"Where?" said Stover, fired at the thought.
Le Baron pointed out the table, detailing to him the names of some of the coaches who were grouped there.
When Stover had dared to gaze for the first time on the face of the majestic leader, he experienced a certain shock. The group of past heroes about him were laughing, exchanging reminiscences of past combats; but the face of Dana was set in seriousness, too sensitive to the responsibility that lay heavier than the honor on his young shoulders. Stover had not thought of his leader so.
"I guess it's going to be a bad season," he said.
"Yes; we may have to take our medicine this year."
Several friends of Le Baron's stopped to shake hands, greeting Stover always with that appraising glance which had amused him in Reynolds who had first sat in inquisition.
He began to be conscious of an ever-widening gulf separating him and Le Baron, imposed by all the subtle, still uncomprehended incidents of the night, which gradually made him see that he had found, not a friend, but a protector. A certain natural impulsiveness left him; he answered in short sentences, resenting a little this sudden, not yet defined sense of subjection.
But the hum of diners was about him, the unknown intoxication of lights, the prevailing note of joy, the free concourse of men, the vibrant note of good fellowship, good cheer, and the eager seizing of the zest of the hour. The men he saw were the men who had succeeded—a success which unmistakably surrounded them. He, too, wished for success acutely, almost with a throbbing, gluttonous feeling, sitting there unknown.
All at once Dana, passing across the room, stopped for a handshake and a word of greeting to Le Baron. Stover was introduced, rising precipitately, to the imminent danger of his plate.
"Stover from Lawrenceville?" said Dana.
"Yes, sir."
The captain's eye measured him carefully, taking in the wiry, spare frame, the heavy shoulders, and the nervous hands, and then stayed on the clean-cut jaw, the direct blue glance, and the rebellious rise of sandy hair.
"End, of course," he said at last.
"Yes, sir."
"About a hundred and fifty-four?"
"One hundred and fifty, sir, stripped."
"Ever played in the back field?"
"No, sir."
"Report with the varsity squad to-morrow."
"Yes, sir."
"There's a type of man we're proud of," said Le Baron. "Came here from Exeter, waited at Commons first two years; every one likes him. He has a tough proposition here this year, though—supposing we dig out."
In the room the laughter was rising, and all the little nervous noises of the clash of plate and cutlery. Stover would have liked to stay, to yield to the contagion, to watch with eager eyes the opposite types, all under the careless spell of the beginning year.
The city was black about them as they stepped forth, the giant elms flattened overhead against the blurred mists of the night, like curious water weeds seen from below.
They went in silence directly toward the campus. Once or twice Le Baron started to speak and then stopped. At length he said:
"Come this way."
They passed by Osborne Hall, and the Brick Row with the choked display of the Coöp below, and, crossing to the dark mass of the Old Library, sat down on the steps.
Before Stover stretched all the lighted panorama of the college and the multiplied strewn lights against the mysteries of stone and brick—lights that drew him to the quiet places of a hundred growing existencies—affected him like the lights of the crowded restaurant and the misty reflections of the glassy streets. It was the night, the mysterious night that suddenly had come into his boyish knowledge.
It was immense, unfathomable—this spectacle of a massed multitude. It was all confounded, stirring, ceaseless, feverish in its brilliant gaiety, fleeting, transitory, mocking. It was of the stage, theatric. It brought theatric emotions, too keenly sensitized, too sharply overwhelming. He wished to flee from it in despair of ever conquering, as he wished to conquer, this world of stirring ambitions and shadowy and fleeting years.
"I'm going to do for you," said Le Baron's voice, breaking the charm—"I'm going to do what some one did for me when I came here last year."
He paused a moment, a little, too, under the spell of the night, perhaps, seeking how best to choose his words.
"It is a queer place you're coming into, and many men fail for not understanding it in time. I'm going to tell you a few things."
Again he stopped. Stover, waiting, heard across from the blazing sides of Farnam a piano's thin, rushing notes. Nearer, from some window unseen, a mandolin was quavering. Voices, calling, mingled in softened confusion.
"Oh, Charley Bangs—stick out your head."
"We want Billy Brown."
"Hello, there!"
"Tubby, this way!"
Then this community of faint sounds was lost as, from the fence, a shapeless mass beyond began to send its song towards him.
"When freshmen first we came to Yale
Fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol.
Examinations made us pale
Fol-de-rol-de-rol-rol-rol."
"What do you know about the society system here?" said Le Baron abruptly.
"Why, I know—there are three senior societies: Skull and Bones, Keys, Wolf's-Head—but I guess that's all I do know."
"You'll hear a good deal of talk inside the college, and out of it, too, about the system. It has its faults. But it's the best system there is, and it makes Yale what it is to-day. It makes fellows get out and work; it gives them ambitions, stops loafing and going to seed, and keeps a pretty good, clean, temperate atmosphere about the place."
"I know nothing at all about it," said Stover, perplexed.
"The seniors have fifteen in each; they give out their elections end of junior year, end of May. That's what we're all working for."
"Already?" said Stover involuntarily.
"There are fellows in your class," said Le Baron, "who've been working all summer, so as to get ahead in the competition for the Lit or the Record, or to make the leader of the glee club—fellows, of course, who know."
"But that's three years off."
"Yes, it's three years off," said Le Baron quietly. "Then there are the junior fraternities; but they're large, and at present don't count much, except you have to make them. Then there are what are called sophomore societies." He hesitated a moment. "They are very important."
"Do you belong?" asked Stover innocently.
"Yes," said Le Baron, after another hesitation. "Of course, we don't discuss our societies here. Others will tell you about them. But here's where your first test will come in."
Then came another lull. Stover, troubled, frowning, sat staring at the brilliant windows across which passed, from time to time, a sudden shadow. The groups at the fence were singing a football song, with a marching swing to it, that had so often caught up his loyal soul as he had sat shivering in the grand-stand for the game to begin. It was not all so simple—no, not at all simple. It wasn't as he had thought. It was complex, a little disturbing.
"This college is made up of all sorts of elements," said Le Baron, at last. "And it is