With Stover's return after the Christmas vacation the full significance of the society dominion burst over him. The night that the hold-offs were to be given, there was a little joking at the club table, but it was only lip-deep. The crisis was too vital. Chris Schley and Troutman, who were none too confident, were plainly nervous.

Stover and McCarthy walked home directly to their rooms, and took up the next day's lessons as a convenient method of killing time.

"You're not worrying?" said Stover suddenly.

McCarthy put down the penitential book, and, rising, stretched himself, nervously resorting to his pipe.

"Not for a hold-off—no. That ought to be all right."

"And afterward?"

"Don't speak about it."

"Rats! You'll be pledged about the eighth or tenth."

"What time is it?" said McCarthy shortly.

"Five minutes more."

This time each took up his book in order to be found in an inconsequential attitude, outwardly indifferent, as all Anglo-Saxons should be. From without, the hour rang its dull, leaden, measured tones. Almost immediately a knock sounded on the door, and Le Baron appeared, hurried, businesslike, mysterious, saying:

"Stover, want to see you in the other room a moment."

Dink retired with him into the bedroom, and received his hold-off in a few matter-of-fact sentences. A second after, Le Baron was out of the door, rushing down the steps.

"Your turn next," said Stover, with a wave of his hand to McCarthy.

"Yes."

The sound of hurrying feet and the shudder of hastily banged doors filled the house.

"My, they're having a busy time of it," said Stover.

"Yes."

Ten minutes passed. McCarthy, staring at his page, mechanically took up the dictionary, hiding the fear that started up. Stover rose, going to the window.

"They're running around Pierson Hall like a lot of ants," he said, drumming against the window.

"How far's this advance go?" said McCarthy in a matter-of-fact tone.

"End of page 152," said Stover. He came back frowning, glancing at the clock. It was seventeen minutes after the hour.

All at once, outside, came a clatter of feet, and the door opened on Waring, out of breath and flustered.

"McCarthy, like to see you a moment."

Stover returned to the window, gazing out. Presently behind his back he heard the two return, the door bang, and McCarthy's voice saying:

"It's all right, Dink."

"All right?" he said.

"Yes."

"Glad of it."

"He gave me a little scare, though."

"Your crowd lost a couple of men; besides, you give more hold-offs."

"That's it."

They abandoned the subject by mutual consent; only Stover remembered for months after the tension he had felt and the tugging at the heart-strings. If he could feel that way for his friend, what would be his sensations when he faced his own crisis on Tap Day?

Fellows from other houses came thronging in with reports of how the class had divided up. Every one had his own list of the hold-offs, completing it according to the last returns, amid a bedlam of questions.

"How did Story go?"

"Did Schley get a hold-off?"

"Yes, but Troutman didn't."

"He did, too."

"When?"

"Half an hour late."

"Brockhurst got one."

"You don't say so!"

"Gimbel get anythin'?"

"No."

"Regan?"

"Don't know."

"Any one know about Regan?"

"No."

"How about Buck Waters?"

"I don't know. I think not."

"Damned shame."

"What, is Buck left out?"

"'Fraid so."

"What's wrong?"

"Too much sense of humor."

Stover, off at one side, watched the group, seeing the interested calculation as each scanned his own list, wondering who would have to be eliminated if he were to be chosen. Story, Tommy Bain, and Hunter were in his crowd, as he had foreseen.

He went out and across the campus to South Middle, where Regan was now rooming. By the CoÖp he found Bob Story, and together they went up the creaky stairs. Regan was out—just where, the man who roomed on his entry did not know.

"How long has he been out?" said Story anxiously.

"Ever since supper."

"Didn't he come in at all?"

"No."

"Were they going to give him a hold-off?" said Stover, as they went down.

"Yes. They've been looking everywhere for him."

"I don't think the old boy would take it."

"Can't you make him see what it would mean to him?"

"I've tried."

