Part 10 (2/2)
”Why don't any of you fellows like me?”
Carl felt like a bug inspected by a German professor. ”W-why, how d'you mean, Genie?”
”None of you take me seriously. You simply let me hang around. And you think I'm a grind. I'm not. I like to read, that's all. Perhaps you think I shouldn't like to go out for athletics if I could! I wish I could run the way you can, Ericson. Darn it! I was happy out here by myself on the Mound, where every prospect pleases, and--'n' now here I am again, envying you.”
”Why, son, I--I guess--I guess we admire you a whole lot more than we let on to. Cheer up, old man! When you're valedictorian and on the debating team and wallop Hamlin you'll laugh at the Gang, and we'll be proud to write home we know you.” Carl was hating himself for ever having teased Genie Linderbeck. ”You've helped me a thundering lot whenever I've asked you about that blame Greek syntax. I guess we're jealous of you. You--uh--you don't want to _let_ 'em kid you----”
Carl was embarra.s.sed before Genie's steady, youthful, trusting gaze.
He stooped for a handful of pebbles, with which he pelted the landscape, maundering, ”Say, why don't you come around to the Turk's room and get better acquainted with the Gang?”
”When shall I come?”
”When? Oh, why, thunder!--you know, Genie--just drop in any time.”
”I'll be glad to.”
Carl was perspiring at the thought of what the Gang would do to him when they discovered that he had invited Genie. But he was game. ”Come up to my room whenever you can, and help me with my boning,” he added.
”You mustn't ever get the idea that we're conferring any blooming favor by having you around. It's you that help us. Our necks are pretty well sandpapered, I'm afraid.... Come up to my room any time.... I'll have to be hiking on if I'm going to get much of a walk.
Come over and see me to-night.”
”I wish you'd come up to Mr. Frazer's with me some Sunday afternoon for tea, Ericson.”
Henry Frazer, M.A. (Yale), a.s.sociate professor of English literature, was a college mystery. He was a thin-haired young man, with a consuming love of his work, which was the saving of souls by teaching Lycidas and Comus. This was his first year out of graduate school, his first year at Plato--and possibly his last. It was whispered about that he believed in socialism, and the president, the Rev. Dr. S.
Alcott Wood, had no patience with such silly fads.
Carl marveled, ”Do you go to Frazer's?”
”Why, yes!”
”Thought everybody was down on him. They say he's an anarchist, and I know he gives fierce a.s.signments in English lit.; that's what all the fellows in his cla.s.ses say.”
”All the fools are down on him. That's why I go to his house.”
”Don't the fellows--uh--kind of----”
”Yes,” piped Genie in his most childish tone of anger, his tendency to stammer betraying him, ”they k-kid me for liking Frazer. He's--he's the only t-teacher here that isn't p-p-p----”
”Spit!”
”----provincial!”
”What d'you mean by 'provincial'?”
”Narrow. Villagey. Do you know what Bernard Shaw says----?”
”Never read a word of him, my son. And let me tell you that my idea of no kind of conversation is to have a guy spring 'Have you read?' on me every few seconds, and me coming back with: 'No, I haven't. Ain't it interesting!' If that's the brand of converse at Prof Frazer's you can count me out.”
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