Stover at Yale | Page 5

joyful conclave. Somewhere there
in the great protecting embrace of these walls were the friends that
should be his, that should pass with him through those wonderful years

of happiness and good fellowship that were coming.
"And this is it -- this is Yale," he said reverently, with a little tightening
of the breath.
They had begun at last -- the happy, care-free years that every one
proclaimed. Four glorious years, good times, good fellows, and a free
and open fight to be among the leaders and leave a name on the roll of
fame. Only four years, and then the world with its perplexities and
grinding trials.
"Four years," he said softly. "The best, the happiest I'll ever know!
Nothing will ever be like them -- nothing!"
And, carried away with the confident joy of it, he went toward his
house, shoulders squared, with the step of a d'Artagnan and a song
sounding in his ears.
Yale College Student Room - circa 1900

CHAPTER II
HE found the house in York Street, a low, whitewashed frame building,
luminous under the black canopy of the over towering elms. At the
door there was a little resistance and a guarded voice cried:
What do you want?
I want to get in."
"What for?"
"Because I want to."
"Very sorry," said McNab's rather squeaky voice -- "most particular
sorry; but this house is infected with yellow fever and the rickets, and
we wouldn't for the world share it with the sophomore class -- oh, no!"

A light began to dawn over Stover.
"I'm rooming here," he said.
"What's your name and general style of beauty?"
"Stover, and I've got a twitching foot."
"Why didn't you say so?" said McNab, who then admitted him. "Pardon
me. The sophomores are getting so fidgety, you know, hopping all up
and down. My name's McNab -- German extraction. Came up on the
train, ahead of you -- thought you were a sophomore, you put on such a
beautiful side. Here, put on that chain."
"Hazing?"
"Oh, no, indeed. Just a few members of the weakling class above us
might get too fond of us; just must see us -- welcome to Yale and all
that sort of thing. I hate sentimental exhibitions, don't you?"
"Is McCarthy here?" said Stover, laughing.
"Your wife is waiting for you most anxiously."
"Hello, is that Dink?" called down McCarthy's exuberant voice at this
moment.
Stover went up the stairs like a terrier, answering the joyful whoop with
a war-cry of his own. The next moment he and McCarthy were
pummeling each other, wrestling about the room, to the dire danger of
furniture and crockery. When this sentimental moment had exhausted
itself physically, McCarthy bore him to the back of the house, saying:
"We don't want to show our light in front just yet. We've got a corking
lot in the house -- best of the Andover crowd. Come on; I'll introduce
you. You remember Hunter, who played against me at tackle? He's
here."
There were half a dozen loitering on the window-seat and beds in the

pipe-ridden room.
Hunter, in shirt sleeves, sorting the contents of his trunk, came forward
at once.
"Hello, Stover, how are you?"
"How are you?"
No sooner did their hands clasp than a change came to Dink. He was
face to face with the big man of the Andover crowd, measuring him
and being measured. The sudden burst of boyish affection that had sent
him into McCarthy's arms was gone. This man could not help but be a
leader in the class. He was older than the rest, but how much it would
have been hard to say. He examined, analyzed, and deliberated. He
knew what lay before him. He would make no mistakes. He was carried
away by no sentimental enthusiasm. Everything about him was
reserved -- his cordiality, the quiet grip of his hand, the smile of
welcome, and the undecipherable estimate in his eyes.
"Will you follow me or shall I follow you?" each seemed to say in the
first contact, which was a challenge.
"How are you?" said Stover, shaking hands with some one else; and the
tone was the tone of Hunter.
There were three others in the room: Hunter's roommate, Stone, a
smiling, tall, good-looking fellow who shook his hand an extra period;
Saunders, silent, retired behind his spectacles; and Logan, who roomed
with McNab, who sunk his shoulders as he shook bands and looked
into Stover's eyes intensely as he said, "Awful glad; awful glad to know
you."
"Have a pipe -- cigarette -- anything?" said Hunter over his shoulder,
from the trunk to which he had returned.
"No, thanks."

"Started training?"
"Sort of."
"Take a chair and make yourself at home," said Hunter warmly, but
without turning.
The talk was