STOVER went rushing from the Storys' home, and away for a long feverish march along dusky avenues, where unseen leaves came whirling against him. He was humiliated, mortified beyond expression, in a panic of self-accusation and remorse.

"It's all over," he said, with a groan. "I've made a fool of myself. I can never square myself after that. What under the shining stars made me say that? What happened? I hadn't a thought, and then all at once ---Oh, Lord!"

A couple of upper classmen returning nodded to him, and he flung back an abrupt "Hello," without distinguishing them.

"Why did I do it? --- why --- why!"

He went plunging along, through the dark regions that lay between the spotted arc lights that began to sputter along the avenue, his ears deafened by the rush and grind of blazing trolley cars. When he had gone breathlessly a good two miles, he stopped and wearily retraced his steps. The return no longer gave him the sensation of flight. He came back laggingly, with reluctance. Each time he thought of the scene which had passed he had a sensation of heat and cold, of anger and of cowardice. Never again he said to himself, would he be able to enter the Storys' home, to face her, Jean Story.

But after a time, from sheer exhaustion, he ceased to think about his all-important self. He remembered the dignity and gentleness with which the young girl had met the shock of his blunder, and he was overwhelmed with wonder. He saw again her large eyes, filled with pain, trouble, and yet a certain pity. He recalled her quiet voice, the direct meeting of the issue, and deep through all impressions was the memory of the woman, sweet, self-possessed, and gentle, that had been evoked from her eyes.

He forgot himself. He forgot all the wretchedness and hot misery. He remembered only this Jean Story, and the Jean Story that would be. And feeling the revealing acuteness of love for the first time, he said impulsively:

"Oh, yes, I love her. I have always loved her!" And silently, deep in his heart, a little frightened almost to set the thought to words, he made a vow that his life from now on should be earnest and inspired with but one purpose, to win her respect and to win the right to ask her for his wife.

With the resolve, all the fret and fever went from him. He felt a new confidence and a new maturity.

"When I speak again, I shall have the right," he said solemnly. "And she shall see that I am not a mere boy. That I will show her soon!"

When he came again into the domain of the college, he suddenly felt all the littleness of the ambitions that raged inside those self-sufficient walls.

"Lord, what have I been doing all this time ---what does it count for? Brocky is right; it isn't what you do here, it's what you are ready to do when you go out. Thank Heaven, I can see it now." And secure in the knowledge that the honors he rated so lightly were his, he added: "There's only one thing that counts ---that's your own self."

It was after the dinner hour, and he hesitated; a little tired of his own company, longing for the diversion another personality would bring, and seeking some one as far removed from his own point of view as possible, he halted before Durfee, and sent his call to the top stories:

"Oh, Ricky Ricketts, stick out your head."

Above a window went up, and a fuzzy head came curiously forth.

"Wot'ell, Bill?"

"It's Stover, Dink Stover. Come down."

"Somethin' doin'?"

"You bet."

Presently, Ricketts's bean-stalk figure came flopping out of the entry.

"What's up, Dink?"

"I'm back too late for supper. Come on down with me to Mory's and keep me company, and I'll buy you a drink."

"Did I hear the word ‘buy'?" said Ricketts, in the manner then made popular by the lamented Pete Dailey.

"You did."

"Lead me to it."

At Mory's, two or three men whom he didn't know were at the senior table. Le Baron and Reynolds, prospective captain of the crew and chairman of the News, respectively, men of his own society, gave him a hearty, "Hello, Dink," and then stared curiously at Ricketts, whose general appearance neither conformed to any one fashion nor to any two. Gimbel, the politician, was in the off room with three of the more militant anti-sophomore society leaders. The two parties saluted in regulation style.

"Hello, you fellows."

"Howdy, there."

Stover, sitting down, saw Gimbel's perplexed glance at his companion, and thought to himself:

"I've got Gimbel way up a tree. I'll bet he thinks I'm trying to work out some society combine against him."

The thought recalled to him all the increasing bitterness of the anti-sophomore society fight which had swept the college.. There was talk even of an open mass meeting. He remembered that Hunter had mentioned it, and for a moment he was inclined to put the question direct to Gimbel. But his mood was alien to controversy, and Louis, with sidelong, beady eyes, and a fragrant aroma, was waiting the order.

Ricketts had, among twenty Yankee devices for greasing his journey through college, a specialty of breaking in new pipes, one of which he now produced, with an apologetic:

"You don't mind, do you, if I crack my lungs on this appetizing little trifle?"

"I say, Ricketts," said Stover, trying to keep off his mind the one subject, "is that all a joke about your breaking in pipes?"

"Straightest thing in the world."

"What do you charge?"

"Thirty-five cents and the tobacco."

"You ought to charge fifty."

"I'm going to next year. You think I'm loony? " said Ricketts.

"I'm not sure."

"Dink, my boy, I'll be a millionaire in ten years. You know what I'm figuring out all this time? I'm going at this scientifically. I'm figuring out the number of fools there are on the top of this globe, classifying 'em, looking out what they want to be fooled on. I'm making an exact science of it."

"Go on," said Dink, amused and perplexed, for he was trying to distinguish the serious and the humorous.

"What's the principle of a patent medicine? --- advertise first, then concoct your medicine. All the science of Foolology is: first, find something all the fools love and enjoy, tell them it's wrong, hammer it into them, give them a substitute and sit back, chuckle, and shovel away the ducats. Bread's wrong, coffee's wrong, beer's wrong. Why, Dink, in the next twenty years all the fools will be feeding on substitutes for everything they want; no salt---denatured sugar-- anti-tea --- oiloline ---peanut butter ---whale's milk---et cetera, et ceteray, and blessing the name of the fool-master who fooled them."

"By jingo," said Stover, listening to this jumble of words, entranced, "I believe you're right. And s you've reduced it to a science, eh --- Foolology?"

Ricketts, half in earnest, never entirely in jest, abetted by newly arriving tobies, was off again on his pet theories of business imagination, disdaining the occasional gibes that were flung at him from Gimbel's table.

When Le Baron and Reynolds passed out, with curious glances, Stover was weak with laughter. Later arrivals dropping in joined them, egging on the inventor.

Stover, who had been busily consulting his watch, left at half-past eight on a sudden resolve. The farcical interruption that had temporarily drawn him out of himself, had cleared his head, and brought him a sudden authoritative decision.

He went directly to the Storys', and, entering the parlor, found a group of his crowd there, dinner finished, trying out the latest comic opera chorus.

He came in quite coldly self-possessed, shook hands, and immediately jumped into the conversation, which was all on the crisis in the sophomore societies. Jean Story was at the piano, a little more serious than usual. At his entrance, she looked up with sudden wonder and confusion. He came to her, and in taking her hand inclined his head in great respect, but did not speak to her. He had but one desire, to show her that he was not a boy but a man, and that he could rise to the crisis which he had brought on himself.

Hunter and Tommy Bain had been arguing for no compromise, Bob Story and Hungerford were of the opinion that the time had come to enlarge the membership of the societies, and to destroy their exclusiveness.

On the sofa, the little Judge, a spectator, never intimating his opinion, studying each man as he spoke, appealed to Stover:

"Well, now, Judge Dink, what is your learned opinion on this situation? Here is the dickens to pay; threefourths the college lined up against you fellows, and a public mass meeting coming. Jim Hunter here believes in sitting back and letting the storm blow over; Bob, who of course can regulate it all, wants to double the membership and meet some objections. Now what do you say? Mr. Stover has the floor. My daughter will please come to order."

