Stover at Yale

Dink Stover, freshman, chose his seat in the afternoon express that would soon be rushing him to New Haven and his first glimpse of Yale University. He leisurely divested himself of his trim overcoat, folding it in exact creases and laying it gingerly across the back of his seat; stowed his traveling-bag; smoothed his hair with a masked movement of his gloved hand; pulled down a buckskin vest, opening the lower button; removed his gloves and folded them in his breast pocket, while with the same gesture a careful forefinger, unperceived, assured itself that his lilac silk necktie was in snug contact with the high collar whose points, painfully but in perfect style, attacked his chin. Then, settling, not flopping, down, he completed his preparations for the journey by raising the sharp crease of the trousers one inch over each knee⁠—a legendary precaution which in youth is believed to prevent vulgar bagging. Each movement was executed without haste or embarrassment, but leisurely, with the deliberate savoir faire of the complete man of the world he had become at the terrific age of eighteen.

In front of him spasmodic freshmen arrived, struggling from their overcoats in embarrassed plunges that threatened to leave them publicly in their shirt sleeves. That they imputed to him the superior dignity of an upper classman was pleasurably evident to Stover from their covert respectful glances. He himself felt conscious of a dividing-line. He, too, was a freshman, and yet not of them.

He had just ended three years at Lawrenceville, where from a ridiculous beginning he had fought his way to the captaincy of the football eleven and the vice-presidency of the school.

“I’m going to do for you,” said Le Baron’s voice, breaking the charm⁠—“I’m going to do what someone 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.

The night air swept over him with a sudden chill as the sweaters were pulled away. He went forth while Dana ran over the rules and regulations, which he did not understand at all. He stood then about five feet ten, in perfect condition, every muscle clearly outlined against the wiry, spare Yankee frame, shoulders and the sinews of his arms extraordinarily developed. From the moment he had stepped out, his eyes had never left Fisher’s. Combat transformed his features, sending all the color from his face, narrowing the eyes, and drawing tense the lips. Combat was with him always an overmastering rage in the leash of a cold, nervous, pulsating logic, which by the very force of its passion gave to his expression an almost dispassionate cruelty⁠—a look not easy to meet, that somehow, on the instant, impressed itself on the crowd with the terrific seriousness of the will behind.

“Wiry devil.”

“Good shoulders.”

“Great fighting face, eh?”

“Scrapper, all right.”

“I’ll bet he is.”

“Shake hands!”

Stover caught the other’s hand, looked into his eyes, read something there that told him, science aside, that he was the other’s master; and suddenly, rushing forward, he caught him about the knees and, lifting him bodily in the air, hurled him through the circle in a terrific tackle.

The onslaught was so sudden that Fisher, unable to guard himself, went down with a crash, the fall broken by the bodies of the spectators.

A roar, half laughter, half hysteria, went up.

For the first time a little feeling of jealousy went through Stover as he swung along. Why should he help build up the man who might snatch from him his ambition? Why the deuce had Le Baron mentioned Regan as a possible captain? No one else thought of such a thing. Compared to him, Regan was a novice in football knowledge and experience. Still, it was true that the man had a stalwart, unflinching way of moving on that impressed. There was a danger there with which he must reckon.

He found Regan in carpet slippers and sweater, bending grimly over the next day’s Greek as if it were a rock to be shattered with the weight of his back.

“8⁠–⁠16⁠–⁠6⁠–⁠9⁠–⁠47,” said Stover, in a hallo, giving the signal that had sent him through the center.

Regan started up.

“Hello, Dink, old bantam; glad to hear your voice.”

The climax arrived one Friday night when, having outlasted the party, he had put Tom Kelly to bed, and was returning from Sheff alone. He was very well pleased with himself. He had delivered Tom Kelly to his friends and gone away without assistance.

“Weak head, all weak head,” he said to himself valiantly, “all but Stover, Dink Stover, old Rinky Dink. Self-control, great self-control. That’s it, that’s the point. Never taken home⁠—walk myself⁠—self-control.” He began to laugh at the memory of Tom Kelly, who had insisted on going to bed with one boot under the pillow and his watch on the floor. The excruciating humor of it almost made him collapse. He clung to the nearest tree and wept for joy.

“Never hear end of it⁠—Tom Kelly⁠—boots⁠—wonderful⁠—poor old Tom⁠—’n I walkin’ home⁠—alone.”

Someone on the opposite sidewalk, seeing him clinging hilariously, stopped. Stover straightened up instantly, adjusted his hat and started off.

“Mustn’t create false impression⁠—all right! Street corner⁠—careful of street corner.” He crossed with a run and a leap, and continued more sedately. “Know just what ’m doin’.

“Oh, father’s mother Pays all the bills, ’N I have all the fun.”

Suddenly he remembered he was passing Divinity Hall, and broke off abruptly, raising his hat in apology.

“ ’Scuse me, no offense.”

Then he considered anxiously:

“Mishtake⁠—nothin’ hil-arious⁠—might be Sunday.” He tried to remember the day and could not. He stopped a laborer returning home with his bundle, and said ceremoniously:

“Beg your pardon, don’t mean insult you, can you tell me what day the week it is?”

“Sure, me b’y,” said the Irishman. “It’s tomorrow.”

“Thanks⁠—sorry trouble you,” said Stover, bowing. Then, pondering over the information, he started hurriedly on his way. “Knew it was late⁠—must hurry.”