Part 14

A little later as he started for the campus old Jack Stehman joined him and said, in his sober, conscientious way, "Say, Dougal, you had no business saying what you did about Jimmy. Of course you didn't mean it, but you had better apologize, don't you think?"

Davis said he did not look at it in that way, and changed the subject. Before he got to sleep that night he saw what a fool he had made of himself, and made up his mind to apologize to Linton before the whole table. But that was in the middle of the night.

The next day there were guests at the club. The following day Linton dined out. The day after that Davis tried to make himself do it as they sat about the fireplace, but he postponed it until some time when his heart was not beating so loud, for he did not feel himself called upon to make a scene before the whole club. When he thought over what he meant to say it all seemed very ridiculous, and he blushed at the thought of it. Linton of all fellows would dislike any slopping over of this sort. So he changed his mind and decided to speak to Linton alone about it.

But it was a very hard thing for a man like Davis to talk to a man like Linton about a thing like this. There was something about Linton that he did not understand. He was the one man that made him self-conscious. He always felt as though Linton saw through him and understood how ambitious he was, and was laughing at him for his strenuous struggling. He told himself that he did not propose to be in awe of a lazy dilettante who thought himself a clever reader of human nature. But that did not help him to apologize. And the longer he put it off the harder it became, naturally. And the longer he put it off the more he found to dislike in Linton, which was also natural, only you would not have thought this of Davis.

After a while he began wondering how he had taken to Linton in the first place, and why the other fellows liked him so much. Every time they were together he began comparing himself with him. By most standards Davis ought to have been satisfied. Linton himself never seemed to think of comparison. He seemed to calmly take it for granted that Dougal was a wonderful man, and often referred to it as an acknowledged fact. He seemed to be glad to speak of it. But he had a way of making fellows love him that was galling to the man that led the class.

All the college bowed down to Dougal Davis; not twenty under-classmen knew who Linton was. But Timberly and Reddy Armstrong and Jack Stehman had a way of throwing an arm about lazy Linton, whom they loved, that it did not occur to them to do with the wonderful Dougal Davis, whom they admired. Davis wanted that love. He wanted everything. You see he had quite a disposition to contend with.

So he kept on having disagreeable times with himself and the conscience which would not let up. Finally he made up his mind to patch it all up on Commencement Day, and he had hit upon a plan by which he could make just amends to Linton, he told himself, and duly punish himself at the same time, and then he could graduate in peace.

Meanwhile he would have to stop thinking about that and walk down from the stage with the other Commencement speakers, for Charles Benjamin Howard had finished telling people about the Utility of Difference, and the orchestra was playing "Ta-ra-ra boom de ay."

There was an intermission of ten minutes now. After that would come the announcement of prizes and the conferring of degrees, then Smith's valedictory, followed by the benediction, and then the class would walk out into the world with their little diplomas under their arms tied with pretty ribbons.

The audience changed their positions and looked about at the other people there, whispered to each other, and went to fanning again. Some of the fathers looked at their watches and yawned and wished Commencement was over with behind their programmes, and fell to thinking about things in the office which they had come here to forget.

Other old grads. smiled kindly, and remembered how they used to do when they were in college. The young alumnus looked pityingly at the graduating class in the front rows and thought how little these boys knew about the big world he knew so much of.

Meanwhile the juniors and the lower classmen were very active and noisy in the rear of the old church. The Whig men were gathering on the left-hand side, and Clio Hall on the right. Many reinforcements were arriving that had not been near the church during the other exercises. The aisles became jammed. The seats were already so.

Suddenly a man jumped up on a pew, and screamed, "Now, fellows! Clio Hall, this way! Hip-hip!"

"Clio Hall--this way!" came out with startling force from many throats.

This woke everyone up, and those that had never been there before were a little shocked for a moment. The loud voices echoed strangely against the old walls and among the old pillars and under the old galleries, which by the way are used to all this and weren't surprised a bit. No doubt they miss it these days.

Then the left-hand side of the church raised its voice and said, "Whig Hall, this way! Whig Hall this wa-ay!" in still fiercer tones. Then Clio called itself together again, and then Whig Hall cheered and so did Clio, and gave a long cheer and so did Whig. Then both cheered for themselves at once, and tried to drown each other out, and succeeded. They kept this up until time was called. That is, the clerk of the board of trustees arose and stretched his long neck and began to announce the prizes from a long list in his hand. This was interesting.

