The Courage of the Commonplace | Page 4

way and that as the seniors worked through the
mass. And as another and another crashed from among them blind and
solemn and happy with his guardian senior close after, the ones who
were left seemed to drop into deeper quiet. And now there were only
two black hats in the throng; the girl looking down saw John McLean
standing stiffly, his gray eyes fixed, his face pale and set; at that
moment the two seniors found their men together. It was all over. He
had not been taken.
Slowly the two hundred and fifty odd men who had not been good
enough dispersed, pluckily laughing and talking together-- all of them,
it is safe to say, with heavy hearts; for Tap Day counts as much as that
at Yale.
John McLean swung across the diagonal of the campus toward Welch
Hall where he lived. He saw the girl and her chaperon come out of
Durfee; and he lingered to meet them. Two days ago he had met the girl
here with Brant, and she had stopped and shaken hands. It seemed to
him it would help if that should happen today. She might say a word;
anything at all to show that she was friends all the same with a fellow
who wasn't good enough. He longed for that. With a sick chaos of pain
pounding at what seemed to be his lungs he met her. Mrs. Anderson
was between them, putting out a quick hand; the boy hardly saw her as
he took it. He saw the girl, and the girl did not look at him. With her
head up and her brown eyes fixed on Phelps gate-way she hurried
along--and did not look at him. He could not believe it-- that girl--the
girl. But she was gone; she had not looked at him. Like a shot animal
he suddenly began to run. He got to his rooms; they were empty; Baby
Thomas, his "wife," known as Archibald Babington Thomas on the
catalogue, but not elsewhere, had been taken for Scroll and Key; he
was off with the others who were worth while. This boy went into his

tiny bedroom and threw himself down with his face in his pillow and
lay still. Men and women learn--sometimes--as they grow older, how to
shut the doors against disappointments so that only the vital ones cut
through, but at twenty all doors are open; the iron had come into his
soul, and the girl had given it a twist which had taken his last ounce of
courage. He lay still a long time, enduring-- all he could manage at first.
It might have been an hour later that he got up and went to his desk and
sat down in the fading light, his hands deep in his trousers pockets; his
athletic young figure dropped together listlessly; his eyes staring at the
desk where had worked away so many cheerful hours. Pictures hung
around it; there was a group taken last summer of girls and boys at his
home in the country, the girl was in it--he did not look at her. His
father's portrait stood on the desk, and a painting of his long-dead
mother. He thought to himself hotly that it was good she was dead
rather than see him shamed. For the wound was throbbing with a fever,
and the boy had not got to a sense of proportion; his future seemed
blackened. His father's picture stabbed him; he was a "Bones" man--all
of his family--his grandfather, and the older brothers who had
graduated four and six years ago--all of them. Except himself. The girl
had thought it such a disgrace that she would not look at him! Then he
grew angry. It wasn't decent, to hit a man when he was down. A
woman ought to be gentle--if his mother had been alive--but then he
was glad she wasn't. With that a sob shook him--startled him. Angrily
he stood up and glared about the place. This wouldn't do; he must pull
himself together. He walked up and down the little living room, bright
with boys' belongings, with fraternity shields and flags and fencing
foils and paddles and pictures; he walked up and down and he whistled
"Dunderbeck," which somehow was in his head. Then he was singing
it:
"Oh Dunderbeck, Oh Dunderbeck, how could you be so mean As even
to have thought of such a terrible machine! For bob-tailed rats and
pussy-cats shall never more be seen; They'll all be ground to
sausage-meat in Dunderbeck's machine."
There are times when Camembert cheese is a steadying thing to think
of--or golf balls. "Dunderbeck" answered for John McLean. It appeared
difficult to sing, however--he harked back to whistling. Then the clear
piping broke suddenly. He bit his lower