Chapter II (2)

He had smiled reassuringly, to show that he did not take any offence. But the tall young man did not seem to dream of embarrassment; he only said: "You _are_?" and passed on.

This happened early in September, the day before the term opened, and the little tutor had been busying himself looking about the campus and getting his bearings in the little city. He had never been in the West before, and this seemed very far out West; it was like a foreign country to him. The broad, evenly laid, well-kept streets lined with so many fine lawns, were a matter of great interest and speculation. He thought it queer that when a man could afford to have nearly a whole block of lawn that he should have only a frame house upon it, but some of these frame houses were very large and comfortable and invariably freshly painted, and he liked that. He admired the new and handsome business blocks of fine brick and stone. But what seemed most wonderful to him was the broad, level sweep of the prairie when he walked out into the country. It almost took his breath away.

But it was the campus, as being his future place of work, that occupied most of his attention and curiosity. He walked slowly over it all, examining each building and every feature thoughtfully and with a critical air as one about to buy. There were only about a half-dozen buildings in all, including both the college and academy. It struck him as odd that both institutions should be on the same grounds and apparently of the same importance. The buildings were rather new, and he missed the dignified, patriarchal aspect of the old campus he had been accustomed to. He thought he could never feel any veneration for all this brand-newness as he had toward those old landmarks he loved so well. Indeed, it all seemed small and puny viewed in this light, and he walked about with rather a patronizing air, as he thought with pride of his Alma Mater, and it seemed to him that this institution was favored in obtaining for an instructor a graduate of such a famous old institution--and an honorman, too, he said to himself, with a blush of satisfaction.

Of course, this preparatory school teaching was only temporary with him. Only a preparation for something else, and that but a step to something higher, until he became--but the little tutor never acknowledged just how high his ambition aimed. It was at this point, as he was leaning against a tree, that the young man had come up and asked him what class he belonged to.

But he had not minded that in the least; he knew how boyish-looking he was. It was very natural for them to make such mistakes. A little thing like that would not discourage him. They did not know him; wait a few days, and they would learn who he was.

And he was right. The whole college and academy learned who he was the very next afternoon in chapel. And even the townsfolk soon learned to know him by sight; they thought it odd that such a little fellow should be a professor. By the end of the month the children coming home from school had learned to point out his small figure with the large head, carried with his peculiar, springing strides, and they would say to one another, "There goes the Little Tutor."

But as they watched him walking briskly by, holding his body stiff and straight, they little knew what was going on behind that smile, which was a curious mixture of gravity and good nature.

For some reason or other things had not gone as he had expected, and so far, at least, they were not tending toward the future he had pictured.

He had thought that out there they would appreciate that he came from such a large, famous old institution, and that he had stood so well in his class and all that; but neither the attitude of the faculty, college, nor academy indicated anything of the kind, he thought. And this wasn't all. No one seemed to take any interest in him as an individual. That is, beyond a cold curiosity.

He did not see why no one took the initiative and made friends with him; he could not, being a new-comer. He knew he had never been very popular at college, but he had a few good friends, and nearly every one of his classmates was kind to him. As he looked back on those dear old days, midst those dear old influences, his present surroundings seemed cold, very cold.

And he could not explain this coldness. Surely it could not all be on account of that first mistake. Oh, that terrible first day in chapel. He thought he would never forget it. He remembered sitting up there on the platform, before all the college and academy--for out there the whole faculty come to chapel, and they sit in a semicircle behind the President. He was conscious of many eyes being upon him, and he knew what they were thinking and whispering to each other, "Is that the new tutor?" "What a kid!" And, indeed, as he cast his eyes furtively over the faces before him he discovered even among the preps. many a raw-boned countryman who was his senior in years, and this thought had so rattled him that he took off his glasses--those large owl-eyed things--and began wiping them, as he always did when embarrassed, and then he suddenly reminded himself that this always made him appear more youthful, and so he clapped them on again. He had not felt this peculiar lonely out-of-it feeling for a good many years; no, not since beginning of freshman year, at his first eating club.

But what was that? He had heard his name pronounced. Surely he was not going to be called upon to lead in prayer. Then the whole sentence re-echoed in his confused brain, the distinct clear-cut words of the President, "Horatio B. Stacy, A.B., will be Professor Wilkin's assistant in the academy." If any of the bold, searching eyes had for a moment wandered from him, he knew they had returned again now. He remembered wondering if he jumped enough for them to see him. He remembered how the steam-heater rattled and pounded in the little chapel and the odor of the new paint, as the young President went on with his perfectly enunciated words in his clear and cold voice: "He comes highly recommended from a good Eastern college. I trust he will prove satisfactory. Let us sing number three hundred and sixteenth." The President pronounced sixteenth perfectly. And the organ burst forth with a loud, cruel prelude, and the hymn was sung. The little tutor always remembered number three hundred and sixteen, one bar of which always seemed to sing "satisfactory."

