Night after night, Wookey, the little freshman from a mountain village of Maine, the shadow of a grind, whom no one knew in his class, and who would never know any one, waited over his books the hour of twelve and the arrival of the great man gone wrong, whose secret only he possessed. Sometimes at the clatter on the stairs, when he went out eagerly, the hero would be in control, and would say:

"Hello, Wookey, how are you to-night?"

"All right, sir," he would answer, shifting from foot to foot, afraid to volunteer assistance.

"All right myself," Stover would answer. "See you to-morrow. Good night."

Gradually, however, to his delight, Stover grew to like the strange meetings, and permitted him to accompany him to his room to open the window, draw off the boots and disappear with the promise to thunder on his door in time for chapel. In the daytime they never met.

Stover never failed to thank him with the utmost ceremony. Often the dialogue that ensued was farcically humorous, only little Wookey, solemn as an owl, never laughed.

One night Stover, draped in difficult equilibrium on the mantelpiece, suddenly, in his new parental solicitude for the freshman, bethought himself of the curriculum.

"Wookey."

"Yes, sir."

"One thing must speak about—meant speak about long time ago."

"What, sir?" said Wookey, looking up apprehensively over his spectacles.

"Study," said Stover, with terrific solemnity. "Want you be good scholar."

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Want you be validict—you understand what mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wookey, college life serious, finest thing in it's study, don't neglect study, you understand."

"Yes, sir; I do study pretty hard."

"Not enough," said Stover furiously. "Study all time! What 'cher do to-day? Recite in—in Greek, Latin, eh?"

"Yes, sir—all right."

"Good, very good—proud of you, Wookey," said Stover, satisfied. "Must be good influence—understand that, Wookey. Going to ask every night."

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Go an' study now. Study lot more."

This feeling of the influence he was exerting for Wookey's academic betterment was so strong in Dink when the hour of midnight had passed that shortly after he brought McNab home with him to witness his works.

When Wookey appeared, something displeased Stover. His protÉgÉ was not as he should be presented. Suddenly he remembered—Wookey was not in the pink pajamas!

"Wookey," he said sternly.

"Yes, sir."

"The pink ones," he said solemnly.

"Very well, sir."

"Hurry."

"Yes, sir."

"Study's better in pink," said Stover wisely to McNab, who was trying to exceed him in dignity. "Most becomin'."

"Aha!"

"Make him study, Dopey," continued Stover. "I make him study."

"Want hear'm reshite," said McNab, unconvinced.

When Wookey, in changed costume, came puffing upstairs, books under his arm, McNab, who had been exhorted by Stover, viewed the pink pajamas with deliberation, and said:

"Like you in pink, Wookey; always wear 'em. Want to hear you reshite."

"Reshite," said Stover.

"Hold up," said Dopey, scratching his head.

"What's matter?"

"Where going to sleep?"

"Wookey, suggestions?" said Stover, who added in a thundering whisper to McNab, "Always leave such things to Wookey."

The freshman busily took down the cushions from the window seat, piled up the pillows at one end before the fire, and brought up a rug.

"Thank Mr. Wookey," said Stover severely.

"Mr. Wookey, I thank you," said McNab, who sat down tailor fashion, and, staring at a book of geometry open on his lap, said: "I'm most—interested—most, very fond of Horace—reshite."

Wookey in the pink pajamas, seated in a sort of spinal bend, overwhelmed by the terrifying delight of being admitted to the company of Olympians, began directly to translate an ode of Horace.

McNab, staring at the geometry, turned a casual page, remarking from time to time severely:

"What's that!—oh, yes, h'm—quite right—free, rather free, Dink—not bad, not bad for freshman."

"Is it all right?" said Stover anxiously.

"All right."

"All my influence," said Stover.

"Wookey," said McNab, as a judge would say it, "very fortunate, sir, have such good infloonce. Con-grath-ulate you."

Wookey, whether deceived by their drunken assumption of sobriety, or to conciliate dangerous men, remained in his corner, his book closed, blinking out from his wide glasses.