Jean Story abruptly turned from the piano, where her fingers had been absent-mindedly running over the keys.

"Frankly, I haven't made up my mind just yet," said Stover. "There are a great many sides to it. I've listened to a good many opinions, but haven't yet chosen mine. Every one is talking about the effect on the college, but what has impressed me most is the effect on the sophomore society men themselves. If the outsiders only knew the danger and handicap they are to us!"

"Hello," said the judge, shifting with a little interest.

"What do you mean?" said Hunter aggressively.

"I mean we are the ones who are limited, who are liable to miss the big opportunities of college life. We have got into the habit, under the pretense of good fellowship, of herding together."

"Why shouldn't we?" persisted Hunter.

"Because we shut ourselves up, withdraw from the big life of the college, know only our own kind, the kind we'll know all our life; surrender our imagination. We represent only a social idea, a good time, good friends, good figure-heads on the different machines of the college. But we miss the big chance --- to go out, to mingle with every one, to educate ourselves by knowing opposite lives, fellows who see things as we never have seen them, who are going back to a life a thousand miles away from what we will lead." He expressed himself badly, and, realizing it, said impatiently: "Here, what I mean is this. It's not my idea, it's Brockhurst's, it's Tom Regan's. The biggest thing we can do is to reflect the nation, to be the inspiration of the democracy of the country, to be alive to the fight among the people for real political independence. We ought to get a great vision when we come up here, as young men, of the bigness of our country, of the privilege of fighting out its political freedom, of what American manhood means in the towns of Georgia and Texas, in the little manufacturing cities of New England, in the great West, and in the small homes of the big cities. We ought to really know one another, meet, discuss, respect each other's point of view, independence --- odd ways if you wish. We don't do it. We did once --- we don't now. Princeton doesn't do it, Harvard doesn't do it. We're overorganized away from the vital thing ---the knowledge of ourselves."

"Then you'd abolish the sophomore societies?" said Hunter, crowding him to the wall.

"I don't know. Sometimes I've felt it's the system that is wrong," said Stover frankly. "Lately, I've changed my mind. I think we can do what we want ---at least I know I've gone out and met whom I wanted to without my being in a sophomore society making the slightest difference. I say I don't know where the trouble is; whether the whole social system here and elsewhere is the cause or the effect. It may be that it is the whole development of America that has changed our college life. I don't know; those questions are too big for me to work out. But I know one thing, that my own ideas of what I want here have taken a back somersault, and that I'm going out of here knowing everything I can of every man in the class." Suddenly he remembered Hunter's opposition, and turning, concluded: "One thing more; if ever I make up my mind that the sophomore society system or any other system ought to be abolished, I'll stand out and say so."

When he had finished, his classmates began talking all at once, Hunter and Bain in bitter opposition, Bob Story in warm defense, Hungerford, in his big-souled way, coming ponderously to his assistance.

Stover withdrew from the conversation. He glanced at Jean Story, wondering if she had understood the reason of his return, and that he had spoken for her ears alone. She was still at the piano, one hand resting on the keyboard, looking at him with the same serious, half-troubled expression in her large eyes. He made an excuse to leave, and for the second that he stood by her, he looked into her eyes boldly, with even a little bravado, as though to ask:

"Do you understand?"

But the young girl, without speaking, nodded her head slightly, continuing to look at him with her wistful, a little wounded glance.

IT was only a little after nine. He had left in the company of Joe Hungerford, who had ostensibly taken the opportunity of going with him.

"I say, Dink," he began directly, in the blustering, full-mouthed way he had when excited, "I say bully for you. Lord, I liked to hear you talk out."

"It's all simple enough," said Stover, surprised at the other's enthusiasm. "I suppose I wouldn't have said all I did if it hadn't been for Hunter."

"Oh, Jim's a damned hard-shell from way back," said Hungerford good-humoredly, "never mind him. I say though, Dink, you really have been going round, haven't you, breaking through the lines?"

"Yes, I have."

"I wish you'd take me around with you some time," said Hungerford enviously.

"Why the deuce don't you break in yourself?"

"It doesn't come natural, Dink," said the inheritor of millions regretfully. "I never went through boarding-school like you fellows. By George, it's just what I want, what I hoped for here! and, damn it, what I'm not getting!"

"You know, Joe," said Dink suddenly, "there wouldn't be any society problem if fellows that felt the way you and I do would assert themselves. By George, there's nothing wrong with the soph societies, the trouble is with us."

"I'm not so sure," said Hungerford seriously.

"Rats!"

"You know, Dink," said Joe with a little hesitation,, it is not every one who understands you or what you're doing."

"I know," said Stover, laughing confidently. "Some have got an idea I've got some great political scheme, working in with the outsiders to run for the junior Prom, or something like that."

"No, it's not all that. I don't think some of our crowd realize what you're doing --- rather fancy you're cutting loose from them."

"Let them think," said Stover carelessly. Then he added with some curiosity: "Has there been much talk?"

"Yes, there has."

"Any one spoken to you?"

"Yes."

"I know --- I know they've got an idea I'm queering myself --- oh, that word 'queer'; it's the bogey of the whole place."

"You're right there! But, Dink, I might as well let you know the feeling; it isn't simply in our set, but some of the crowd ahead."

"Le Baron, Reynolds?"

"Yes. Haven't, they ever --- ever said anything to you?"

"Bless their simple hearts," said Stover, untroubled. "So they're worrying about me. It's rather humorous. It's their inherited point of view. Le Baron, Joe, could no more understand what we are thinking about ---and yet he's a fine type. Sure, he's stopped me a couple of times and shaken his head in a worried, fatherly way. To him, you see, everything is selective; what he calls the fellow who doesn't count, the 'fruit,' is really outside what he understands, the fellows who are in the current of what's being done here. I must talk it out with him sometime. We've come to absolutely opposite points of view. And yet the curious thing is, he's fond as the deuce of me."

"Yes, that's so," said Hungerford. He did not insist, seeing that Stover was insensible to the hints he had tried to convey. Not wishing to express openly a point of view which was personally unsympathetic, he hesitated and remained silent.

"Coming up for a chin?" said Dink, as they neared the campus.

"No, I've got a date at Heub's. I say, Dink, I'm serious in what I said. I want to wake up and get around. Work me in."

"You bet I will, and you'll meet a gang that really have some ideas."

"That's what I want. Well, so long."

"So long, Joe."

Dink, turning to the right, entered the campus past Battell. He had never before felt so master of himself, or surer of a clear vision. The thought of his instinctive return to the Storys', and the knowledge that he had distinguished himself before Jean Story, gave him a certain exhilaration. He began to feel the opportunity that was in his hands. He remembered with pleasure Hungerford's demand to follow where he had gone, and he said to himself:

"I can make this crowd of mine see what the real thing is---and, by George, I'm going to do it."

As he delayed in the campus, Le Baron and Reynolds passed him, going toward Durfee.

"Hello, Dink."

"Hello there."

He continued on to his entry, and, turning, saw the two juniors stop and watch him. Without heed he went up to his room, lit the dusty gas-jet, and went reverently to his bureau. He was in his bedroom, standing there in a sentimental mood, gazing at the one or two little kodaks he had displayed of Jean Story, when a knock sounded. He turned away abruptly, singing out:

"Let her come."