When the long hymn was finished, the President, having pronounced the benediction, stepped down from the platform and started down the centre aisle, followed by an old white-headed professor, and he by the professor on his left. The little tutor sat next, and so, innocently enough, he started down behind them. How was he to know that there was a custom to be observed in this trooping out of chapel, that the order was determined by precedence? Ah, it made him flush when he thought of it, even now. He could remember just how the whole college and academy laughed--they did not titter, but laughed outright--and when he realized the position and hesitated, trembling, half-way down the aisle, and tried to smile, some of them fairly shouted. He could even now see, in his mind, the face of one of the college men next to the aisle as he leaned back and laughed merrily, cruelly, looking squarely into the little tutor's eyes without pretending to control his mirth. The little tutor never remembered how he gained the cool of the outside.

But why was he to be blamed? They should have told him. How was he to know that there was any rule about the matter? At his college the professors never attended chapel; that is, except two or three, who sat in the stalls.

The next morning, with some fear and much hope, he had met his first class. Perhaps his hand shook a little as he held the roll while his pupils came into the room, and his voice trembled, perhaps, as he addressed the class, and he couldn't help blushing--his old failing--when he heard the laugh caused by his mispronouncing a queer name; but he told himself that he had gotten along splendidly when the long day was over, and the future seemed bright once more as he planned his work.

He thought out just what his attitude toward his pupils would be. He was determined that he would not lord it over them, but would win their confidence, become friends with them, get to know them all personally, and invite them around to his rooms some time, perhaps. He even determined upon his policy of discipline, if that should become necessary. He would not, he thought, be sarcastic with them, as one of his professors at college used to; no, because that, he deemed, was taking a mean advantage of the student, who could not, by reason of the relations of master and pupil, answer back; the master had it all on his side. Neither did he think he would affect the indignant attitude; no, because--well, he remembered the fellows' laugh at him when he once tried to be indignant. He would assume a dignified disregard, as the dean used to. That was the best method of maintaining order and attention in a class-room. That would best become Horatio B. Stacy, A.B. He fell asleep that night wondering what his pupils would give him for a nickname.

Now, as the week went by he never had been obliged to exercise his authority. The classes all paid very good attention, better than he had hoped for. But how very different this thing teaching was from what he had supposed!

The little tutor had been there almost a month; he had walked all around the town and about the country; had faithfully attended all his classes, and sometimes he had six hours a day; had gone to chapel every evening at five; had sat, stared at, in the semicircle behind the President, and had trooped out again with his odd gait, and always the _last_ one in the procession now. But he had not a single friend in the State, unless it was his landlady with the false hair front.

He remembered thinking at college that the attitude of those dear old professors was rather distant. But that dignified conservatism was nothing like this unconcern, this icy indifference, manifested by these professors and assistants; and he was one of their number remember, too.

He smiled grimly as he recollected how that, when he first came, he had rather expected that some of them might invite him to dine. This he deemed would be proper in view of his position as an assistant, especially as this institution was so small that the faculty was not large enough to be divided into many cliques. And he had even pictured himself enjoying a delightful conversation with that old, white-haired professor whom he had taken such a fancy to, or, perhaps, holding an animated discussion with some of them as to the respective merits of Western and Eastern colleges.

But he could have endured their attitude if only his plans would work in regard to his classes. It was about his pupils that he thought the most. He made a study of each man and each mind and learned what to expect from each: which were good at one kind of work and which at another; which were the bright, indolent fellows and which were the plodders. They nearly all worked quite hard, that was the one encouraging thing. But he could not understand them. The little tutor had never been to a preparatory school himself, but he felt certain that these fellows were not like most preps. He certainly could not understand their attitude toward himself. He wanted to be friendly with them all, and tried to laugh and joke occasionally to make the relations easy, but it was of no use, they only looked at him inquiringly, as if he were doing something they hadn't bargained for. They all came to recitation in a business-like way, which seemed to say, "Here we are, now you teach us."

They never thought of bowing to him as they came in. They seemed to regard him only as an automaton that was paid--and by _their_ money--to stand up there and teach, and he would not have believed that he was thought of by them outside, that he entered into their existence at all, if he had not one day come into the room with rubber over-shoes on his feet and heard them say something about the "Little Tutor." That was the time he learned his nickname, and he felt rather glad when he heard them say it, though they were somewhat confused when they turned and saw him.