"I'm afraid Regan's queered himself with a lot of our crowd," said Story thoughtfully. "They don't understand him and he doesn't want to understand them. Didn't he know this was the night?"

"Yes; I told him."

"Stayed away on purpose?"

"Probably."

"Too bad. He's just the sort of man we ought to have."

"How do you feel about the whole proposition?" said Stover curiously.

"The sophomore society question?" said Story frankly. "Why, I think there've got to be some reforms made; they ought to be kept more democratic."

"You think that?"

"Yes; I think we want to keep away a good deal from the social admiration game—be representative of the real things in Yale life; that's why we need a man like Regan. Course, I think this—that we've all got too much this society idea in our heads; but, since they exist it's better to do what we can to make them representative and not snobbish."

Stover was surprised at the maturity of judgment in the young fellow, as well as his simplicity of expression. He would have liked to talk to him further on deeper subjects, but, as always, the first steps were difficult and as yet he accepted things without a clear understanding of reasons.

He went up with Story for a little chat. There was about the room a tone of quiet good taste and thoughtfulness quite different from the boyish exuberance of other rooms. The pictures were Braunotypes of paintings he did not know, while bits of plaster casts mellowed with wax enlivened the serried contents of the book-shelves.

"You've got a lot of books," said Stover, feeling his way.

"Yes. Drop in and borrow them any time you want."

While Story flung a couple of cushions on the state arm-chair and brought out the tobacco, Dink examined the shelves respectfully, surprised and impressed by the quality of the titles, French, German, and Russian.

"Why do you room alone, Bob?" he said, with some curiosity, knowing Story's popularity.

"I wanted to." Story was opposite, his face blocked out in sudden shadows from the standing lamp, that accentuated a certain wistful, pensive quality it had. "I enjoy being by myself. It gives me time to think and look around me."

"Are you going out for anything?" said Stover, wondering a little at the impression Story had made already, through nothing but the charm and sincerity of his character.

"Yes, I'm going out for the News next month, and besides I'm heeling the Lit."

"Oh, you are?" said Stover, surprised.

"But it comes hard," said Story, with a grimace. "I have to work like sin over every line. It's all hammered out. Brockhurst is the fellow who can do the stuff."

"Do you know him at all?"

"He won't let any one know him. I've tried. I don't think he quite knows yet how to meet fellows. I'm sorry. He really interests me."

"That's a good photo of your sister," said Stover, who had held the question in leash ever since his entrance.

"So, so."

"How much longer has she at Farmington?"

"Last year."

"Going abroad afterwards?" said Stover carelessly.

"No, indeed. Stay right here."

"I like her," said Stover. "It's quite a privilege to know her."

Story looked up and a pleased smile came to him.

"Yes, it is," he said.

"Bob, what do you think about McCarthy's chances?"

Story considered a moment.

"Only fair," he said.

"Why, what's wrong with him?"

"He hasn't any one ahead pulling for him," said Story, "and most of the other fellows have. That's one fault we have."

"It would knock him out to miss."

"It is tough."

They spoke a little more in a desultory way, and Stover left. He was dissatisfied. He wanted Story to like him, conscious of a new longing in himself for the friendships that did not come, and yet somehow he could find no common ground of conversation. Moreover, and he rather resented it, there was not in Story the least trace of the admiration and reverence that he was accustomed to receive, as a leader should receive.

The following weeks were ones of intrigue and nervous speculation. Pledged among the first, he found himself with Hunter, Story, and Tommy Bain in the position of adviser as to the selection of the rest of his crowd. Hunter and Bain, each with an object in view, sought to enlist his aid. He perceived their intentions, not duped by the new cordiality, growing more and more antagonistic to their businesslike ambitions. With Joe Hungerford and Bob Story he found his real friends. And yet, what completely surprised him was the lack of careless, indolent camaraderie which he had known at school and had expected in larger scope at college. Every one was busy, working with a dogged persistence along some line of ambition. The long, lazy afternoons and pleasant evenings were not there. Instead was the grinding of the mills and the turning of the wheels. How it was with the rest he ignored; but with his own crowd—the chosen—life was earnest, disciplined in a set purpose. He felt it in the open afternoon, in the quiet passage of candidates for the baseball teams, the track, and the crew; in the evenings, in the strumming of instruments from Alumni Hall and the practising of musical organizations, and most of all in the flitting, breathless passage of the News heelers—in snow or sleet, running in and out of buildings, frantically chasing down a tip, haggard with the long-drawn-out struggle now ending the fourth month.