Whenever he read out an award in his strong voice, it was met with a tremendous cheer from the Hall whose member won the prize. It mattered not whether the honor was one for which a literary society's training could count; they cheered anyway, whether it was a fellowship in modern languages or a prize in the School of Science draughtsmanship. Nor did it matter whether the man had never since the first week after his initiation worked the combination lock of the Hall door. They cheered him anyway. And when the two societies were in doubt as to which he belonged to, they both cheered. It made magnificent noise.

There are a great many of these prizes. One has no idea until Commencement comes that there are so many advertised in the catalogue; and the clerk read each one out in a loud voice, and then waited for the cheering to cease.

Dougal Davis had heard his name announced three times, and each time the cheer rang out from the enthusiastic throng in the rear he felt the little echoing thrill inside of him.

Once as he stepped down from the platform he caught a glimpse of a man leading the cheer for him. The man's back was turned, but he saw him standing there 'way up on the railing of the pew in his excitement, and he saw his arms vigorously jerking out the cheer.

Davis was used to this sort of thing and he held his features very well, though as he marched up for the third time he felt rather foolish, for the audience were smiling audibly at the sight of Dougal Davis, of Persia, running off with so many prizes. Timberly asked him when he came down, "Why don't you stay up there, Dougal? I'd sit on the edge platform and swing my legs."

It was only at the announcement of the Lynde prize debate that he felt at all tremulous. His friends kept telling him that he was sure of it, but he felt that he would not get it. This is, as everyone knows, the greatest inter-Hall prize offered, and many people consider it the greatest honor of a college lifetime. It was quite enough for a fellow to feel weak at the stomach over. Dougal kept repeating under his breath, "What's the difference, what's the difference?" and he reminded himself that there were a second and a third prize as well as the first, and that any way, even if he won none of them, it was a pretty fine thing to have secured the appointment from his Hall. Besides, he was doing so many things that he could afford to drop an honor or two.

"The Lynde Prize Debate," came in the resonant tones of the tall, gaunt clerk. Everything was very still.

The cheerers were silent. The two leaders were standing on tip-toe, each with his elbows doubled up and mouth half open, ready to begin the cheer. One of them, however, would have to keep still. Dougal shut his lips.

"First prize awarded to Dougal Davis, of Pers----"

Then came the loud, eager "'Ray! 'Ray! 'Ray!'" of the quick cheer, and then two more quick ones, and next a long one with "Davis!" on the end, then the word "Davis! Davis! Davis!" that way, three times. Then they began giving more quick cheers again and a few long ones, as if they had just started.

Meanwhile the clerk kept his sober gaze upon the paper in his hand, waiting to announce the second and third winners and pretending to be annoyed at the delay, though enjoying it as much as any girl in the audience.

"Good work, Dougal, good work," cried one of the four fellows pounding him on the back.

Dougal did not smile slightly or look unconcerned. He grinned all over his face and enjoyed it. As soon as the attention was taken away from him he leaned back in the corner of the pew and enjoyed it some more. That is the way to do.

He was still tense and excited from his victory when a few minutes later he heard the clerk reading off something about the new fellowship in Political Science. This was the one he had gone in for, and he had felt doubtful over the result, because he had not been able to spend as much time upon it as he wanted to, and it required a great deal. However, the only other man in the race was nothing to be afraid of. But all the same a little dart of dread shot through him now, and he thought what if he should lose it after all. It would not do at all. This was what he wanted more than any of the honors. He had a particular reason for wanting to win it. This he failed to do.

Before he was quite aware of what was taking place the clerk had already made the announcement and the crowd were wildly cheering, cheering that other fellow as if they had never heard of Dougal Davis. He felt like a man that steps off a bridge in the dark; he heard the splash and felt a shock, but he did not know just what had happened. He had never been beaten in anything before. It came very hard. But that was not what made it hurt so much. It was because Linton had won it.

He could not help thinking of the little speech he had planned to make that evening--"Well, you see, Jimmie, I haven't time for it, anyway. I have to go to the Seminary, and maybe to the Medical College after that. So I thought I would resign, and I hope you'll apply for it and come back to the old place for another year. You're sure to get it, if you apply for it." Wasn't it a pretty little speech?

He turned and glanced over at Linton, who sat with his head nestled contentedly against Reddy Armstrong's shoulder, while the happy-looking fellows all around him were punching and pounding him and rumpling up his hair as if they never would cease; and as if they were glad Dougal Davis was beaten. Linton himself only raised his eyebrows and shook his head deprecatingly. He seemed to take it all very easily, as if he were accustomed to winning prizes and beating Dougal Davis, and he still wore that imperturbable look, and Davis knew that it would have been just as imperturbable and contented looking if he had lost.