When recitations were over, when they had gotten their money's worth, they returned to their lodgings in the same brisk business-like manner, for dormitories are scarce out there. The little tutor thought perhaps this had something to do with the lack of college feeling in the institution. There was no _esprit de corps_. They were, the whole collection of them, college and academy, simply a lot of young men who came together in one place, paid their money and got an education by which they would earn more than enough to repay them. So you see it was a good bargain. Perhaps this was putting it too strongly, he reminded himself, for there was some feeble exhibition of class spirit once or twice, and a football team, too, that practised after supper in their shirt-sleeves. But, oh! how he longed for a sight of those old familiar figures he used to see slouching carelessly across the campus in corduroys and sweaters, with pipes and songs and all that easy good friendship, and the practising at the 'varsity grounds. But these are bitter thoughts.

He hoped that these pupils of his would not always wear linen shirts. He wished their vests were not cut so low. He longed for a sight of a familiar cheviot shirt and a carelessly tied bow at the neck. He would have given a good deal, he thought, just to see one man walking by with a sweater tied by the arms about his neck, a dirty sweater perhaps, and his hands deep down in his pockets. Sometimes he felt that he would enjoy, yes, actually, hearing somebody flunk in one of his classes. Who would have thought that of little poler Stacy?

You see the boy was almost hysterical with this morbid homesickness. He was brim full of it, and a very slight jar would have been enough to upset him and spill it all.

Sometimes he realized that he was making a fool of himself and then he used to take himself in hand for being so childish. But he had always had these little boyish ways of thinking about the people and things around him. He remembered how it was at college; when he first came as a freshman his poor little brain was nearly worn out with wondering and imagining, and when he fell to thinking of those days long ago, it seemed impossible to him that he was a grown man now and teaching in an academy. But it was true, and the framed diploma hung in his room. And, what was more to the point, he was making money. He had felt encouraged when he received his first earnings.

On a Saturday evening he had called around at the treasurer's office and received his money, carefully counted and put in an envelope with a blue lining. The treasurer was an old man with a hard face, and when the little tutor came in he did not say "How do you do," or anything, but simply turned toward the safe and took out the money, keeping the pen in his teeth as he did so, and only taking it out to ask, as he looked up at the little tutor, "That is right," in an exact tone, "is it not?"

He hated this proceeding, and hoped that next time there would not be the right amount, so that he might have a cheque. But he felt light-hearted when he carried the money to his room and wrote his letter home and enclosed a certain share of his profits. Prospects seemed brighter and his hopes ran high, and his dreams ran away out into the future when all his drudgery would be over and he would be recognized as a great man, an authority on--but somehow it was hard to hold those old aspirations that had seemed so realizable about commencement time, when he was an honor man. This cold western climate and these common-sense practical New Englanders seemed to have a chilling effect upon his ambitions, especially as his self-confidence was never very firmly rooted, for he was not, strangely enough for a young man, very much of a believer in himself, and his conceit was not spontaneous, but was of the bolstered-up kind, so that when he halted in his castle-building he was in a very dangerous position, for, if you take a young man's conceit away from him, is he _not_ in a very dangerous position indeed?

He was also, he told himself, learning this life lesson: that to win what men call success in this world required something that he was afraid he did not possess: he did not know exactly what to call it. When he was in college he used to comfort himself with saying: "Never mind, you may not amount to much here, but when you get out in the world individual worth will not be handicapped by modesty." But he was beginning to despair of this. It would do well enough in books, but it took what they call _bluff_ to get along with men, even if you want to do them good, and this, he knew very well, he did not, and never could, possess. And when he followed this line of thought, he used to sigh and come to the conclusion that what the world called success was not worth the struggle when one had to use such manoeuvring to win it. But he reminded himself that he must not allow himself to sink into such pessimism, as in his case those at home had a claim upon him.

It was not at all characteristic of the "little Stacy" of college days to become so despondent, for he was of a hopeful, trusting disposition, and it was all because he had no friend to talk to, no kindred spirit for his confiding nature, or any other kind for that matter.

His discouragement took the form of indignation in the end, but not before he had several times taken hope and smiled in his old trustful way, only to find that it was a blind lead.

For instance when that young Wheaton in his rhetoric class appeared to be striking up a friendship with him, and even walked through the campus several times with him, the chances of having a friend had seemed fair and he began to think that at last he was being appreciated by one fellow, and a nice fellow too. But after young Wheaton had obtained an extension of time on the essay he was to write his manifestations of friendliness suddenly ceased. And the little tutor wondered how he had offended his pupil.

Then there was the time he was invited to a certain annual reception that is always given. The little tutor knew that he was asked only by reason of his position, but he remembered accepting with a good deal of pleasure, and the anticipation of his _entrée_ into the society of the town was a matter of no small excitement to him: a good deal depended on it, he had told himself. He meditated considerably over the manner of conducting himself in his first appearance in society as an instructor: what was becoming to a tutor, and just how dignified he ought to appear, and he even found himself practising remarks in his room and examining in the glass the expression of his face and all those old failings of his self-conscious nature of which he was so ashamed. He remembered how excited he was as he rang the door-bell, and how awkwardly he bowed when he had come down-stairs, and how little the people restrained their curiosity in examining him. He did not mingle with the younger people any more than he could help, for he always hated young ladies, but stayed with a group of women who were talking about Emerson.