The door opened and some one entered, and, emerging from his bedroom, he beheld to his surprise Le Baron and Reynolds.

"Hello," he said, puzzled.

"Anything doing, Dink?" said Le Baron pleasantly.

"Not a thing. Make yourself at home," he said hastily. "Take a seat. Pipe tobacco in the jar --cigarettes on the table."

Each waved his hand in dissent. Reynolds seated himself in a quick, business-like way on the edge of his chair. Le Baron, more sociable, passed curiously about the room, examining the trophies with interest.

"I wonder what's up now," thought Dink, without uneasiness. He knew that it was the custom of men in the class above about to go into the senior societies to acquaint themselves with the tendencies of the next class. "That's it," he said to himself; "they want to know if I'm heeling Bones or Keys."

"You've got a great bunch of junk," said Le Baron, finishing his inspection.

"Yes, it's quite a mixture."

Le Baron, refusing a seat, stood before the fireplace, a pocket knife juggling in his hands, seeking an opening.

"Here, I’ll have a cigarette," he said finally, with a frown.

Reynolds, more business-like, broke out:

"Dink, we've dropped in to have a little straight talk with you."

"All right."

He felt a premonition of what was coming, and the short note of authority in Reynolds's voice seemed to stiffen everything inside of him.

"We've dropped a few hints to you," continued Reynolds, in his staccato manner, "and you haven't chosen to understand them. Now we're going to put it right to you."

"Hold up, Benny," said Le Baron, who had lit his cigarette, "it's not necessary to talk that way. Let me explain."

"No, put it to me straight," said Stover, looking past Le Baron straight into Reynolds's eyes. An instinctive antagonism was in him, the revolt of the man of action, the leader in athletics, at being criticized by the man of the pen.

"Stover, we don't like what you've been doing lately."

"Why not?"

"You're shaking your own crowd, and you're identifying yourself with a crowd that doesn't count. What the deuce has got into you?"

"Just shut up for a moment, Benny," said Le Baron, giving him a look, "you're not putting the thing in the right way."

"I'm not jumping on any one," said Reynolds. "I'm giving him good advice."

Stover looked at him without speaking, then he turned to Le Baron.

"Well?"

"Look here, Dink," said Le Baron conciliatingly. "A lot of us fellows have spoken to you, but you didn't seem to understand. Now, what I'm saying is because I like you, and because you are making a mistake. We're interested personally, and for the society's sake, in seeing you make out of yourself what you ought to be, one of the big men of the class. Dink, what's happened? Have you lost your nerve about anything --- anything wrong?"

"Wait a moment --- let me understand the thing," said Stover, absolutely dumbfounded. Reynolds's purely unintentional false start had left him cold with anger. "Am I to understand that you have come here to inform me that you do not approve of the friends I've been making?"

"Hold up," said Le Baron.

"No, let's have it straight. That's what I want, too," he said quickly, facing Reynolds. "You criticize the crowd I'm going with, and you want me to chuck them. That's it in plain English, isn't it?"

A little flush showed on Reynolds's face. He, too, felt the physical superiority in Stover, and the antagonism thereof, and, being provoked, he answered more shortly than he meant to:

"Let it go at that."

"Is that right?" said Stover, turning to Le Baron.

"Now, look here, Dink, there's no use in getting hot about this," said Le Baron uneasily. "No one's forcing anything on you. We are here as your friends, telling you what we believe is for your own good."

"So you think if I go on identifying myself with the crowd I'm with that I may 'queer' myself?"

"That's rather strong."

"Why not have it out?"

"This is true," said Le Baron, "that the men in your own crowd don't understand your cutting loose from them, and that no one can make out why you've taken up with the crowd you have."

The explanation which might have cleared matters was forgotten by Stover in the wound to his vanity.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Well, Dink, to be honest," said Le Baron, "if you keep on deliberately, there is more than a chance of ---"

"Of queering myself?"

"Yes."

"Being regarded as a sort of wild man, and missing out on a senior election."

"That's what we want to prevent," said Le Baron, believing he saw a reasonable excuse. "You've got everything in your hands, Stover, don't waste your time ---"

"One moment."

Stover, putting out his hand, interrupted him. He locked his hands behind his back, twisting them in physical pain, staring out the window, unable to meet the suddenness of the situation.

"You've been quite frank," he said, when he was able to speak. "You have not come to me to dictate who should be my friends here, though that's perhaps a quibble, but as members of my sophomore society you have come to advise me against what might queer me. I understand. Well, gentlemen, you absolutely amaze me. I didn't believe it possible. I'll think it over."

He looked at them with a quick nod, intimating that there was nothing more to be discussed. Reynolds, saying something under his breath, sprang up. Le Baron, feeling that the interview had been a blunder from the first, said suddenly:

"Benny, see here; let me have a moment's talk with Dink."

"Quite useless, Hugh," said Stover, in the same controlled voice. "There's nothing more to be said. You have your point of view, I have mine. I understand. There's no pressure being put on me, only, if I am to go on choosing my friends as I have --- I do it at my own risk. I've listened to you. I don't know what I shall answer. That's all. Good night."

Reynolds went out directly, Le Baron slowly, with much hesitation, seeking some opportunity to remain, with a last uneasy glance.

When Stover was left to himself, his first sensation was of absolute amazement. He, the big man of the class, confident in the security of his position, had suddenly tripped against an obstruction, and been made to feel his limitations.

"By Heavens! If any one would have told me, I wouldn't have believed it --- the fools!"

The full realization of the pressure that had been exerted on him did not yet come to him. He was annoyed, as some wild animal at the first touch of a rope that seems only to check him.

He moved about the room, tossing back his hair impatiently.

"That's what Hungerford was trying to hint to me," he said. "So my conduct has been under fire. What I do is a subject of criticism because I've gone out of the beaten way, done something they don't understand the precious idiots!" Then he remembered Reynolds, and his anger began to rise. "The little squirt, the impudent little scribbler, to come and tell me what I should or shouldn't do! How the devil did I ever keep my temper? Who is he anyhow? I'll give him an answer!"

All at once he perceived the full extent of the situation, and what a defiance would mean to those leaders in the class above, men marked for Skull and Bones, the society to which he aspired.

"No pressure!" he said aloud, with a grim laugh, "Oh, no! no pressure at all! Advice only --- take it or leave it, but the consequences are on your head. By Heavens, I wouldn't have believed it." It hurt him, it hurt him acutely, that he, who had won his way to leadership should have sat and listened to those who were the masters of his success.

"Hold up, hold up, Dink Stover," he said, all at once. "This is serious --- a damn sight more serious than you thought. It's up to you. What are you going to do about it?"

All at once the temper that always lay close to his skin, uncontrollable and violent, broke out.

"By Heavens --- and I stood for it I stood there quietly and listened, and never said a word! But I didn't realize it --- no, I didn't realize it. Yes, but he won't understand it, that damned little whipper-snapper of a Reynolds; he'll think I've kow-towed. He will, will he? We'll see! By Heavens, that's what their society game means, does it! Thank Heaven, I didn't argue with them. At least I didn't do that."

He strode over quickly, and seizing his cap clapped it on his head, and stopped.

"Now or never," he said, between his teeth.

He went out slamming the door; and as he went, furiously, all the anger and humiliation blazed up in a fierce revolt---he, Dink, Dink Stover, had stood tamely and listened while others had come and told him what to do, told him in so many words that he was "queering" himself. He went out of the entry almost at a run, with a sort of blind, unreasoning idea that he could overtake them. By the fence he almost upset Dopey McNab, who called to him fruitlessly:

"Here --- I say, Dink! What the devil!"

