Part 48 (1/2)

”I know,” said Dennis sympathetically.

The Tennessee Shad now returned from the wars, covered with mud and the more visible marks of the combat.

”h.e.l.lo,” he said gruffly.

”h.e.l.lo,” said Stover.

The Tennessee Shad went wearily to his corner and stripped for the bath.

”Well, say it,” said Stover, who, in his agitation, had actually picked up a textbook and started to study. ”Jump on me, why don't you?”

”I'm not going to jump on you,” said the Tennessee Shad, who weakly pulled off the heavy shoes. ”Only--well, you couldn't see it as the umpire did, could you?”

”No!”

”What a day--what an awful day!”

Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan, with great tact, rose and hesitated:

”I'm going--I--I've got to get ready for supper,” he said desperately.

Then he went lamely over to Stover and held out his hand: ”I know how you feel old man, but--but--I'm glad you did it!”

Whereupon he disappeared in blus.h.i.+ng precipitation.

Stover breathed hard and tried to bring his mind to the printed lesson. The Tennessee Shad, sighing audibly, continued his ablutions, dressed and sat down.

”d.i.n.k.”

”What?”

”Why did you do it?”

Then Stover, flinging down his book with an access of rage, cried out:

”Why? Because you all, every d.a.m.n one of you, expected me to _lie_!”

The next day Stover, who had firmly made up his mind to a sort of modified ostracism, was amazed to find that over night he had become a hero. By the next morning the pa.s.sion and the bitterness of the struggle having died away, the house looked at the matter in a calmer mood and one by one came to him and gripped his hand with halting, blurted words of apology or explanation.

Utterly unprepared for this development, Stover all at once realized that he had won what neither courage nor wit had been able to bring him, the something he had always longed for without being quite able to name it--the respect of his fellows. He felt it in the looks that followed him as he went over to chapel, in the nodded recognition of Fifth Formers, who had never before noticed him, in The Roman himself, who flunked him without satire or aggravation. And not yet knowing himself, his impulses or the strange things that lay dormant beneath the surface of his everyday life, Stover was a little ashamed, as though he did not deserve it all.

That afternoon as d.i.n.k was donning his football togs, preparing for practice, a knock came at the door which opened on a very much embarra.s.sed delegation from the Woodhull--the Coffee-colored Angel, Cheyenne Baxter and Tough McCarty.

”I say, is that you, d.i.n.k?” said the Coffee-colored Angel.

”It is,” said Stover, with as much dignity as the state of his wardrobe would permit.

”I say, we've come over from the Woodhull, you know,” continued the Coffee-colored Angel, who stopped after this bit of illuminating news.

”Well, what do you want?”