These ladies were members of a literary club, which thought itself very literary and tried to be Bostonian; and no doubt it was. Stacy had some very good ideas, and would have been willing to express them, and could have quoted readily from an essay he had once written, but somehow they did not seem to be expecting anything from him except to smile and say, "Yes, certainly," now and then, as those two young assistants were doing, and so he tried to pick up a low-toned conversation with one of them on the edge of the circle. But they made themselves so obnoxious by their air of superiority that he boldly made some allusion to the athletic insignificance on the part of their college in comparison with his own. One of them immediately made some answer which brought in something about Yale (at which the other laughed loudly), and then drew up his brow and looked complacent, as if he had made a splendid shot. The poor little tutor turned on his heel furious, and felt a strange desire to swear, something that he had never done in all his innocent life.

He came to the conclusion that the fault of this whole matter lay not in himself, but in them. This is what he conceived to be the reason: Nearly everyone in the little city, students, faculty and townspeople, were New Englanders by blood or birth. That part of the country, like other sections of the West, happened to have been settled entirely by New Englanders. Perhaps they were not all of the best sort of New England extraction either. At any rate no one knew anything but New England ways of doing things and looking at things, and to the little tutor, whose environments had not been such as to cause him to bow down and worship the Pilgrim fathers, or to think that the sun rose and set on Plymouth Rock, all this was at first a matter of surprise, then of wonder, and finally of hate.

Every day in chapel the President spoke in his cold tones of character moulding, and held up before his hearers Puritan models. On Sundays the little tutor went to the principal church of the place, and a kind of essay that seemed to him nothing but washed-out New Englandism was thrown out to him. The text-books were all those of New England writers; all the manners and customs about the college were copied after New England colleges; the very compositions that he had to correct contained allusions to the Pilgrim Fathers and sturdy New England character and noble Puritan traits until the little tutor began to wish that there never had been a Plymouth Rock. He wondered how everyone else seemed to stand it so well. But they had been brought up on it and never knew anything different, and could not conceive of any one's not thinking as they did and as their fathers did and as their great-grandfathers had done, and pitied (only Stacy doubted if they could pity) any family that did not have a piece of the Mayflower to worship.

The most aggravating feature of it, to the little tutor, was that they were so very self-satisfied about it all, never dreaming that there could be anyone so barbarous as not to envy their New England blood, and it was this attitude that used to make the little tutor indignant and cause him to wish he could be sarcastic, as one of his professors used to be: how he would pitch into them! But the worst of it was that he realized his diminutiveness and his boyishness; so he felt helpless and baffled, and he had to submit to the cold indifference and haughty air of superiority worn by those two young assistants not much older than himself, who graduated from such a miserable little unheard-of college. Stacy thought that if they had gone to his college they would have had some of the conceit taken out of them. He thought he might stand it all as far as he was concerned, but he felt somehow as if they were insulting his college in their treatment of himself, her representative. He blushed to think how poor a representative he was.

It was just at this point in his discouragement that he had an opportunity which he had often longed for. At last he would have a chance to show them what was in him. This would be his final stroke, he told himself, and he staked his all upon it. He was to lead the prayer-meeting. These prayer-meetings were attended by the college, the academy, and even the professors.

Like many excessively shy men, the little tutor was not abashed before a crowd when he appeared in some identity other than his own. At college he had always done well in his orations, because unconsciously he merged his own personality into that of an imaginary orator. So on this occasion he was perfectly cool; indeed, he was surprised at himself. The subject was, "Help one another." He had thought, in preparing it, that it was a singular coincidence, his having that subject. He thought he could talk to them from his heart on such a subject. And he did.

They all listened intently, and he thought they must be surprised to see how thoughtful he was, and how earnest, and what a splendid speaker he was. When he finished, he knew that he had done well.

He felt almost joyful when he returned to his room. He dreamed that night that certain men came up to him as he was walking alone, and tried to become intimate with him, as he had seen it done at college with fellows who had suddenly become prominent.

The next morning he was joined on the way to the campus by the principal of the academy. Stacy thought he was going to compliment him upon his admirable talk. But he was mistaken. He even hinted about it indirectly, though ashamed of himself for so doing; but this had no effect. At last, in desperation, he was going to say, "Professor Thorne, may I ask you whether my talk last evening met your approval," but while he was trying to invent some excuse for such a question they reached the academy building.