He reached the center of the campus before he stopped. He had quite lost control of himself; he knew what he would say, and he didn't care. Suddenly he recalled where Reynolds roomed, and went hot-foot for Vanderbilt, with a fierce physical longing to be provoked into a fight.

He arrived at the door breathlessly, a lump in his throat, never considering the chances of finding them out.

Le Baron and Reynolds were before the fireplace in a determined argument. He shut the door behind him, and leaned against it, digging his nails into his hands with the effort to master his voice.

The two juniors, struck by the violence of his entrance, turned abruptly, and Le Baron, a little pale, started forward, saying:

"I say, Dink ---"

"Look here," he cried, flinging out a hand for silence, "I don't know why I didn't say it to you there --- when you spoke to me. I don't know. I'm a low-livered coward and a skunk because I didn't! But I know now what I'm going to say and I'll say it. You came to me, you dared to come to me and tell me what I was to do ----to heel---that's what you meant; to cut out fellows I know and respect---oh, you didn't have the courage to say it out, but that's it. Well, now, I've just got one thing to say to you both. If this is what your society business means, if this is your idea of democracy---I'm through with you---"

"Hold up," said Le Baron, springing forward.

"I won't hold up," said Stover, beside himself, "for you or for any one else, or whatever you can do against me! Here's my answer --- I'm through! You and the whole society can go plumb to Hell!"

And suffocating, choking blinded with his fury, he thrust his hand into his breast, and tore from his shirt the pin he had been given to wear, and flung it on the floor, stamped upon it, and bolted from the room.

FOR an hour, bareheaded, he went plunging into the darkness, a prey to a nervous crisis,, that left him shaking in every muscle. He knew the extent of his passions, and the anger which had swept over him left him weak and frightened.

"It's lucky that runt of a Reynolds held his tongue," he said hotly. "By the Lord, I don't know what I would have done to him. Here, I must get hold of myself. This is terrible. Well, thank Heaven, it's over."

He controlled himself slowly, and came back, limp and weak; yet beyond the physical reaction was a liberated soaring of the spirit.

"I'm glad I did it! I never was gladder!" he said solemnly. "Good-by to the whole society game, Skull and Bones, and all the rest. But I take my stand from now on, and I stand on my own feet. I'm glad of it." Then he thought of Jean Story, and he was troubled. "I wonder if she'll understand? I can't help it. I couldn't do anything else. Now, I suppose the whole bunch will turn on me. So be it."

It was long after midnight when he came back gloomily to the light still staring from his window, and toiled up the heavy steps. When he entered the room, Le Baron, Bob Story, and Joe Hungerford were sitting silently, waiting for him, and in Story's hand was the pin bruised by his furious heel.

He saw at once the full strength of the appeal that was to be made to him, and he closed the door wearily.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said slowly.---" The whole thing is done and buried."

Bob Story, agitated and solemn, came to him.

"Dink, this is awful ---the whole thing is awful," he said earnestly. "You've, got to talk it out with us."

"Do you understand, Bob," Stover said suddenly, "just what happened in this room?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"I don't believe it."

"Dink, I want you to listen to me a moment," said Le Baron. "It's been rotten business, the whole wretched thing. I can understand how you felt. Reynolds and you got on each other's nerves. You each said what you didn't mean. It was damned unfortunate. He put things to you like a fool, and I was telling him so when you broke into the room. He was all up on edge from something that had gone before."

"Oh, I lost my temper," said Stover. "I know it."

"I'd have done the same," said Hungerford openly.

"Now, Dink, there isn't one of us here that doesn't like you, and look up to you," said Story, with his irresistible charm. "We know you're every inch a man, and what you do you believe in. But, Dink, we're all friends together, and this is a terrible thing to us. We want you to take back your pin, and shut up this whole business. Will you?"

"I'd do a great deal for you, Bob Story," said Stover, looking him in the eyes, "more than for any one else, but I can't do this."

He said it calmly, with a little sadness. The three were impressed with the finality of the judgment. Story, standing with the cast-off pin in his hand, turning and twisting it, said slowly:

"Dink, do you really mean it?"

"I do."

"It's a serious thing you're doing, Stover," said Le Baron, with the first touch of formality, "and I don't think it should be done in anger."

"I'm not."

"Remember that you are judging a whole society ---your own friends ---by what one man happened to say to you in a moment of irritation."

"I don't want to talk of what's done," said Stover slowly, for his head was throbbing. "I know myself, and I know nothing is going to make me go back on what I've said. I'm only going to say a word, and then I'm going into my room and going to bed. Le Baron "---with a sudden rise of his voice he turned and faced the junior---" don't think I don't understand what it means that I'm giving up. I get what you mean when you start in calling me Stover. I know as well as I'm standing here that you and Reynolds will keep me out of Bones, whether I make captain or not. And that'll hurt me a good bit --- I admit it. Now don't let's quibble. It isn't the way Reynolds said what he did --- though that did rile me --- it's what was told me, indirectly or directly --- it's the same thing; you men in sophomore societies would limit my freedom of choice. There you are. I'm against you now, because for the first time I see how the thing works out, because you're wrong! You're a bad influence for those who are in, and a rotten influence for the whole college. Now I've made up my mind to just one thing. I'm going to finish up here at the head of my own business --- my own master; and I'm not going to be in a position to be told by any one in your class or my class what I'm to do."

"One moment." Le Baron rose as Stover moved towards the bedroom. "There's another side to it."

"What other side?"

"Whatever you decide, and I won't take your answer until the morning," said Le Baron solemnly, "I want you to give me your word that what's happened to-night remains a secret."

"I won't give my word to that or anything else," said Dink defiantly. "I shall do exactly what 1 think is right to be done, and for that reason only. Now you'll have to excuse me. Good night."

He went to his bedroom, shut the door, and without undressing tumbled on the bed, and, still hearing in a confused jumble the murmur of voices, dropped off to sleep.

He was startled out of heavy dreams by a beating in his ears, and sprang up to find Bob Story thundering on his door. He looked at his watch. It was still an hour before chapel.

When he entered his dim study, Story was waiting, and Hungerford uncoiling from the couch where he had passed the night.

"Have you fellows been here all night?" said Stover, stopping short.

"Dink, we want a last chance to talk this over," said Story solemnly. "We've all had a chance to sleep it out. Le Baron isn't here, just Joe and myself --- your friends."

"You make it hard for me, boys," said Dink, shaking his head.

Hungerford rose with the stiffness of the night, and coming to Stover, took him by the shoulders.

"Damn you, Dink," he said, "get this straight, we're not thinking about the society, we're thinking about you --- about your future. And I want you to know this: whatever you decide, I'm your friend and proud to be it."

"What Joe says is what I feel," said Story, as Stover, much affected, stood looking at the ground. "We're sticking by you, Dink --- that's why I'm going to try once more. Can't you go on in the society, make no open break, and still fight for what you believe in --- what Joe and I believe in, too?"

"But, Bob, I think they're wrong through and through --- you don't understand --- I'm for wiping them out now."

"That whole question's coming up, and coming up soon," continued Story earnestly, "and a lot of our own crowd will line up for you. Work inside the crowd, if you can see it that way, Dink. There are only five of us know what's happened, and no one else need know."

