"What do you mean by the right crowd?" said Stover, conscious of just a little antagonism.
"The right crowd?" said Le Baron, a little perplexed to define so simple a thing. "Why, the crowd that is doing things, working for Yale; the crowd—"
"That the class ahead picks out to lead us," said Stover abruptly.
"Yes," said Le Baron frankly; "and it won't be a bad judgment. Money alone won't land a man in it, and there'll be some in it who work their way through college. On the whole, it's about the crowd you'll want to know all through life."
"I see," said Stover. His clasp tightened over his knees, and he was conscious of a certain growing uncomfortable sensation. He liked Le Baron—he had looked up to him, in a way. Of course, it was all said in kindness, and yet—
"I'm frankly aristocratic in my point of view"—he heard the well-modulated voice continue—"and what I say others think. I'm older than most of my class, and I've seen a good deal of the world at home and abroad. You may think the world begins outside of college. It doesn't; it begins right here. You want to make the friends that will help you along, here and outside. Don't lose sight of your opportunities, and be careful how you choose.
"Now, by that I mean don't make your friends too quickly. Get to know the different crowds, but don't fasten to individuals until you see how things work out. This rather surprises you, doesn't it? Perhaps you don't like it."
"It does sort of surprise me," said Stover, who did not answer what he meant.
"Stover," said Le Baron, resting a hand on his knee, "I like you. I liked you from the first time we lined up in that Andover-Lawrenceville game. You've got the stuff in you to make the sort of leader we need at Yale. That's why I'm trying to make you see this thing as it is. You come from a school that doesn't send many fellows here. You haven't the fellows ahead pulling for you, the way the other crowds have. I don't want you to make any mistake. Remember, you're going to be watched from now on."
"Watched?" said Stover, frowning.
"Yes; everything you do, everything you say—that's how you'll be judged. That's why I'm telling you these things."
"I appreciate it," said Stover, but without enthusiasm.
"Now, you've got a chance to make good on the eleven this year. If you do, you stand in line for the captaincy senior year. It lies with you to be one of the big men in the class. And this is the way to do it: get to know every one in the class right off."
"What!" said Stover, genuinely surprised.
"I mean, bow to every one; call them by name: but hold yourself apart," said Le Baron. "Make fellows come to you. Don't talk too much. Hold yourself in. Keep out of the crowd that is out booze-fighting—or, when you're with them, keep your head. There are a lot of fellows here, with friends ahead of them, who can cut loose a certain amount; but it's dangerous. If you want to make what you ought to make of yourself, Stover, you've got to prove yourself; you've got to keep yourself well in hand."
Stover suddenly comprehended that Le Baron was exposing his own theory, that he, prospective captain of the crew, was imposing on himself.
"Don't ticket yourself for drinking."
"I won't."
"Or get known for gambling—oh, I'm not preaching a moral lesson; only, what you do, do quietly."
"I understand."
"And another thing: no fooling around women; that isn't done here—that'll queer you absolutely."
"Of course."
"Now, you've got to do a certain amount of studying here. Better do it the first year and get in with the faculty."
"I will."
"There it is," said Le Baron, suddenly extending his hand toward the lighted college. "Isn't it worth working for—to win out in the end? And, Stover, it's easy enough when you know how. Play the game as others are playing it. It's a big game, and it'll follow you all through life. There it is; it's up to you. Keep your head clear and see straight."
The gesture of Le Baron, half seen in the darkness, brought a strange trouble to Stover. It was as if, at the height of the eager confidence of his youth, some one had whispered in his ear and a shadowy hand had held before his eyes a gigantic temptation.
"Are there any questions you want to ask me?" said Le Baron, with a new feeling of affection toward the unprotected freshman whom he had so generously advised.
"No."
They sat silently. And all at once, as Stover gazed, from the high, misty walls and the elm-tops confounded in the night, a monstrous hand seemed to stretch down, impending over him, and the care-free windows suddenly to be transformed into myriad eyes, set on him in inquisition—eyes that henceforth indefatigably, remorselessly would follow him.
And with it something snapped, something fragile—the unconscious, simple democracy of boyhood. And, as it went, it went forever. This was the world rushing in, dividing the hosts. This was the parting of the ways. The standards of judgment were the world's. It was not what he had thought. It was no longer the simple struggle. It was complex, disturbing, incomprehensible. To win he would have to change.
"It's been good of you to tell me all this," he said, giving his hand to Le Baron, and the words sounded hollow.
"Think over what I've said to you."
"I will."
"A man is known by his friends; remember that, Stover, if you don't anything else!"
"It's awfully good of you."
"I like you, Dink," said Le Baron, shaking hands warmly; "now you know the game, go in and win."
"It's awfully good of you," said Stover aimlessly. He stood watching Le Baron's strong, aristocratic figure go swinging across the dim campus in a straight, undeviating, well-calculated path.
"It's awfully good of him," he said mechanically, "awfully good. What a wonder he is!"
And yet, and yet, he could not define the new feeling—he was but barely conscious of it; was it rebellion or was it a lurking disappointment?
He stood alone, looking at the new world. It was no longer the world of the honest day. It was brilliant, fascinating, alluring, awakening strange, poignant emotions—but it was another world, and the way to it had just been shown him.
He turned abruptly and went toward his room, troubled, wondering why he was so troubled, vainly seeking the reason, knowing not that it lay in the destruction of a fragile thing—his first illusion.
CHAPTER III
Tough McCarthy was in the communal rooms, busily delving into the recesses of a circus trunk, from which, from time to time, he emerged with the loot of the combined McCarthy family.
"Dink, my boy, cast your eye over my burglaries. Look at them. Aren't they lovely, aren't they fluffy and sweet? I don't know what half of 'em are, but won't they decorate the room? And every one, 'pon my honor, the gift of a peach who loves me! The whole family was watching, but I got 'em out right under their noses. Well, why not cheer me!"
He deposited on the floor a fragrant pile of assorted embroideries, table-covers, lace pincushions, and filmy mysteries purloined from feminine dressing-tables, which he rapidly proceeded to distribute about