As he took his seat on the platform waiting for morning prayers to begin (the academy had prayers as well as evening chapel), he looked around at the preps. and studied their faces carefully.

Professor Thorne that morning spoke on one aspect of character-moulding, namely, "Independence." He did not directly mention the address of the evening before, but Stacy thought he might just as well have, as he sat there beside the principal before the eyes of the whole academy without changing his gaze from the floor or moving a muscle, except once, when the principal made some reference to the sturdy New England character; then the little tutor made a slight involuntary gesture, but no one noticed it.

That morning in the class-room the little tutor did not seem himself, and his pupils watched him curiously. And if the conduct and appearance of the little tutor was unusual that morning, what was it in the afternoon!

At one o'clock, when nearly every one went down to get the mail, the little tutor was casually noticed by some of them in the post-office. "Anything for Horatio B. Stacy?" he asked at the window in a high voice. Then they noticed him excitedly tear open the one letter he had received and, as he ran over the contents, he said excitedly, in a voice loud enough to be heard, "Just in time--just," but at that point he seemed to notice that he was being observed. His dazed expression was a curious mixture of surprise and, perhaps, pleasure.

Then he came in late to his recitation at three o'clock and seemed to be barely able to keep his attention on the work, and now and then he would look up and smile and stare at them in an indescribably queer way. And in the midst of the next recitation he suddenly arose and, motioning the young man that was reciting to take his seat, he said, in a husky voice, "Here, stop! the class will please excuse me," and bowing politely, even grandly, he hurried out of the room, not seeming to care that his pupils had not got their money's worth. The little tutor was not himself.

At half-past seven o'clock that evening he came promptly to the faculty meeting and quietly took his customary seat by the door. None of the faculty were aware of anything unusual until after they had transacted the ordinary business and had decided one or two cases that came up, and the president had arisen, as usual, and said, in his clear tones, "Gentlemen of the faculty, is there further business of any nature to come before this meeting?" and the white-headed old professor as usual had turned his head sedately around to see if there was anything, and then settled down in his chair again with his disappointed look, as was his custom. At this point the little tutor arose.

No one saw him at first, and the president was beginning to say "Then the meeting stands adjourned," but before he reached the last word the little tutor cleared his throat with a loud, forced sound, which made them all, young and old, turn their eyes upon him. He was smiling, they thought.

"I think it is about time for me to speak," he said, in his high voice, with a little nervous tremor in it.

He was vaguely conscious of this, and, also, of the light of the lamp reflected upon the blackboard back of the President's head. Then he buttoned up his little cut-away coat and began the speech he had practised in his room. He spoke slowly and, apparently, very coolly, and in a deep voice which he always assumed in delivering his orations.

"You are probably aware, as I am, that in the wording of the letter by which I was engaged to serve as Professor Wilkins's assistant in your academy, there was no clause which specifies the length of time for which I was to serve in that capacity. This is the case, is it not? A purely temporary arrangement, so that, in case I proved unsatisfactory"--he tried to imitate the President's pronunciation of this word--"I need not be retained the entire year.

"I have been here one month," he said, with impressiveness. He paused a moment, and then assuming a smile which he thought was like one of his old classmates, he concluded: "I appreciate the delicacy of your position, and will relieve you of the disagreeable duty--a duty from which you have been restrained by your very kind and thoughtful appreciation for my feelings--by voluntarily offering my resignation."

The little tutor walked bravely over to the desk and bowing low laid a carefully written sheet of paper on the desk, thereby purposely allowing an opportunity for expression of opinion. But he had crossed the room and reached his place before anyone began to speak; at first it seemed as if nothing was going to be said on their part. Then the President at last made answer, speaking very deliberately, it seemed to Stacy:

"Well, Mr. Stacy, this is very sudden; very unexpected. We are surprised. Believe me, Mr. Stacy, in case the performance of your duties had not been satisfactory, we would have advised you."

The little tutor believed him.

"Furthermore, your work has been entirely satisfactory, has it not, Professor Thorne?"

"Entirely," echoed Professor Thorne, across the room.

The little tutor was baffled by the tones of the President. He thought they belied his words. Nobody seemed to be impressed as he had expected.

"It is my intention to leave to-morrow!" he exclaimed, excitedly, making an emphatic gesture with his hand.

"Surely, Mr. Stacy, you are laboring under some wrong impression. Surely, there is some misunderstanding. You are a little excited, Mr. Stacy. Perhaps you are a little overworked. You had better think it over before you make up your mind permanently."

Professor Thorne here spoke up: "Don't you think, Mr. Stacy, that it would be a little unwise on your own account. Pardon me, Mr. Stacy, but I understand your circumstances, and it would be rather late in the year to obtain another position now."