He himself had surrendered again to this compelling activity and gone over to the gymnasium, taking his place at the oars in the churning tanks, bending methodically as the bare torso of the man in front bent or shot back, concentrating all his faculties on the shouted words of advice from the pacing coach above him.

He was too light to win in the competition of unusual material—he could only hope for a second or third substitute at best; but that was what counted, he said to himself, what made competition in the class and brought others out, just as it did in football. And so he stuck to his grind, satisfied, on the whole, that his afternoons were mapped out for him.

Meanwhile the pledges to the sophomore societies continued and the field began to narrow. McCarthy's hold-off was renewed each time, but the election did not arrive.

In his own crowd Story, Hungerford, and himself found themselves in earnest alliance for the election of Regan and Brockhurst. Regan, however, had so antagonized certain members of their sophomore crowd that their task was well-nigh impossible. He had been pronounced "fresh," equivalent almost to a ban of excommunication, for his extraordinary lack of reverence to things that traditionally should be revered, and as he had a blunt, direct way of showing in his eyes what he liked and disliked, his sterling qualities were forgotten in the irritation he caused. Besides, as the opening narrowed to three or four vacancies, Hunter and Bain, in the service of their own friends, arrayed themselves in silent opposition to him and to Brockhurst.

About the latter, Stover found himself increasingly unable to make up his mind. He went to see him once or twice, but the visit was never returned. In his infallibility—for infallibility is a requisite of a leader—he decided that there was something queer about him. He rather shunned others, took long walks by himself, in a crowd always seemed removed, watching others with a distant eye which had in it a little mockery. His room was always in confusion, as was his tousled hair. In a word, he was a little of a barbarian, who did not speak the ready lip language that was current in social gatherings, and, unfortunately, did not show well his paces when confronted with inspection. So when the final vote came Stover, infallible judge of human nature, conscientiously decided that Brockhurst did not rank with the exceedingly choice crowd of which he was a leader.

With the arrival of the elections for the managerships of the four big athletic organizations, positions in the past disputed by the candidacies of the three sophomore societies, a revolution took place. The non-society element, organized by Gimbel and other insurgents ahead of him, put up a candidate for the football managership and elected him by an overwhelming majority, and repeated their success with the Navy.

The second victory was like the throwing down of a gauntlet. The class, which had been quietly dividing since the advent of the hold-offs, definitely split, and for the first time Stover became aware of the soundness of the opposition to the social system of which he was a prospective leader. Quite to his surprise, Jim Hunter appeared in his room one night.

"What the deuce does he want now?" he thought to himself, wondering if he were to be again solicited in favor of Stone, who was still short of election.

"I say, Dink, we're up against a serious row," said Hunter, making himself comfortable and speaking always in the same unvarying tone. "The class is split to pieces."

"It looks that way."

"It's all Gimbel and that crowd of soreheads he runs. We had trouble with him up at Andover."

"Well, Jim, what do you think about the whole proposition?" said Stover. "The college seems pretty strong against us."

"It's just a couple of men who are cooking it up to work themselves into office," said Hunter, dismissing the idea lightly. "You'll see, that's all there is to it."

Somehow, Stover found that renewed contest with Hunter only increased the feeling of antagonism he had felt from the first. He was aware of a growing resistance to Hunter's point of view, guarded and deliberate as it was. So he said point blank:

"I'm not so sure there isn't some basis for the feeling. We ought to watch out and make ourselves as democratic as possible."