McNab, remembering the beginning of a discussion in which he had engaged with serious purpose, suddenly began, shaking his head:

"Dink, you ought be better infloonce than y'are."

Stover chose to be offended.

"Why you say that?"

"'Cause 'm right; y'oughtn't drink, not a drop!"

"What right you got to say that?"

"Every right—every," said McNab, trying to remember what was the original destination of his argument. "I'm bad example 'n you're good infloonce, there's diff, see?"

"Ratsh!"

"I remember," said McNab all at once. "I know what I want say. I'm going to leave it to Wookey. Wookey'll be the judge—referee—y'willin'?"

"Willin'."

"'M going to give moral lecture," said McNab rapidly, then paused and considered a long while. "I'm fond of Stover, Wookey, very fond—very worried, too, want him to stop drinking—bad for him—bad for any one, but bad for him!"

Stover, who could still perceive the argument, laughed a disagreeable laugh.

"He's laughin' at me, Wookey," said McNab in a grieved voice. "He means by that insultin' laugh that I sometimes drink excess. I admit it; I'm not proud of it, but I admit it. But there's a difference, and here's where you ref'ree, judge. When I take 'n occasional glass, I drink to be happy, make others happy—y'understand, excesh of love for humanity, enjoy youth an' all that sort of thing, you know. That's the point—you're ref'ree. When Stover drinks he goes at in bad way, no love humanity, joy of youth. That's the point, y'understand. I want him to stop it, 'cause he's my friend, he's good infloonce—I'm bad example."

"You're my friend?" said Stover, overcome.

"You're besh friend."

"Shake hands."

"Shure."

"Dopey, I tell you truth—confide in you," said Stover, slipping down beside him. "Swear."

"Swear."

"Never tell."

"Never!"

"I'm unhappy."

"No!"

"Drink to forget, y'understand."

"Must stop it," said McNab, firmly closing one eye, and gazing fearfully at the yellow owls in front.

"Going to shtop it," said Stover, "soon—stop soon—promise."

"Promish?"

"Promise! Y'understand, want to forget."

"Must stop it," repeated McNab, turning from the yellow-eyed owls to Stover.

"Promish," repeated Stover solemnly. A moment later he said sleepily: "I shay."

"Shay it."

"What—what I going to stop?"

"What you, what—" McNab frowned terrifically at the owls. "Stop—must stop—promish—what—what stop?"

The question being transferred to Stover, he in turn scratched his head and sought to concentrate his memory.

"I promished," he said slowly, "remember that—stop—promish stop. Wookey!"

"Yes, sir."

The pink pajamas approached with reluctance, and waited at a safe distance.

"Wookey! What—what's this all about? What's it?"

Wookey, facing the crisis of his life, hesitated between two impulses; but at this moment the two took solemn hold of each other's hands, vacillated and rolled over on the cushions. Wookey, in the pink pajamas, covered them over with the rug, and stole out, like a thief, carrying away a secret.

But despite McNab's more sober remonstrances and his own proclamation, Stover did not cease his headlong gallop down the hill of Rake's Progress. He still avoided his old friends—he had not been to the Storys' home for weeks. Regan occasionally forced himself upon him, but never offered a suggestion. The truth was, Stover began to have a horror of his own society, of being left alone. What he did, he did without restraint. At the card tables to which he wandered he was always clamoring for the raising of the limit; always ready to eat up the night. Even the most inveterate of the gamblers in his class perceived what McNab perceived, that there was no pleasure in what he did, but a sort of self-immolation. They were a little in awe of him, uneasy when he was around. He wandered over into Sheff, and among a group of hard livers in the Law School, getting deeper and deeper into the maelstrom. Several times, returning unsteadily late at night, he had met Le Baron, who stood aside, and watched him go with difficulty towards the haven of his own entry, for Stover always made it a point of pride to reach home and Wookey unaided. He never was offensive or quarrelsome. On the contrary, his struggle was always for self-control and an excess of politeness.

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."

Some one 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'.

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' hilar-ious—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 to-morrow."