The President was about to say something further, but as he turned he saw on the young man's face a look as of a weak animal at bay; and he stopped.

"Don't you know why I'm leaving this place? I'll tell you," he exclaimed, excitedly; all his oratorical manner and assumed grandiloquence was forgotten with the rest of his speech. He almost screamed in his natural voice, "I'll tell you, I HATE you--all, every one." He swept his hand wildly around the circle, "From the oldest, gray-haired D.D. to those two conceited young assistants, you cold, intellectual, cultured, bloodless, unemotional, self-satisfied creatures--I HATE YOU. Of course _you_ don't care; you won't lose anything by my hate." He paused a moment, buttoned up his little coat and began again, the words pouring out of themselves: "I know I'm nobody; I know I'm not attractive, or cultured, but I'm a human being--if I'm not from New England--and I have a human heart. I have been here a whole month, and in that time what one of you has made a friendly advance?--has spoken a word of encouragement?--has even taken note of my existence, except as a machine paid to do a certain amount of work? I found that out that first day in chapel when your President told you all of the bargain he had made. He assured you that you were not cheated, as the article rented had had a good standing in his class. I wondered at the time he did not, in naming my good points like a horse, mention my college instead of saying _a good Eastern college_--that's what I can't stand. I could endure the treatment of myself, but those slurs on my college I cannot and will not stand. Stop! Don't get excited; don't try to explain anything. You don't want me to go, because you think you have a good, hard-working horse. You think to detain me by informing me of my poverty. That might do, but--but read that!" He snatched from his pocket the letter he had received that morning.

"_Read that!_" and he started toward the desk with the letter in his hand. But the strain was too much for the little tutor. He fainted for the first time in his life.

* * * * *

He never found out whether they read the letter or not. Of course, he could have ascertained by writing out there, but he never did. Indeed, he did not like to think of that time now, though he did love to take out a certain letter with a printed head at the top and read the formal language which stated briefly how that, owing to the fact that Mr. Charles Benjamin Howard had decided, etc., "the fellowship in, etc., was open to Horatio B. Stacy as being, etc., and that it was with a great deal of pleasure"--but he knew it all by heart, because he had intended to repeat it once on a certain awful occasion when he was, he thought, temporarily insane, at least not Horatio B. Stacy.

COLLEGE MEN

"Johnnie, Johnnie, Dagnan,
Johnnie, Johnnie, Dagnan,
Do you want me?
No, sir-r-ee,
Not this afternoon, 'ternoon, 'ternoon, 'ternoon."

That is what a crowd of noisy, lazy, slouchy-looking fellows, in a circle in front of Reunion were singing to a little, old, dried-up man, with a plaintive face and blue uniform, in the centre of it.

John Dagnan, chief of college police and envoy extraordinary to the faculty, cast a sad reproachful glance at two of the number to whom he had borne many a summons to appear at one o'clock, and then relapsed into his characteristic melancholy silence, gazing inscrutably into the distance.

Over by the elm in front of the _Princetonian_ Office were four seniors pitching pennies and looking very much in earnest over it. Up and down in front of the shambling old building two or three base-balls were flying back and forth over or against the heads of the loafers and passers-by. Several other groups were merely sitting on the steps or standing on the stone walks, talking or whistling or waiting for nothing.

The steps in front of the entry door were so crowded that young Symington, following his friend Tucker, had to tread upon some of the loungers to get inside. But the loungers were used to that and did not stop their conversation. It's easier than arising.

Symington would have liked to stop and watch the fellows pitching pennies, and hear more of the song, and see what the little policeman was going to do about it, but he did not say a word. He merely followed Tucker up to his room and wondered why he failed to notice it.

Charlie Symington was a well-built prep. boy who had been known to strike out three men with the bases full. He had been invited to spend Sunday in Princeton by some important athletic men in order that he might see how much better their college was than all others in the world. This was because Charles was young and foolish and had shown signs of shifting his youthful affections and his future athletic brilliance to that other college where two of his intimate friends were going, and which had brilliance enough already.

These athletic officials thought that this would be narrow-minded in him, and they were giving him a very good time. The way they did it was not by treating him as a distinguished guest or by telling him what a fine fellow he was, which would have turned the little boy's head and have made him think he could do as he pleased. They simply said "Come," and when he came, let him walk around with them.

For they were a right conceited lot in regard to their college, and thought that all they had to do was put a boy on the campus, let him use his eyes and breathe the air and get it in his young system, and his good sense would do the rest. If it did not, his sense was not good and they did not want him, thought they.

As for the young pitcher, he did not quite understand why these great and awful men whom he had often heard of were so kind to him, and he did not care. He only opened his eyes and ears and shut his mouth, and let his friends do whatever they wanted with him and thought it was very nice in them.

