis class, captain of the football team, although he had tried to throwboth honours to Goodhue; member of the club that had drawn the best menof his year, a power in the Senior Council; the man who had done mostfor Princeton; a high-stand scholar; and, most important of all, one whohad acquired with his education a certain amount of culture and an easeof manner in any company. Allen was still angular, as were most of thoseother men who had come here, like George, with nothing behind them.

  In his success he saw no miracle, no luck beyond Squibs' early interest.What he had won he had applied himself to get with hardness, coldcalculation, an indomitable will. He had kept his eyes open. He had usedeverybody, everything, to help him climb toward Sylvia out of the valleyof humiliation. The qualities that had brought him all that were goodqualities, worth clinging to. As he had climbed he would continue inspite of Bailly or Allen or Betty. But when he thought of Betty he hadto fight the tears from his own eyes.

  A little while before his graduation he went to her, knowing he must dosomething to make her less kind, to destroy the impression she gave himof one who, like Mrs. Bailly, always thought of him at his best.

  He walked alone through a bland moonlight scented with honeysuckle fromthe hedges. His heart beat as it had that day four years ago when he hadunintentionally let Sylvia know his presumptuous craving.

  Two white figures strolled in front of the house. He went up, strivingto overcome the absurd reluctance in his heart. It wasn't simple todestroy a thing as beautiful as this friendship. Betty paused andturned, drawing her mother around.

  "I thought you'd quite forgotten us, George."

  Nor did he want to kill the welcome in her voice.

  "You're leaving Princeton very soon," Mrs. Alston said. "I'm glad you'vecome. Of course, it isn't to say good-bye."

  He wondered if she didn't long for a parting to be broken only byoccasional meetings in town. He wondered if she didn't fear for Betty.If there had been no Sylvia, if he had dared abandon the hard things andask for Betty, this imperious woman would have put plenty of searchingquestions. But, he reflected, if it hadn't been for Sylvia he neverwould have come so far, never would have come to Betty. Everyconsideration held him on his course.

  He feared that Mrs. Alston, in her narrow, careful manner, wouldn't givehim an opportunity to speak to Betty alone. He was glad when they wentin and found Mr. Alston, who liked and admired him. When he left theremust come a chance. As he said good-night, indeed, Betty followed him tothe hall, and he whispered, so that the servant couldn't hear:

  "Betty, I've a confession. Won
't you walk toward the gate with me?"

  The colour entered her white face as she turned and called to hermother:

  "I'll walk to the gate with George."

  From the room he fancied a rustling, irritated acknowledgment.

  But she came, throwing a transparent scarf over her tawny hair, and theywere alone in the moonlight and the scent of flowers, walking side byside across grass, beneath the heavy branches of trees.

  "See here, Betty! I've no business to call you that--never have had.Without saying anything I've lied to you ever since I've been inPrinceton. I've taken advantage of your friendship."

  She paused. The thick leaves let through sufficient light to show himthe bewilderment in her eyes. Her voice was a little frightened.

  "You can't make me believe that. You're not the sort of man that doessuch things. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Thanks," he said, "but you're wrong, and I can't go away withouttelling you just what I am."

  "You're just--George Morton," she said with a troubled smile.

  He tried not to listen. He hurried on with this killing that appealed tohim as necessary.

  "Remember the day in Freshman year, or before, wasn't it, when yourecognized Sylvia Planter's bulldog? It was her dog. She had given himaway--to me, because she had set him on me, and instead of biting he hadlicked my face. So she said to take him away because she could neverbear to see him again."

  Betty's bewilderment grew. She spoke gropingly.

  "I guessed there had been something unusual between you and thePlanters. What difference does it make? Why do you tell me now? Anythingas old as that makes no difference."

  "But it does," he blurted out. "I know you too well now not to tellyou."

  "But you and Lambert are good friends. You dance with Sylvia."

  "And she," he said with a harsh laugh, "still calls me an impertinentservant."

  Betty started. She drew a little away.

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Just that," he said, softly.

  He forced himself to a relentless description of his father and mother,of the livery stable, of the failure, of his acceptance of the privilegeto be a paid by the week guardian on a horse of the beautiful SylviaPlanter. The only point he left obscure was the sentimental basis of hisquarrel with her.

  "I _was_ impertinent," he ended. "She called me an impertinent servant,a stable boy, other pleasant names. She had me fired, or would have, ifI hadn't been going anyway. Now you know how I've lied to you and what Iam!"

  He waited, arms half raised, as one awaits an inevitable blow. For aminute she continued to stare. Then she stepped nearer. Although he hadsuffered to win an opposite response, she did what he had forced LambertPlanter to do.

  "No wonder Lambert admires you," she said, warmly. "To do so much fromsuch a beginning! I knew at first you were different from--from us.You're not now. It's----"

  She broke off, drawing away a little again. He struggled to keep hishands from her white, slender figure, from her hair, yellow in themoonlight.

  "You don't understand," he said, desperately. "This thing that you sayI've become is only veneer. It may have thickened, but it's stillveneer."

  It hurt to say that more than anything else, for all along he had beenafraid it was the truth.

  "Underneath the veneer," he went on, "I'm the mucker, the stable boy ifyou like. If I were anything else I would have told you all this yearsago. Betty! Betty!"

  She drew farther away. He thought her voice was frightened, not quiteclear.

  "Please! Don't say anything more now. I'd rather not. I--I----Listen!What difference does it make to me or anybody where you came from?You're what you are, what you always have been since I've known you. Itwas brave to tell me. I know that. I'm going now. Please----"

  She moved swiftly forward, stretching out her hand. He took it, felt itsuncertain movement in his, wondered why it was so cold, tightened hisgrasp on its delightful and bewitching fragility. Her voice wasuncertain, too. It caressed him as he unconsciously caressed her hand.

  "Good-night, George."

  He couldn't help holding that slender hand tighter. She swayed away,whispering breathlessly:

  "Let me go now!"

  He opened his fingers, and she ran lightly, with a broken laugh, acrossthe lawn away from him.

  The moonlight was like the half light of a breathless chapel, and thescent of flowers suggested death; yet he had not killed what he had cometo kill.

  When he couldn't see her white figure any more George Morton, greatestof football players, big man of his class, already with greedy fingersin the fat purse of Wall Street, flung himself on the thick grass andfought to keep his shoulders from jerking, his throat from choking, hiseyes from filling with tears.