And this spoiled the salutatorian's day of triumph. He did not glance back now to where his sister and aunt were sitting. He forgot to unroll his sheepskin as the others did when they came down from the stage with them. He blew his breath through it against the palm of his hand and looked absent-mindedly at the scratched paint of the old-fashioned pew. He remained thus all through Smith's valedictory, except once when the speaker stretched out both arms and the class arose; then he listened for a moment and said, "Biff!" under his breath. When it was all over he passed out with his class and through the gazing throng, thinking not of the much that he had won, but only of the one thing he had lost, and this was unfortunate, because much people were looking at him and thinking how fine it was to be Davis, and that is fame, and it was too bad to miss it.

* * * * *

Linton had no ambition and he colored meerschaum beautifully. He was usually mum in a crowd, but he was fine company on a long cross-country walk, and he knew more about ordering a dinner than any man on the campus, except one of the faculty.

When he did not want you in his room he told you so, and he was the kind of a fellow you would do anything for after you came to know him.

He had a very efficient sense of humor, which does not mean that he said funny things at the table. Some people thought him sarcastic. But many fellows went to him for advice or sympathy, and it was not only because he could keep his mouth absolutely closed.

Linton had a walking acquaintance with every road, lane, and pathway within a radius of twenty miles of the campus. He knew how long it took to cover any route, and where there were good places to stop and rest, especially the quaint ones where they served it in mugs.

Here he used to sit and sip and smoke the golden afternoon away, dreaming of how it all must have been years ago in the old stage coach days when the horses drew up on the clattering cobble-stones and the passengers alighted and looked about and asked how many more miles it was, and the red-faced driver jumped down from the box and swaggered into the tap-room, and called for a pint of ale, and told the landlord how bad the pike was near New Brunswick.

He considered himself somewhat of an artist. There were ever so many bits that he was fond of showing you if he thought you could appreciate them; like the bend in the canal up toward Baker's basin, with peculiar water and willow-coloring in springtime. Linton said it was like a French water-color. He used to carry a gun over his shoulder, and say he was going snipe-shooting; really it was to look for things like this, and get up a big appetite for dinner. He could also point out a view of gentle hills and rolling green fields on the way to Kingston that was a good imitation of English landscape, he said, and he knew just where the tower of the School of Science ought to make an effect through treetops, like the view of Magdalen tower from a point in Addison's walk, if it were only beautiful Gothic instead of ugly Renaissance. But perhaps all this was merely to show that he had once canoed down the Thames from Oxford to London.

He was very well up in the ancient history of the town, also. He knew all about most of the old houses, and he had sketches of the best of the old brass-knockers and colonial doorways. It is said that he used to prowl about on moonlight nights for this purpose. Small window-panes were another thing he was insane over. He had substituted for the ordinary panes of his windows, dingy little square ones with thick frames painted black. Some of the fellows said the reason he did this was to be odd. Linton blew smoke, and said yes, that was the reason.

But it was the old campus that he loved the most. He knew just about all there was to find out about it, and dreamed a great deal more.

He had ever so many favorite aspects, such as the one of the back of the Dean's house--with small, square window-panes--from away over at a point between Whig and Clio Halls, and the rear view of Prospect across the stretch of sloping meadow toward the canal, and a number of congenial little spots that meant something to him, like the stone buttress at the bottom of the tower of Witherspoon, a great place to warm your back against in spring sunshine, with the blue smoke trickling lazily from your mouth and the fellows batting up flies on the old diamond; and then for midnight chats there were the smooth steps of chapel with the elms saying things in low tones overhead. But those midnight chats were all over now. It was Commencement Day, and it was the saddest thing that had ever happened to Linton.

He was not at all anxious to spring forth into the world and battle with opportunity and all the other things that the class-day speakers and the valedictorian said that he was going to do. He thought this little world was good enough for him, and there wasn't much spring in him.

Ever since he could read he had been told that youth was the happiest time in life, and he had come to the conclusion that it must be so. He did not like the idea of giving it up. He had become well settled where he was, and had just gotten rid of a persistent siege of kid-pessimism--of which he was now very much ashamed--and was just beginning to realize what a big, beautiful, real thing friendship was, and now--Jack and Timber and Billy and Red, where would they all be in three days' time? It seemed pretty sudden, this thing of breaking up.

And there was very little comfort to him in the thought of coming back next year. What would the old place be without the old class. He did not like to think about it.

It struck the class as a pretty joke for Jimmie Linton to bob up and win a fellowship. "How did you happen to do it?" said Tucker, on the way out of church. "I didn't know you had any brains."