"My dear fellow," said Hunter, in the tone of amused worldliness, "these anti-society fights go on everywhere. There was a great hullabaloo six or seven years ago, and then it all died out. You'll see, that's what'll happen. Gimbel'll get what he wants, then he'll quiet down and hope to make a senior society. Don't get too excited over things that happen in freshman year."

"Have you talked with Story?" said Stover, resenting his tone.

"Bob's got a curious twist—he's a good deal of a dreamer."

"Then you wouldn't make any changes?"

"No, not in our crowd," said Hunter. "I think we do very well what we set out to get—the representative men of the class, to bring them together into close friendship, and make them understand one another's point of view and so work together for the best in the university."

"You think the outsiders don't count?"

"As a rule, no. Of course, there are one or two men who develop later, but if there's anything in them they'll really make good."

"Rather tough work, won't it be?"

"Yes; but every system has its faults."

"What did you come in to see me about?" said Stover abruptly.

"To talk the situation over," said Hunter, not seeming to perceive the hostility of the question. "I think all of us in the crowd ought to be very careful."

"About what?"

"About talking too much."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, if you have any criticism on the system, keep it to yourself. Gimbel is raising enough trouble; the only thing is for us to shut up and not encourage them by making the kickers think that any of us agree with them."

"So that's what you came in to say to me?"

"Yes."

"You're for no compromise."

"I am."

"Are there fellows in our crowd, or the classes ahead, who feel as Story does?"

"Yes; of course there are a few."

"And, Hunter, you see no faults in the system?"

"What other system would you suggest?"

Now, Stover had not yet come to a critical analysis of his own good fortune, nor had he any more than a personal antagonism for Hunter himself. He did not answer, unwilling to let this feeling color his views on what he began to perceive might some day shape itself as a test of his courage.

Hunter left presently, as he had come up, without enthusiasm, always cold, always deliberate. When he had gone, Stover became a little angry at the advice so openly imposed on him, and as a result he decided on a sudden move.

If the split in the class was acute, something ought to be done. If Hunter, as a leader, was resolved on contemptuous isolation, he would do a bigger thing in a bigger way.

In pursuance of this idea, he suddenly set out to find Gimbel and provoke a frank discussion. If anything could be done to hold the class together and stop the rise of political dissension, it was his duty as a responsible leader to do what he could to prevent it.

When he reached the room, it was crowded, and an excited discussion was going on, which dropped suddenly on his entrance. What the subject of conversation was he had a shrewd suspicion, seeing several representatives from Sheff.

"Hello, Stover. Come right in. Glad to see you." Gimbel, a little puzzled at this first visit, came forward cordially. "You know every one here, don't you? Jackson, shake hands with Stover. What'll you have, pipe or cigarette?"

Stover nodded to the fellows whom he knew on slight acquaintance, settled in an arm-chair, brought forth his pipe, and said with assumed carelessness:

"What was all the pow-wow about when I arrived?"

A certain embarrassment stirred in the room, but Gimbel, smiling at the question, said frankly:

"We were fixing up a combination for the baseball managership. We are going to lick you fellows to a scramble. That's what you've come over to talk about, isn't it?"

"Yes."

The crowd, plainly disconcerted at this smiling passage of arms, began to melt away with hastily formed excuses.

"Quite a meeting-place, Gimbel, you have here," said Stover, nodding to the last disappearing group.

"Politicians should have," replied Gimbel, straddling a chair, and, leaning his arms on the back, he added, smiling: "Well, fire away."

Each had grown in authority since their first meeting on the opening of college, nor was the question of war or peace yet decided between them.

"Gimbel, I hope we can talk this thing over openly."

"I think we can."

"I'm doing an unusual thing in coming to you. You're a power in this class."

"And you represent the other side," said Gimbel. "Go on."

"You're going to run a candidate for the baseball managership."

"I'm not running him, but I'm making the combination for this class."