And that is all I am going to tell of; what Symington the prep. drank in with his eyes and ears open and his mouth closed. Nothing will happen.

A lame arm had laid him off his team for the usual Saturday game, so he had arrived in Princeton this afternoon in time to see the 'varsity play with a small college nine. He watched the game critically and closely, and passed judgment on each player--under his breath.

He knew the initials, age, class, and previous history of every man on the team, and he could have told you just what each one did and did not in the seventh inning of the Yale game two years before. In regard to the important games previous to that he was somewhat hazy. He was only sure of the scores by innings, the total base hits, and the errors, though he hated to confess it.

Tucker, the Base-ball president, had honored him to the extent of allowing him to sit on the bench under the canopy with the team. Here was a splendid opportunity of gazing upon their faces at close range. Once when the third baseman came in breathless from a home run, with perspiration running down his face, he tripped on Symington's toe and said to him in a loud tone, in order to be heard above the applause, "Pardon me, Symington," which Charlie did.

After the game, which was of the subdued, half-holiday recreation sort, good to bring either a pipe or a girl to, without fear of putting either out by inattention, Tucker, the president, brought him up the street and through the noisy quadrangle to Reunion Hall where he now was ascending the stairs.

Tucker opened the door and picked up a dozen or more letters from the floor and said, "Sit down, Charlie," and began to assort them.

But he said "Sit down Charlie" in an absent-minded tone, and Charlie knew that, and so he looked about the room instead. He thought this was the kind of a room a college man ought to have. He gazed at everything in it from the oar of the last Princeton crew (which must have rowed in triremes--there are two hundred and nine of those oars) to the small photograph of a girl's face in a dainty little figured blue silk frame, all alone over Tucker's desk. That was the first thing he had discovered of which he could not approve. It grieved him to be obliged to think that of Tucker. He seemed such a fine fellow, too.

Just then Mercer, the treasurer, came in with his rattling tin-box, and talked business with Tucker, who nodded his head and kept on opening and glancing through letters.

Symington tried not to listen, but he couldn't help hearing, so he got up again and went to the window. A great lot of racket was going on in the quadrangle below. Somebody had thrown some water out of a window at somebody else, and now they were trying to throw stones back without breaking glass, which was hard to do. Everyone was shouting or yelling, or both, and it was echoing from Old North and College Offices. This is called Horse.

It interrupted Tucker so that he had to raise his voice and repeat several times what he said to Mercer. Finally the voices became louder than he liked. Stepping across the room in a matter-of-fact way with an open letter in his other hand, he threw down the window from the top, with a shrill squeak, and said, in a casual tone, "Ah, I'm afraid you'll have to be just a little bit more quiet down there. You're getting a trifle too noisy. There, that's better," and went on with his sentence to Mercer, who answered, "That's so. Shall I wire him about it?" The racket had suddenly subsided.

Symington the prep. sat down and looked at Tucker. But the senior changed his expression no more than when he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. Charles asked no questions because he was not that kind of a prep., but he arose, went to the window again and looked at the horse-players. Then he looked at Tucker once more. Most of them were bigger than Tucker.

They acted as if nothing unusual had taken place. They were laughing now at something else, only it was quiet laughter. They were under-classmen.

The two athletic officers were busy now, the president talking very rapidly and seriously, and the treasurer listening intently. Symington, the prep., gazed out of the window as only preps. can gaze. He found it interesting enough.

It was that hour of the day when the undergraduate leaves whatever has been occupying his attention, and thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, and heads for the spot in town where he feels like going three times every day. There were dozens of them in sight doing it now.

The prep. thought it odd, the way some of them stood still out in the middle of the campus, and with their eyes turned toward an upper story of one of the buildings yelled, "Hello-o, Sam, going down to grub?" or beseechingly, "Please shake it up," or commandingly, "Get a move up there!" He liked it though.

He could hear footsteps rumbling down the entry stairs, then the door slam, and then the man himself would emerge in sight. He saw them coming out of North, too, and from West, and he could make out others, way over by East College. Many of them headed toward Nassau Street. Some set out in the direction of the Chapel. Others turned toward the Gymnasium. Nearly all of them whistled or made a noise of some sort as they went along.

One fellow, a tremendous man, was stalking by with his head thrown back, singing at the top of his voice. But the funny part of it to Symington was that the big fellow's face seemed utterly unconscious of whether any one was around to see him or not. He was all alone, and he seemed to be having a quiet, comfortable time of it.

When the clock tolled six Tucker arose and said, "Now we'll go and get some dinner, Charlie--Pat, Symington and I dine at the Athletic Club this evening. We'll see you later." Pat was Mercer's right name.

Symington was glad to hear that he was to dine at the Athletic Club this evening. He had read all about this affair, and had seen pictures of it in _Harper's Weekly_. But he listened attentively to all Tucker had to say on the way down.