"Didn't you?" said Linton; "I've quite a lot of them. And I worked like a good little boy for that fellowship; but nobody will give me any credit for it. They all know that if Dougal hadn't been too busy with other things, I would have had no show." He was quite right. There was nothing modest in this. Dougal Davis had about as good powers of acquisition as anyone graduated since the time of Aaron Burr.

Political science was not strictly in Linton's line. He wrote things for the Lit., and elected all the English courses. He was a great browser in Elizabethan literature, and when he dabbled in verse this was evident. One of the exchanges once called him a nineteenth century Herrick. Linton felt right pleased, and wrote something nice about the University of Virginia man that said it in the next Lit., and also made it an excuse to give one of his famous spreads. You would have expected him to go in for an English fellowship, if for any. But he did not go in for any deliberately. He was not in the habit of studying his courses more than enough to get through the examinations, except when he ran across something he was interested in, or a professor he liked. There are many excuses for laziness.

In Political Economy, and such subjects, he liked the lecturer very much, and he found himself becoming interested in the primitive man, and the origin of society, and all that. The farther he went in the course, the more interested he became. He went to the library, and often walked past the Elizabethan alcove. Next he began buying the books, because he liked to feel that he owned them, and rub them up against his cheek, and he soon had a shelf full of Bagehot and big, thick Sir Henry Maine and others.

Then because he had never done anything serious during his course, and because he knew it would please his people and amuse the fellows, he announced his intention of trying for the Political Science fellowship. There was no one else in for it.

He went about it scientifically, and was surprised to find how much enthusiasm he had aroused in himself. He had never known before what a fine thing study was. He said he wished he had done more of it during his college course.

He was surprised when he heard a few weeks later that Dougal Davis was in the field. Historical work he thought was still further out of Davis's line. But he only rolled over on the divan and went on reading. For he argued thus: "I like this stuff and I don't see how it can hurt me to learn a lot about something. If I don't fetch a fellowship I won't have to correct examination papers. I'd hate to correct examination papers."

One day at the club he asked Dougal--he sat opposite--what he wanted with political science. Davis cleared his throat and said every preacher of modern times should know something of sociology, which was undoubtedly true. But that was not the reason. And somehow Linton guessed it.

* * * * *

It was twilight and the class had gathered together on the steps of Old North for their last senior singing. Only they were no longer seniors; it was "by and by" now, and they were out in the "wide, wide world." They huddled up close together as if half frightened at the thought of its being the last time.

There were but few undergrads. stretched out under the elms to listen, and most of these were the juniors--seniors they were now--waiting to rapaciously take possession of the steps the moment the present occupants marched off for their last supper together at nightfall. These and a handful of the out-of-town visitors were all that were left of the big Commencement crowds that had been gathering there every evening to hear the seniors sing. Sometimes they had felt that they would have preferred being left a little more to themselves, if it were possible, during the last days of college life.

But now this unmolested aloneness only added to their dreariness and made them feel the ghastly certainty of this evening's being the end of all. The grass was trampled and faded, and the crowd that had trodden it was gone. The bell in Old North belfry rang out painfully loud.

"Well, fellows, let's sing," said the leader, rising slowly. He raised his chin and then bobbed his head and started up, "The Orange and the Black," just as they had all seen him do many times before.

They sang as they had never sung before. It did not matter what were the words of the song. "They stole his wallet, they stole his staff," had nothing in it that was especially apropos of college friendships or the sadness of farewell, but the way they sang it, with the long-drawn "Ramski Ho," meant something. It was so full of association. And no one noticed this time whether the man behind him was on a key of his own. His only thought was, "When shall I hear Billy's good old bark again after to-night?" And when Sam's and when Ed's and Big Hill's and Little Hill's and where would be the fellow a year from now whose shoulder was next to his own.

During the past month or two the class of Ninety Blank had been drawn very close together by the thought of what was coming. They had never been very seriously cliqued up, but what there was of dissension was forgotten, and they were now one solid crowd. Fellows who had never anything to do with each other before except to say, "Hello, there, Ray!" and "Hello, Harry!" had taken to strolling around the campus together arm-in-arm talking about what they were going to do next year and wondering why they had never happened to see more of each other in the past, and regretting that there were to be no opportunities for doing so in the future.

But during the excitement of Commencement week, with the crowds of old grads. and of girls and the big baseball game and the concerts and Class Day full of its exhibition farewells in the church and around the cannon, and the teas and the big dance on Tuesday night, and the many other things that filled up every moment of every day and night--together with the responsibility of seeing to the entertainment of their guests--all this, and the feeling of importance at being the cause of so much color and sound had in a measure distracted their minds from the thought of what it all meant. But now all that was changed.