"Wait a moment, Bob, old fellow," said Dink, stopping him. "You two have got down under my skin, and I won't forget it. Now I'm going to ask you fellows a couple of questions. First: you think if I stick to my determination that most of the crowd'll turn on me?"

"Yes."

"That I have as much chance of being tapped for Bones as Jackson, the sweep?"

"Yes, Dink."

"Now, boys, honest, if I took back my pin for any such reason as that, wouldn't I be a spineless, calculating little quitter?"

Neither answered.

"What would you think of me, Joe --- Bob?"

"Damn the luck," said Hungerford. He did not attempt to answer the question. Neither did Bob Story. They shook hands with Stover, and went out defeated.

Just how big a change in his college career his renunciation would make, Stover had not understood until in the weeks that succeeded he came to feel the full effects of the resentment he had aroused in the society crowds, now at bay before a determined opposition.

The second morning, as he went down High Street to his eating-joint, Hungerford was loafing ahead of him, ostensibly conning a lesson. Stover joined him, unaware of the friendly intent of the action. They went inside, laughing together, to where a score of men were rubbing their eyes over hasty breakfasts. Four-fifths of them belonged to sophomore societies.

"Morning, everybody," said the new arrivals, in unison, and the answer came back:

"Hello, Joe."

"Hello, Dink."

"Shove in here."

At their arrival a little constrained silence was felt, for the news had somehow passed into rumor. Opposite Stover, Jim Hunter was sitting. He nodded to Hungerford, and then with deliberation continued a conversation with Tommy Bain, who sat next to him.

Stover perceived the cut instantly, as others had perceived it. He sat a moment quietly, his glance concentrated on Hunter.

"Oatmeal or hominy?" said the waiter at his back.

"One moment." He raised his hand, and the gesture concentrated the attention of the table on him. "Why, how do you do, Jim Hunter?" he said, with every word cut sharp.

There was a breathless moment, and a nervous stirring under foot, as Hunter turned and looked at Stover.

Their glances matched one another a long moment, and then Hunter, with an excess of politeness, said:

"Oh, hello - Stover."

Instantly there was a relieved hum of voices, and a clatter of cutlery.

"I'll take oatmeal now," said Stover calmly. Story, glancing over, saw two spots of scarlet standing out on his cheeks, and realized how near the moment had come to a violent scene.

"Dink, old gazabo," said Hungerford, as they walked over to chapel, "what are you going to do? You can't go about the whole time with a chip on your shoulder."

"Oh, yes, I can," said Dink between his teeth. "I'll stick right where I am. And I'd like to see Jim Hunter or any one else try that again on me!"

Hungerford shook his head.

"You know, Dink, you must see both sides. Now from Hunter's side, you've smashed all traditions, and given us a blow that may be a knockout, considering the state of feeling in the college. Hunter's a society man, believes in them heart and soul."

"Then let him come to me and say what he thinks."

"Are you quite sure, Dink," said Joe, with a glance, "that there isn't some other reason for the way you two feel about each other?"

"You mean jealousy?" said Dink, flushing a little. "Bob's sister? Yes, there's that. But from the first we've been on opposite sides." He hesitated a moment, and then asked: "I say, Joe, what does Bob think about what I've done? Tell me straight."

"Of course he respects you," said Hungerford carefully, "more now than I think he did last year, but --Bob's a society man---all these Andover fellows are brought up in the idea, you know --- and I think it's kind of a jolt."

"I suppose it is," said Stover, with a little depression.

He would like to have asked Hungerford to state his case to Jean Story, but he lacked the courage of his boyish impulse. The thought of Jean Story, as he sat in chapel, came to him like a temptation. The judge was of the Skull and Bones alumni, Bob was sure to go; all the influences about her were of belief in the finality of that judgment.

"Yes, and Hunter will go in with sailing colors; he'll never risk anything," he said bitterly, "and I'll stand up and take my medicine, for doing what? For showing I had a backbone. But no one will ever know it outside. They'll think it's something wrong in my character---they always do. Stover, Yale's star end, misses out for Bones! That's the slogan. Cheating at cards or bumming. I wonder what she'll think? Lord, that's the hard part!"

For a week, proud as Lucifer, on edge for an opportunity, he stuck it out at the eating-joint, knowing the hopelessness of it all --- that what he wanted had gone, and no amount of bravado could make him wink the fact, that in the midst of his own crowd, where he had stood as a leader, he was now regarded as an outsider.

In the second week he gave up the useless fight, and went to Commons, to the table where Regan, Gimbel, and Brockhurst ate. They forebore to ask him the reasons of the change, and he gave no explanation. That something had happened which had caused him to break away from his society was soon a matter of common rumor, and several incorrect versions circulated, all vastly to his credit. His influence in the body of the class was correspondingly increased, and Gimbel once or twice approached him with offers to run him for manager of the crew or the junior Prom.

One day, about a month after his withdrawal, when, bundled up in his dressing-gown, he went shuffling into the basement for a cold tub, he had quite a shock, that brought home visually to him the realization of the price he had paid.

It had been the practise from long custom to inscribe on the walls tentative lists of the probable selections from the class for the three senior societies. On this particular list his name had stood at the head from the beginning, and the constant familiar sight of it had always brought him a warm, secure pleasure.

All at once, as he looked at it, he perceived a leaden blur where his name had stood, and the names of Bain and Hunter heading the list.

"I suppose they've got me down among the last now," he said, with a long breath. He searched the list, his name was not even on it. This popular estimation of what he himself believed had nevertheless power to wound him deeply.

"Well, it's so --- I knew it," he said; but it was said in bitterness, with a newer and keener realization.

He began indeed to feel like an outsider, and, rebelling against the injustice of it all, to set his heart in bitterness. Hungerford and Bob Story, Dopey McNab often, tried to keep up with him, but, understanding their motives, he was proudly sensitive, and sought rather to avoid them.

Meanwhile the opposition to the sophomore societies reached the point of open revolt, and a mass meeting was held, which, as had been planned, caused a stir throughout the press of the country, and brought in from the alumni a storm of protest.

Stover, himself, despite his inclination to come forward in direct opposition, after a long debate, remained silent, feeling bound by the oath he had given at his initiation.

Shortly after the news spread like wildfire that the President, taking cognizance of the intolerable state of affairs, had summoned representatives of the three sophomore societies before him, and given them a month to deliberate and decide on some scheme of reform that would be comprehensive and adequate.

Rightly or wrongly, Stover felt that these developments intensified the feeling of the society element against him. A few weeks outside the boundaries, despite all his bravado, had brought home to him how much he cared for the companionship of those from whom he had separated.

Regan was his one friend; Brockhurst stimulated him; and in the intercourse with Swazey, Pike, Lake, Ricketts, and others he had found a certain inspiration. But after all, the men of his own kind ---Story, Hungerford, and others, whom from pride he now avoided---were largely the men of the society crowd. They spoke a language he understood, they came from a home that was like his home, and their judgment of him would go with him out into the new relations in life.

It was a time of depression and bitter revolt at what he knew was the injustice of his ostracism, forgetting how much was of his own proud choosing.

He wandered from crowd to crowd, rather taciturn and restless, seeking diversion with a consuming nervousness. The new restlessness of spirit drove him away from the conferences in Regan's and Swazey's rooms to the company of idlers. For a period, in his pride and bitterness, he let go of himself, flung the reins to the wind, and started down hill with a gallop.