"Same thing."

"Just about."

"Are you fellows going to shut out every society man that goes up for a class election?"

"You're putting a pretty direct question."

"Answer it if you want to."

"Yes, I'll answer it." Gimbel looked at him, plainly concerned in emulating his frankness, and continued: "Stover, this anti-sophomore society fight is a fight to the finish. We are going to put up an outsider, as you call it, for every election, and we're going to elect him."

"Why?"

"Because we are serving notice that we are against a system that is political and undemocratic."

"What good'll it do?"

"We'll abolish the whole system."

"Do you really believe that?" said Stover, strangely enough, adopting Hunter's attitude.

"I do; I may know the feeling in the upper classes better than you do."

"Gimbel, how much of this is real opposition and how much is worked up by you and others?"

"My dear Stover, why ask who is responsible? Ask if the opposition is genuine and whether it's going to stick."

"I don't believe it is."

"That's not it. What you want to know is how much is conviction in me, and how much is just the fun of running things and stirring up mischief."

"That does puzzle me—yes. But what I want you to see is, you're splitting up the class."

"I'm not doing it, and you're not doing it. It's the class ahead that's interfering and doing it. Now, Stover, I've answered your questions. Will you answer mine?"

"That's fair."

"If you put up a candidate, why shouldn't we?"

"But you make politics out of it."

"Do you ever support the candidate of another crowd?"

Stover was silent.

"Stover, do you know that for years these elections have gone on with just three candidates offered, one each from your three sophomore societies? And how have they been run? By putting up your lame ducks."

"Oh, come."

"Not always. But if you think you can elect a weak member instead of a strong one, you trot out the lame duck. Why? Because at the bottom you are not really social, but political; because your main object is to get as many of your men into senior societies as you can."

"Well, why not?"

"Because you're doing it at the expense of the class—by making us bolster up the weak ones with an office."

"I don't think that's entirely fair."

"You'll see. Look at the last candidates the sophomores put up. You haven't answered my questions. Why shouldn't we non-society men, six-sevenths of the class, have the right to put up our candidates and elect them?"

"You have," said Stover; "but, Gimbel, you're not doing it for that. You're doing it to knock us out."

"Quite true."

"That means the whole class goes to smash—that we're going to have nothing but fights and hard feelings from now on. Is that what you want?"

"Stover, it's a bigger thing than just the peace of mind of our class."

"But what is your objection to us?" said Stover.

"My objection is that just that class feeling and harmony you spoke of your societies have already destroyed."

"In what way?"

"Because you break in and take little groups out of the body of the class and herd together."

"You exaggerate."

"Oh, no, I don't; and you'll see it more next year. You've formed your crowd, and you'll stick together and you'll all do everything you can to help each other along. That's natural. But don't come and say to me that we fellows are dividing the class."

"Rats, Gimbel! Just because I'm in a soph isn't going to make any difference with the men I see."

"You think so?" said Gimbel, looking at him with real curiosity.

"You bet it won't."

"Wait and see."

"That's too ridiculous!"

Stover, feeling his anger gaining possession of him, rose abruptly.

"How can it be otherwise?" said Gimbel, persisting.

"Next year the only outsiders you'll see will be a few bootlickers who'll attach themselves to you to get pulled into a junior society. The real men won't go with you, because they don't want to kowtow and heel."

"We'll see."

"I say, Stover," said Gimbel abruptly, as Dink, for fear of losing his temper, was leaving. "Now, be square. You've come to me frankly—I won't say impertinently—and I've answered your questions and told you openly what we're going to do. Give me credit for that, will you?"

"I don't believe in you," said Stover, facing him.

"I know you don't," said Gimbel, flushing a little, "but you will before you get through."

"I doubt it."

"And I'll tell you another thing you'll do before this sophomore society fight is ended," said Gimbel, with a sudden heat.

"What?"

"You'll stand on the right side—where we stand."

"You think so?"

"I know it!"