His friend opened the heavy oaken door with a small flat key, explaining that it was necessary to keep the doors locked because the mob would otherwise make themselves at home in there. "You see, Charlie," he said, "although this is the training-quarters it is a private club, and not a public affair like the field-house we were in this afternoon. But the membership is open to every one for competition. When you come to college, if you make the team, you will be a member as long as you are training with it. If you become a captain or get any of the Athletic offices you'll be a life member."

But Symington the prep. was not listening to that. When the door opened he caught a glimpse of a big brick fireplace with tiling over it, on which was inscribed "Oranje Boven," and higher up were footballs hung in clusters with scores painted upon them, and all about the wainscoted walls of the hallway were baseball and football and lacrosse championship banners with gilt lettering. That's what he was paying attention to.

"Yes, leave your cap there, any place. Now I want to see what you're good for in this line. We'll go over the house afterward." Tucker led the way toward the sound of knives and forks.

Now it should be understood that Symington, the head man of the school, was not afraid of anything on earth, and if he were dining at Prospect with the President of the University, it would not have mattered. But to walk straight into a room and be introduced to the captain of the team was a little too much. It took his appetite away at first, and he thought he could eat none of that famous training food of which he had heard. However, the shock soon passed.

He was presented to all the members of the nine, and to the subs and to the trainer, and also to two professional pitchers from the Brooklyn League team, who were down to coach the players, and who were just now eating with their knives a huge meal at a little side-table.

Symington was given a seat next to Jack, the trainer, who was cordial and kind to him, and said, "Oh, me boy, you must eat more than that."

The meal seemed to be a very business-like affair. The men were brown from their exercise in the sun, and ruddy and glowing from their recent rub down, and hungry from both causes, and they devoured great sections of rare beef as though they knew it was their duty to get strong for Old Nassau.

The conversation was quite shoppy. When he had finished, the captain pushed back his chair from the table and said, "Fellows, you played a pretty good game to-day. But we've got to brace up in team work. When a man's on a base we must simply push him the rest of the way around."

As soon as dessert was finished, Tucker said, "I want to smoke. Let's start up for the singing, Charlie."

Symington would have liked to explore the rest of the club-house, though of course he did not say so. He did not even ask what the singing meant. But as they arose to leave the table he did ask a question about one of the portraits of the ancient and modern athletic heroes which line the walls.

"Yes, Charlie," said Tucker, "that's he."

"I remember just how he looked when he made that long, low drive, that time, in the ninth inning," Symington said, solemnly.

"Yes," said Tucker, briefly, "a great many of us will always remember his long, low drives. Here is your cap."

This was in reference to a large portrait at the end of the room. The frame had a deep black border.

Tucker and his friend, the other fellow, the University treasurer, whose name the prep. had forgotten, waited until entirely out of the house before lighting their pipes.

Two or three of the team joined Tucker and Symington and the University treasurer. The prep. felt that one of them was coming up beside him. He waited a moment and then glanced out of the corner of his eye. He caught his breath, but did not fall down. It was the captain of the 'varsity nine.

It's a very fine thing to be head man of your school and pitcher on your team, but oh, if the school could see him now!

"How do you like our club?" asked the captain in a voice something like other men's.

"I like the club," said Symington.

"Yes, we think it's a pretty comfortable place. Come down to-morrow and we'll show you the Trophy-room and all." Then he began to question him about his team at school.

To Symington's surprise and delight the captain seemed to know the score of all the important games they had played and how many--or how few--base hits had been gained in each one off him, Charles Symington. And he can tell you to this day every word of the conversation and at what point of the walk it was when the captain said, "Well, you are pitching pretty good ball this year. This is McCosh walk. Look at those trees."

"Yes," said Symington.

The soft evening light was sifting down through the interlacing branches, making a glow to dream about, which Symington did not notice. He had no time to waste at present.

They passed between Chapel and Murray Hall and across back of West toward North. Just as they reached Old Chapel strange notes of music broke in on the prep.'s ears. At first he could not make up his mind whether it was vocal or instrumental, or whether it was real at all, in fact, or part of a dream like everything else perhaps. The seniors were singing, and from that part of the campus it echoes oddly, as you doubtless know.

When they turned the corner and were on the front campus a wonderful sight met the prep.'s eyes. On the steps of Old North, and spilling over upon the stone walks in front and filling up the window casements on either side, was the senior class in duck trousers and careless attitudes with the dark green of many class-ivies for a background and the mellow brown wall of the ancient pile showing through in places. Most of the fellows had an arm about one or two others.

One of the number was standing up in front beating time with a folded _Princetonian_. They were singing a dear old song called "Annie Lyle." Their voices came rich and sweet in the twilight air.