In pursuance of his policy of open defiance, he chose to appear at Mory's with the wildest element of the class. His companions were a little in awe of his grim, concentrated figure; when he sat into a game of poker or joined a table of revelers, he did it with no zest. He never joined in the chorus, and if he occasionally broke out into a boisterous laugh, there was always a jarring note to it, that caused his companions to glance at him uneasily. With the impetuousness of his nature, he outstripped his associates, plunging deeper and deeper, obstinately resolved, into the black gulf of his cynicism. In a week his excesses became college gossip, and, unknown to Stover, the subject of many long conferences among his friends.

One Friday night, as, straying aimlessly from room to room, he set out for Mory's in quest of Tom Kelly and a group of Sheff pagans, he was trudging along the hard ways in front of Welch Hall, fists sunk in his pockets, head down under a slouch hat, when he chanced on Tom Regan coming out of the Brick Row.

"Hello there, bantam," said Regan, with the prerogative of his size.

"Hello, Tom," he said, but without enthusiasm, for he had rather avoided him in company with the rest of his old friends.

"That's a deuced cordial greeting! Where are you bound, stranger?"

"Mory's."

"Mory's," said Regan, appearing to consider. "Good idea. I've got a hankering after a toby of musty ale and a rabbit myself. Wait till I stow these books and I'll join you."

Stover stood frowning, suspicious and rebelling, for at that age it is a point of honor, when a man of the world resolves to run his head against a stone wall, that any interference from a friend is regarded as an unwarranted insult.

"He thinks he'll try the big brother act on me," he said, scowling. He was not in a particularly good humor, nor was his head clear from several nights that had gone their reeling way.

When they entered Mory's, Tom Kelly, Dopey McNab, and Buck Waters were already grouped in the inner room.

"Well, old flinthead, how do you feel after last night?" said Kelly, making room for them.

"Fine," said Dink mendaciously, secretly pleased at the tribute to his sporting talents before Regan.

"More'n I can say," said Dopey, affectionately feeling of his head. "Curse the man who invented fish-house punch."

"Get home all right?" continued Kelly.

"Sure."

"I had a little tiff with a cop. If he'd been smaller, I'd have taken his shield away. He was most impudent. Never mind, I beat him in a foot race."

"Cocktails," said Stover, resolved that Regan should be well punished. "Make it two for me, Louis, I'll have to catch up."

"I'll stick to a toby and a rabbit," said Regan, without a change of expression.

"Cocktail, Dopey?" continued Stover, with a millionaire gesture.

"I never refuse," said Dopey, who planned to go through life on that virtuous method.

With such a beginning, matters progressed with remarkable facility. Stover, taciturn and in an ugly mood, constantly hurried the rounds, matching drink for drink, secretly resolved to prove his supremacy here as elsewhere. Regan, after two tobies, withdrew from the contest, sitting silently puffing on his huge pipe, but without attempt at interference. Bob Story and Hungerford came in, and went away with a glance at Stover's clouded face and Regan's stolid, unfathomable expression. When. midnight arrived, and Louis came in with apologies to announce the closing, there was quite a reckoning to be paid.

Stover was the best of the lot, doggedly resolved to show no effects of what he had taken. He felt a haziness in his vision, and words that were spoken seemed to be whirled away without record, but his legs stood firm, and his head was still under control. Buck Waters and a Sheff man took Tom Kelly home by a circuitous route to avoid either a wrestling match or a foot race with too zealous members of the New Haven police force; and Stover had the fierce pride of showing Regan that he could take charge of the hilarious but wabbly Dopey McNab, who, moved by the finest feelings of the brotherhood of man, was determined to scatter his superfluous change among his brother beings.

With great dignity and impressiveness, Stover, supporting one side, continued to give foggy directions to Regan on the other, until, come to McNab's quarters, they delivered that joyously exuberant person into his bed, propped up his head, opened the window, locked the door and left the key outside, to insure the termination of the night's adventure.

Stover went down the steep, endless stairs with great deliberation and minute pains.

"Dopey's got weak head --- no good --- stand nothing," he said seriously to Regan.

"Well, we've fixed him up for the night," said Regan cheerily. "You've got a wonderful top, old sport."

"I'm pretty good --- Dopey's got the weak head," said Stover, taking his arm. "I'm good, I can put 'em under the table ---all under the table."

"Good for you."

"Tom, you aren't --- aren't in critical at-attochood, are you?" said Dink, with all feeling of resentment gone.

"Lord, no, boy."

"'Cause it does me good ---this does me good. I feel bad ---pretty bad, Tom, about some things. You don't know --- can't tell --- but I feel bad --- this does me good --- forget --- you understand."

"I understand."

"You're a good friend, Tom. They don't understand --- no one else understands. I'd like to shake hands. Thank you. Good night."

They had come opposite the Brick Row, and Regan, knowing the other's true condition, would have preferred to see him along to his room. But he knew of old the danger of making mistakes, so he said:

"Feel all right, old bantam?"

"Fine." Stover took a step or two, and then returned. "I put 'em to bed, didn't I?"

"You certainly did."

"Never 'fects me."

"You're a wonder."

"I thank you for your company."

"Good night."

Stover, intent only on making his entry, a hundred yards away, felt a roaring in his ears, and sudden jumble and confusion before him.

"Must get there- self-control ---that's it, self-control," he said to himself, and by a supreme effort he reached his entry, pushed open the door, and, stumbling in out of Regan's vision, sat heavily down on the steps.

Some indistinct time after he beheld before him a little spectacled figure in pink pajamas.

Who are you?" he said.

"Wookey, sir."

"What's your class?"

"Freshman, sir."

"Very well. All right. You can help me --- help me up. You know me?"

"Yes, sir."

The pink pajamas approached, and with an effort he rose, and, grasping the proffered shoulder, tumbled up the steps. When he reached his room his mind seemed to clear a moment, like the sudden drifting to and fro of a fog.

"Who are you?" he said, frowning.

"Wookey, sir."

"Where do you room?"

"On the first landing, sir."

"Why do you wear pink ones?"

The little freshman, hero-worshipper, face to face with his first great emotion, the conduct of an intoxicated man, blurted out:

'Don't you like 'em, sir?"

"Keep 'em on," said Stover magnanimously. "So you're a freshman."

"Yes, sir."

Suddenly he felt impressed with his duty, his obvious duty to one below him.

"Freshman," he said thickly, "I want you listen to me. Never drink to excess --- understand. You beginning college --- school of character --- hold on yourself --lead a good life --- self-control's the great thing --- take it from me---understand?"'

"Yes, sir," said Wookey, awed and a little frightened at the service he was rendering to the great Dink Stover.

"That's all," said St'over benignly. "Is --- is my bedroom still there?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may lead me to it."

When he had been brought to his bed he recalled the pink pajamas, and said:

"I thank you for your courtesy and your kindness." Then he said to himself: "It does me good --- forget --happy, now."

A moment later the fog closed over his consciousness again and he was asleep.

NIGHT after night, Wookey, the little freshman from a mountain village of Maine, the shadow of a grind, whom no one knew in his class, and who would never know any one, waited over his books the hour of twelve and the arrival of the great man gone wrong, whose secret only he possessed. Sometimes at the clatter on the stairs, when he went out eagerly, the hero would be in control, and would say:

"Hello, Wookey, how are you to-night?"

