"'Lame ducks' is the word: the fellows who would never make a society if it weren't for pulls, for the men ahead—the cripples that all you big men will be trying to bolster up and carry along with you into a senior society."
"I'm not on to a good deal of this," said Stover, puzzled.
"I know you're not. Look here." Gimbel, releasing his arm, faced him suddenly. "You think I'm a politician out to get something for myself."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, I am—I'm frank about it. There's a whole mass of us here who are going to fight the sophomore society system tooth and nail, and I'm with them. When you're in the soph crowd you mightn't like what I'm saying, and then again you may come around to our way of thinking. However, I want you to know that I'm hiding nothing—that I'm fighting in the open. We may be on opposite sides, but I guess we can shake hands. How about it?"
"I guess we can always do that," said Stover, giving his hand. The man puzzled him. Was his frankness deep or a diplomatic assumption?
"And now let's have no pretenses," continued Gimbel, on the same line, with a quick analytical glance. "You're going with your crowd; better join one of their eating-joints."
Stover was genuinely surprised.
"Have you already arranged it?" said Gimbel, laughing.
"Gimbel," said Stover directly, "I'm not quite sure about you."
"You don't know whether I'm a faker or not."
"Exactly."
"Stover, I'm a politician," said Gimbel frankly. "I'm out for a big fight. I know the game here. I wouldn't talk to every one as I talk to you. I want you to understand me—more, I want you to like me. And I feel with you that the only way is to be absolutely honest. You see, I'm a politician," he said, with a laugh. "I've learned how to meet different men. Sometime I'm going to talk over things with you—seriously. Here we are now. I've got a bunch of fellows to see. McCarthy's probably looking for you. Don't make up your mind in a hurry about me—or about a good many things here. Ta-ta!"
Stover watched him go gaily into the crowd, distributing bluff, vociferous welcomes, hilariously acclaimed. The man was new, represented a new element, a strange, dimly perceived, rebellious mass, with ideas that intruded themselves ungratefully on his waking vision.
"Is he sincere?" he said to himself—a question that he was to apply a hundred times in the life that was beginning.
CHAPTER V
"Hello, there, Stover!"
"Stover, over here!"
"Oh, Dink Stover, this way!"
Over the bared heads of the bobbing, shifting crowd he saw Hunter and McCarthy waving to him. He made his way through the strange assorted mass of freshmen to his friends, where already, instinctively, a certain picked element had coalesced. A dozen fellows, clean-cut, steady of head and eye, carrying a certain unmistakable, quiet assurance, came about him, gripping him warmly, welcoming him into the little knot with cordial acknowledgment. He felt the tribute, and he liked it. They were of his own kind, his friends to be, now and in the long reaches of life.
"Fall in, fall in!"
Ahead of them, the upper classes were already in rank. Behind, the freshmen, unorganized, distrustful, were being driven into lines of eight and ten by seniors, pipe in mouth, authoritative, quiet, fearfully enveloped in dignity. Cheers began to sound ahead, the familiar brek-e-kek-kex with the class numeral at the end. A cry went up:
"Here, we must have a cheer."
"Give us a cheer."
"Start her up."
"Lead a cheer, some one."
"Lead a cheer, Hunter."
"Lead the cheer, Gimbel."
"Lead the cheer, Stover."
"Come on, Stover!"
A dozen voices took up his name. He caught the infection. Without hesitating, he stepped by Hunter, who was hesitating, and cried:
"Now, fellows, all together—the first cheer for the class! Are you ready? Let her rip!"
The cheer, gathering momentum, went crashing above the noises of the street. The college burst into a mighty shout of acclaim—another class was born!
Suddenly ahead the dancing lights of the senior torches began to undulate. Through the mass a hoarse roar went rushing, and a sudden muscular tension.
"Grab hold of me."
"Catch my arm."
"Grip tight."
"Get in line."
"Move up."
"Get the swing."
Stover found himself, arms locked over one another's shoulders, between Schley, who had somehow kept persistently near him, and a powerful, smiling, blond-haired fellow who shouted to him:
"My name's Hungerford—Joe Hungerford. Glad to know you. Down from Groton."
It was a name known across the world for power in finance, and the arm about Stover's shoulder was taut with the same sentimental rush of emotion.
Down the moving line suddenly came surging the chant:
"Chi Rho Omega Lambda Chi!
We meet to-night to celebrate
The Omega Lambda Chi!"
Grotesquely, lumberingly, tripping and confused, they tried to imitate the forward classes, who were surging in the billowy rhythm of the elusive serpentine dance.
"How the deuce do they do it?"
"Get a skip to it, you ice-wagons."
"All to the left, now."
"No, to the right."
Gradually they found themselves; hoarse, laughing, struggling, sweeping inconsequentially on behind the singing, cheering college.
Before Dink knew it, the line had broken with a rush, and he was carried, struggling and pushing, into a vacant lot, where all at once, out of the tumult and the riot, a circle opened and spread under his eyes.
Seniors in varsity sweaters, with brief authoritative gestures, forced back the crowd, stationed the fretful lights, commanding and directing:
"First row, sit down."
"Down in front, there."
"Kneel behind."
"Freshmen over here."
"Get a move on!"
"Stop that shoving."
"How's the space, Cap?"
In the center, Captain Dana waited with an appraising eye.
"All right. Call out the lightweights."
Almost immediately, from the opposite sophomores, came a unanimous shout:
"Farquahar! Dick Farquahar!"
"Come on, Dick!"
"Get in the ring!"
Out into the ring stepped an agile, nervous figure, acclaimed by all his class.
"A cheer for Farquahar, fellows!"
"One, two, three!"
"Farquahar!"