Stover at Yale. Owen Johnson
and went down a dozen strong, in jovial marching order.
The sensations of the theater were still new to Stover, nor had his fortunate eye seen under the make-up or his imagination gone below the laughter. To parade down the aisle, straight as a barber's pole, chin carefully balanced on the sharp edge of his collar, on the night of his first day as end on the Yale varsity, delightfully conscious of his own startling importance, feeling as if he over-topped every one in the most public fashion, to be absolutely blushingly conscious that every one in the theater must, too, be grasping a copy of that night's Evening Register, that every glance had started at his arrival and was following in set admiration, was a memory he was never to forget. His shoulders thrown up a little, just a little in accentuation, as behooved an end with a reputation for tackling, he found his seat and, dropping down quickly to escape observation, buried himself in his program to appear modest before the burning concentration of attention which he was quite sure must now be focused on him.
"Dobbs and Benzigger, the fellows who smash the dishes—by George, that's great!" cried McNab, joyfully running over the program. "They're wonders—a perfect scream!"
"Any good dancing?" said Hungerford, and a dozen answers came:
"You bet there is!"
"Fanny Lamonte—a dream, Joe!"
"Daintiest thing you ever saw."
"Sweetest little ankles!"
"Who's this coming—the Six Templeton Sisters?"
"Don't know."
"Well, here they come."
"They've got to be pretty fine for me!"
Enthroned as lords of the drama, they pronounced their infallible judgments. Every joke was new, every vaudeville turn an occasion for a gale of applause. The appearance of the "Six Templetons" was the occasion of a violent discussion between the adherents of the blondes and the admirers of the brunettes, led by the impressionable McNab.
"I'm all for the peach in the middle!"
"Ah, rats! She's got piano legs. Look at the fighting brunette at this end."
"Why, she's got a squint."
"Squint nothing; she's winking at me."
"Yes, she is!"
"Watch me get her eye!"
Stover, of course, preserved an attitude of necessary dignity, gently tolerant of the rakish sentimentalities of the younger members of the flock. Moreover, he was supremely aware that the sparkling eyes under the black curls (were they real?) were not looking at McNab, but intensely directed at his own person—all of which, as she could not have read the Register, was a tribute to his own personal and not public charms.
The lights, the stir of the audience, the boxes filled with the upper classmen, the gorgeous costumes, the sleepy pianist pounding out the accompaniments while accomplishing the marvelous feat of reading a newspaper, were all things to him of fascination. But his eye went not to the roguish professional glances, but lost itself somewhere above amid the ragged drops and borders. He was transported into the wonders of Dink-land, where one figure ran a hundred adventures, where a hundred cheers rose to volley forth one name, where a dozen games were passed in a second, triumphant, dazzling, filled with spectacular conflicts, blurred with frantic crowds of blue, ending always in surging black-hatted rushes that tossed him victoriously toward the stars!
"Let's cut out," said McNab's distinct voice. "There's nothing but xylophones and coons left."
"Come on over to Reynolds's."
"Start up the game."
Reluctantly, fallen to earth again, Stover rose and followed them out. In a moment they had passed through the fragrant casks and bottles that thronged the passage, saluting the statesmanly bulk of Hugh Reynolds, and found themselves in a back room, already floating in smoke. White, accusing lights of bracketed lamps picked out the gray features of a dozen men vociferously rolling forth a drinking chorus, while the magic arms of Buck Waters, his falcon's nose and little muzzle eyes, dominated the whole. A shout acclaimed them:
"Yea, fellows!"
"Shove in here!"
"Get into the game."
"Bartender, a little more of that brutalizing beer!"
"Cheese and pretzels!"
"Hello, Tough McCarthy!"
"Over here, Dopey McNab."
"Get into the orchestra."
"Good boy, Stover!"
"Congratulations!"
"Oh, Dink Stover, have we your eye?"
The last call, caught up by every voice, went swelling in volume, accompanied by a general uplifting of mugs and glasses. It was the traditional call to a health.
"I'd like to oblige," said Dink, a little embarrassed, "but I'm in training."
"That's all right—hand him a soft one."
For the first time he perceived that there was a perfect freedom in the choice of beverage. He bowed, drained his glass, and sat down.
"Oh, Dopey McNab, have we your eye?"
"You certainly have, boys, and I'm no one-eyed man at that," said McNab, jovially disappearing down a mug, while the room in chorus trolled out:
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