"All right, sir," he would answer, shifting from foot to foot, afraid to volunteer assistance.

"All right myself," Stover would answer. "See you to-morrow. Good night."

Gradually, however, to his delight, Stover grew to like the strange meetings, and permitted him to accompany him to his room to open the window, draw off the boots and disappear with the promise to thunder on his door in time for chapel. In the daytime they never met.

Stover never failed to thank him with the utmost ceremony. Often the dialogue that ensued was farcically humorous, only little Wookey, solemn as an owl, never laughed.

One night Stover, draped in difficult equilibrium on the mantelpiece, suddenly, in his new parental solicitude for the freshman, bethought himself of the curriculum.

"Wookey." Yes, sir."

"One thing must speak about ---meant speak about long time ago."

"What, sir?" said Wookey, looking up apprehensively over his spectacles.

"Study," said Stover, with terrific solemnity. "Want you be good scholar."

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Want you be validict --- you understand what mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wookey, college life serious, finest thing in it's study, don't neglect study, you understand."

"Yes, sir; I do study pretty hard."

"Not enough," said Stover furiously. "Study all time! What 'cher do to-day? Recite in --- in Greek, Latin, eh?"

"Yes, sir --- all right."

"Good, very good-proud of you, Wookey," said Stover, satisfied. "Must be good influence --- understand that, Wookey. Going to ask every night."

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Go an' study now. Study lot more."

This feeling of the influence he was exerting for Wookey's academic betterment was so strong in Dink when the hour of midnight had passed that shortly after he brought McNab home with him to witness his works.

When Wookey appeared, something displeased Stover. His protégé was not as he should be presented. Suddenly he remembered --- Wookey was not in the pink pajamas!

"Wookey," he said sternly.

"Yes, sir."

"The pink ones," he said solemnly.

"Very well, sir."

"Hurry."

"Yes, sir."

"Study's better in pink," said Stover wisely to McNab, who was trying to exceed him in dignity. "Most becomin'."

"Aha!"

"Make him study, Dopey," continued Stover. "I make him study."

"Watit hear 'm reshite," said McNab, unconvinced.

When Wookey, in changed costume, came puffing upstairs, books under his arm, McNab, who had been exhorted by Stover, viewed the pink pajamas with deliberation, and said:

"Like you in pink, Wookey; always wear 'em. Want to hear you reshite."

"Reshite," said Stover.

"Hold up," said Dopey, scratching his head.

"What's matter?"

"Where going to sleep?"

"Wookey, suggestions?" said Stover, who added in a thundering whisper to McNab, "Always leave such things to Wookey."

The freshman busily took down the cushions from the window seat, piled up the pillows at one end before the fire, and brought up a rug.

"Thank Mr. Wookey," said Stover severely.

"Mr. Wookey, I thank you," said McNab, who sat down tailor fashion, and, staring at a book of geometry open on his lap, said: "I'm most --- interested --- most, very fond of Horace --- reshite."

Wookey in the pink pajamas, seated in a sort of spinal bend, overwhelmed by the terrifying delight of being admitted to the company of Olympians, began directly to translate an ode of Horace.

McNab, staring at the geometry, turned a casual page, remarking from time to time severely:

"What's that!---oh, yes, h'm - quite right free, rather free, Dink --- not bad, not bad for freshman."

"Is it all right?" said Stover anxiously.

"All right."

"All my influence," said Stover.

"Wookey," said McNab, as a judge would say it, "very fortunate, sir, have such good infloonce. Congrath-ulate you."

Wookey, whether deceived by their drunken assumption of sobriety, or to conciliate dangerous men, remained in his corner, his book closed, blinking out from his wide glasses.

McNab, remembering the beginning of a discussion in which he had engaged with serious purpose, suddenly began, shaking his head:

"Dink, you ought be better infloonce than y'are."

Stover chose to be offended.

"Why you say that?"

"'Cause 'm right; y'oughtn't drink, not a drop!"

"What right you got to say that?"

"Every right --- every," said McNab, trying to remember what was the original destination of his argument. "I'm bad example 'n you're good infloonce, there's duff, see?"

"Ratsh!"

"I remember," said McNab all at once. "I know what I want say. I'm going to leave it to Wookey. Wookey'll be the judge --- referee --- y'willin'?"

"Willin'."

"'M going to give moral lecture," said McNab rapidly, then paused and considered a long while. "I'm fond of Stover, Wookey, very fond --- very worried, too, want him to stop drinking ---bad for him ---bad for any one, but bad for him! Stover, who could still perceive the argument, laughed a disagreeable laugh.

"He's laughin' at me, Wookey," said McNab in a grieved voice. "He means by that insultin' laugh that I sometimes drink excess. I admit it; I'm not proud of it, but I admit it. But there's a difference, and here's where you ref'ree, judge. When I take 'n occasional glass, I drink to be happy, make others happy --- y'understand, excesh of love for humanity, enjoy youth an' all that sort of thing, you know. That's the point ---you're ref'ree. When Stover drinks he goes at in bad way, no love humanity, joy of youth. That's the point, y'understand. I want him to stop it, 'cause he's my friend, he's good infloonce --- I'm bad example."

"You're my friend?" said Stover, overcome.

"You're besh friend."

"Shake hands."

"Shure."

"Dopey, I tell you truth --- confide in you," said Stover, slipping down beside him. "Swear."

"Swear."

"Never tell."

"Never!"

"I'm unhappy."

"No!"

"Drink to forget, y'understand."

"Must stop it," said McNab, firmly closing one eye, and gazing fearfully at the yellow owls in front.

"Going to shtop it," said Stover, "soon --- stop soon --promise."

"Promish?"

"Promise! Y'understand, want to forget."

"Must stop it," repeated McNab, turning from the yellow-eyed owls to Stover.

"Promish," repeated Stover solemnly. A moment later he said sleepily: "I shay."

"Shay it."

"What---what I going to stop?"

"What you, what---" McNab frowned terrifically at the owls. "Stop --- must stop --- promish --- what --what stop?"

The question being transferred to Stover, he in turn scratched his head and sought to concentrate his memory.

"I promished," he said slowly, "remember that --- stop --- promish stop. Wookey!"

"Yes, sir."

The pink pajamas approached with reluctance, and waited at a safe distance.

"Wookey! What --- what's this all about? What's it?"

Wookey, facing the crisis of his life, hesitated between two impulses; but at this moment the two took solemn hold of each other's hands, vacillated and rolled over on the cushions. Wookey, in the pink pajamas, covered them over with the rug, and stole out, like a thief, carrying away a secret.

But despite McNab's more sober remonstrances and his own proclamation, Stover did not cease his headlong gallop down the hill of Rake's Progress. He still avoided his old friends --- he had not been to the Storys' home for weeks. Regan occasionally forced himself upon him, but never offered a suggestion. The truth was, Stover began to have a horror of his own society, of being left alone. What he did, he did without restraint. At the card tables to which he wandered he was always clamoring for the raising of the limit; always ready to eat up the night. Even the most inveterate of the gamblers in his class perceived what McNab perceived, that there was no pleasure in what he did, but a sort of self-immolation. They were a little in awe of him, uneasy when he was around. He wandered over into Sheff, and among a group of hard livers in the Law School, getting deeper and deeper into the maelstrom. Several times, returning unsteadily late at night, he had met Le Baron, who stood aside, and watched him go with difficulty towards the haven of his own entry, for Stover always made it a point of pride to reach home and Wookey unaided. He never was offensive or quarrelsome. On the contrary, his struggle was always for self-control and an excess of politeness.

