Stover at Yale | Page 6

immediately of what each was going to do. Stone was out
for the glee club, already planning to take singing lessons in the contest
for the leadership, three years off. Saunders was to start for the News.
Logan had made drawings during the summer and was out for the
Record. Hunter was trying for his class team and the crew. Only
McNab was defiant.
"None of that for me," he said, on his back, legs in the air, blowing
rings against the ceiling. "I'm for a good time, the best in life. It may be
a short one, but it'll be a lulu!"
"You'll be out heeling the Record, Dopey, inside of a month," said
Hunter quietly.
Never, by the Great Horned Spoon -- never!
"And you'll get a tutor, Dopey, and stay with us."
"Never! I came to love and to be loved. I'm a lovely thing; that's
sufficient," said McNab, with a grimace to his elfish face. "I will not be
harnessed up. I will not heel."
"Yes, you will."
Hunter's tone had not varied. Stover, studying him, wondered if he had
marked out the route of Stone, Saunders, and Logan, just as he felt that
McNab would sooner or later conform to the will of the man who had
determined to succeed himself and make his own crowd succeed.
Reynolds, a sophomore, an old Andover man, dropped in. Again it was
but question of the same challenge, addressed to each:

"What are you trying for?"
The arrival of the sophomore, who installed himself in easy majesty in
the arm-chair and addressed his questions with a quick, analytical
staccato, produced somewhat the effect of a suddenly opened window.
Even McNab was unwillingly impressed, and Hunter, closing the trunk,
allowed the conversation to be guided by Reynolds' initiative.
He was a fiery, alert, rather undersized fellow, who had been the first in
his class to make the News, and was supposed to be in line for that
all-important chairmanship.
Inside of five minutes he had gone through the possibilities of each
man, advising briefly in a quick, businesslike manner. To Stover he
seemed symbolic of the rarefied contending nervousness of the place, a
personality that suddenly threw open to him all the nervous panorama
of the struggle for position which had already begun.
On top of which there arrived Rogers, a junior, good-natured, popular,
important. At once, to Stover's amused surprise, the role was reversed.
Reynolds, from the enthroned autocrat, became the respectful audience,
answered a few questions, and found a quick opportunity to leave.
"Let's go in front and have a little fun," said Rogers.
Somewhat perplexed, Stover led the way to their room.
"Light up," said Rogers, with a chuckle. "There's a sophomore bunch
outside just ready to tumble."
Rogers' presence brought back a certain ease; they were no longer on
inspection, and even in his manner was a more open cordiality than he
had showed toward Reynolds. That under all this was some graduated
system of authority Stover was slowly perceiving, when all at once
from the street there rose a shout:
"Turn down that light!"

"Freshmen, turn down that light!
"Turn it down slowly," said Rogers, with a gesture to McNab.
"Faster!"
"All the way down!"
"Turn it up suddenly," said Rogers.
An angry swelling protest arose:
"Turn that down!"
"You freshmen!"
"Turn it down!"
"The freshest of the fresh!"
"Here, let me work 'em up," said Rogers, going to the gas-jet.
Under his tantalizing manipulation the noise outside grew to the
proportions of a riot.
"Come on and get the bloody freshmen!"
"Ride 'em on a rail!"
"Say, are we going to stand for this?"
"Down with that light!"
"Let's run 'em out!"
"Break in the door!"
"Out with the freshman!"
Below came a sudden rush of feet. Rogers, abandoning the gas-jet,

draped himself nonchalantly on the couch that faced the door.
"Well, here comes the shindy," thought Stover, with a joyful tensity in
every muscle.
The hubbub stormed up the hall, shot open the door, and choked the
passage with the suddenly revealed fury of angry faces.
"Hello," said Rogers' quiet voice. "Well, what do you want?"
No sooner had the barbaric front ranks beheld the languid, slightly
annoyed junior than the fury of battle vanished like a flurry of wind
across the water. From behind the more concealed began to murmur:
"Oh, beans!"
"A lemon!"
"Rubber!"
"Sold!"
"Well, what is it?" said Rogers sharply, sending a terrific frown at the
sheepish leaders.
At this curt reminder there was a shifting movement in the rear, which
rapidly communicated itself to the stammering, apologetic front ranks;
the door was closed in ludicrous haste, and down the stairs resounded
the stampede of the baffled host.
"My, they are a fierce lot, these man-eating sophomores, aren't they?"
said Rogers,