The climax arrived one Friday night when, having outlasted the party, he had put Tom Kelly to bed, and was returning from Sheff alone. He was very well pleased with himself. He had delivered Tom Kelly to his friends and gone away without assistance.

"Weak head, all weak head," he said to himself valiantly, "all but Stover, Dink Stover, old Rinky Dink. Self-control, great self-control. That's it, that's the point. Never taken home --- walk myself --- self-control." He began to laugh at the memory of Tom Kelly, who had insisted on going to bed with one boot under the pillow and his watch on the floor. The excruciating humor of it almost made him collapse. He clung to the nearest tree and wept for joy.

"Never hear end of it --- Tom Kelly --- boots --- wonderful --- poor old Tom ---'n I walkin' home -alone."

Some one on the opposite sidewalk, seeing him clinging hilariously, stopped. Stover straightened up instantly, adjusted his hat and started off.

"Mustn't create false impression ---all right! Street corner --- careful of street corner." He crossed with a run and a leap, and continued more sedately. "Know just what 'm doin'.

"Oh, father's mother
Pays all the bills,
'N I have all the fun."

Suddenly he remembered he was passing Divinity Hall, and broke off abruptly, raising his hat in apology.

"'Scuse me, no offense."

Then he considered anxiously:

"Mishtake --- nothin' hilar-ious --- might be Sunday." He tried to remember the day and could not. He stopped a laborer returning home with his bundle, and said ceremoniously:

"Beg your pardon, don't mean insult you, can you tell me what day the week it is?"

"Sure, me b'y," said the Irishman. "It's to-morrow."

"Thanks ---sorry trouble you," said Stover, bowing. Then, pondering over the information, he started hurriedly on his way. "Knew it was late ---must hurry."

When he came to the corner of the campus he raised his hat again to the chapel.

"Battell --- believe in compulsory chapel --- Yale democracy." He passed along College Street, saluting the various buildings by name. "Great inshtoostion---campus --- Brocky's right --- bring life back into campus, bring it all back. Things wrong now --- everything's wrong --- must say so --- must stop an' fight, good fight. Regan's right 'n Swazey's right ---all right. Hello, Donnelly. Salute!"

The campus policeman, lolling in the shadow of Osborne Hall, said:

"So there you are again, Dink. A fine life you're leaclin'."

Stover felt this was an unwarranted criticism.

"Never saw any one take me home," he said. "Always manage get home. That's the point, that's it ---see?"

"Go on with you," said Donnelly. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself ---you who ought to be captain of the team."

Stover approached him.

"Bill --- captain?"

"What?"

"I'm goin' to stop. Solemn promish."

He went into the campus and steadied himself against an elm, gazing down the long dim way to where in the shadow of the chapel was his entry.

"I see it --- see it plainly --- perfect self-control. What's that?" The trees seemed swollen to monstrous shapes, and the façades of the dormitories to be set on a slant, like the leaning tower of Pisa. He laughed cunningly: "Don't fool me ---might fool Dopey --- Tom Kelly --- weak head --- don't fool me --- illushion, pure illushion --- know air 'bout it. Worse comes worse, get down hands knees."

"Well, Dink, pickled again," said the voice of Le Baron from an outer world.

He straightened up, his mind coming back to his control, as it always did in the presence of others.

"All right," he said, leaning up against the cold, hard side of Phelp's, "bit of a party, that's all."

"Look here, fink," said Le Baron, who was ignorant of the extent of the other's condition, "let's have a few plain words-man to man."

Stover heard him as from a distance, and nodded his head gravely.

"Good."

"We've had our break, but I've always respected you. You thought I was a snob then, and a damned aristocrat. Well, was I so far wrong? I believe in the best getting together and keeping together. You've chucked that and tried the other, haven't you? Now look where it's brought you."

Stover, his back to the wall, heard him with the clarity that sometimes comes. His head seemed to be among whirling mists, but every word came to him as though it alone were the only sound in a sleeping world. He wanted to answer, he rebelled at the logic, he knew it could be answered, but the words would not come.

"You're going to the devil, that's it in good English words," said Le Baron, not without kindness. "You ought to be the biggest thing in your class, and you're headed for the biggest failure. And it's all because you've cut loose from your crowd, Dink ---from your own kind, because you've taken 'up with a bunch who don't count, who aren't working for anything here."

Suddenly Stover revolted, saying angrily:

"Hugh!"

"I don't want to hit you when you're down," said Le Baron quickly. "But, Dink, man alive, you're too good to go to the devil. Brace up ---be a man. Get back to your own kind again."

"Hugh, that's enough!"

He said it sharply, and there was a finality about it.

"I say, Dink."

"Good night!"

He stood without moving until he had compelled Le Baron to leave, then he set out for his room. A great anger swept over him ---at himself, at the Dink Stover who had betrayed the cause, and given Le Baron the right to say what he did.

"It isn't that," he said furiously, "it's not for breaking 'way --- democracy --- standing on m' own feet, no! It's a lie, all a lie. It's m' own fault ---damn you, Dink Stover, you're quitter!"

He marched into his entry, his head on fire, but clear with one last resolve, and thundered on Wookey's door.

"Come out!"

The pink pajamas flashed out as by magic. The little freshman, perceiving Stover's fierce expression, drew back in alarm.

"Go'n to help you up to-night --- able to do it," said Dink, the idea of assistance to another mingling in some curious way with his great resolve.

He took Wookey firmly by the arm and assisted him up the stairs. Once in his room he motioned him to a chair.

"Sit down --- somethin' to say to you!"

Wookey, frightened, calculating the chances to the door, huddled in the big arm-chair, his toes drawn up under him, his large eyes over the spectacles never daring to deviate from the imperious glance of Stover.

"Studied to-day?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Wookey, listen to me. I'm a quitter, you understand. I've fought fight --- good fight --- big fight --- real democracy --'n then I lost nerve. I'm wrong; I'm all wrong. I know it. Fault's with me, not what fought for. Wookey, listen to me. Le Baron's wrong, all wrong, you understand; doesn't know --- realize --- see."

"Yes, sir," said Wookey, in terror and complete incomprehension.

"I'm fool ---big fool, but that's over, y'understand. Never give Le Baron chance say again what he did tonight. 'M going fight again --- good fight. An' no one's ever going say saw me like this again, y'understand."

"Yes, sir," said the freshman weakly, terrified at the passion that showed in Stover, rocking before the mantelpiece.

"Last time they ever get me this way!"

The green shaded lamp was burning on the table before him.

"The last time --- by God," he said, and lifting his fist he drove it through the shattering glass, reeled, and stretched insensible on the floor.

On the following night, a Saturday, Kelly, Buck Waters, and McNab at Mory's set up a shout of welcome as Stover came in quietly:

"Good old Dink!"

"Hard old head."

"What is it, old boy? ---get in the game."

"A toby of musty, Louis," he said, quietly sitting down.

McNab glanced at him, aware of something new in the sharp, businesslike movements, and the old determined lines of the lips.

"My round," said Buck Waters presently.

"Another toby for me," said Stover.

A little later Kelly rang on the table:

"Bring 'em in all over again."

"Not for me," said Stover. "I guess two'll be my limit from now on."

There was no protest. McNab surreptitiously, while the others were in an argument, leaned over and patted him on the knee.