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

When he came to the corner of the campus he raised his hat again to the chapel.

"Battell—believe in compulsory chapel—Yale democracy." He passed along College Street, saluting the various buildings by name. "Great inshtoostion—campus—Brocky's right—bring life back into campus, bring it all back. Things wrong now—everything's wrong—must say so—must stop an' fight, good fight. Regan's right 'n Swazey's right—all right. Hello, Donnelly. Salute!"

The campus policeman, lolling in the shadow of Osborne Hall, said:

"So there you are again, Dink. A fine life you're leadin'."

Stover felt this was an unwarranted criticism.

"Never saw any one take me home," he said. "Always manage get home. That's the point, that's it—see?"

"Go on with you," said Donnelly. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself—you who ought to be captain of the team."

Stover approached him.

"Bill—captain?"

"What?"

"I'm goin' to stop. Solemn promish."

He went into the campus and steadied himself against an elm, gazing down the long dim way to where in the shadow of the chapel was his entry.

"I see it—see it plainly—perfect self-control. What's that?" The trees seemed swollen to monstrous shapes, and the faÇades of the dormitories to be set on a slant, like the leaning tower of Pisa. He laughed cunningly: "Don't fool me—might fool Dopey—Tom Kelly—weak head—don't fool me—illushion, pure illushion—know all 'bout it. Worse comes worse, get down hands knees."

"Well, Dink, pickled again," said the voice of Le Baron from an outer world.

He straightened up, his mind coming back to his control, as it always did in the presence of others.

"All right," he said, leaning up against the cold, hard side of Phelp's, "bit of a party, that's all."

"Look here, Dink," said Le Baron, who was ignorant of the extent of the other's condition, "let's have a few plain words—man to man."

Stover heard him as from a distance, and nodded his head gravely.

"Good."

"We've had our break, but I've always respected you. You thought I was a snob then, and a damned aristocrat. Well, was I so far wrong? I believe in the best getting together and keeping together. You've chucked that and tried the other, haven't you? Now look where it's brought you."

Stover, his back to the wall, heard him with the clarity that sometimes comes. His head seemed to be among whirling mists, but every word came to him as though it alone were the only sound in a sleeping world. He wanted to answer, he rebelled at the logic, he knew it could be answered, but the words would not come.

"You're going to the devil, that's it in good English words," said Le Baron, not without kindness. "You ought to be the biggest thing in your class, and you're headed for the biggest failure. And it's all because you've cut loose from your crowd, Dink—from your own kind, because you've taken up with a bunch who don't count, who aren't working for anything here."

Suddenly Stover revolted, saying angrily:

"Hugh!"

"I don't want to hit you when you're down," said Le Baron quickly. "But, Dink, man alive, you're too good to go to the devil. Brace up—be a man. Get back to your own kind again."

"Hugh, that's enough!"

He said it sharply, and there was a finality about it.

"I say, Dink."

"Good night!"

He stood without moving until he had compelled Le Baron to leave, then he set out for his room. A great anger swept over him—at himself, at the Dink Stover who had betrayed the cause, and given Le Baron the right to say what he did.

"It isn't that," he said furiously, "it's not for breaking 'way—democracy—standing on m' own feet, no! It's a lie, all a lie. It's m' own fault—damn you, Dink Stover, you're quitter!"

He marched into his entry, his head on fire, but clear with one last resolve, and thundered on Wookey's door.

"Come out!"

The pink pajamas flashed out as by magic. The little freshman, perceiving Stover's fierce expression, drew back in alarm.

"Go'n to help you up to-night—able to do it," said Dink, the idea of assistance to another mingling in some curious way with his great resolve.

He took Wookey firmly by the arm and assisted him up the stairs. Once in his room he motioned him to a chair.

"Sit down—somethin' to say to you!"

Wookey, frightened, calculating the chances to the door, huddled in the big arm-chair, his toes drawn up under him, his large eyes over the spectacles never daring to deviate from the imperious glance of Stover.

"Studied to-day?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Wookey, listen to me. I'm a quitter, you understand. I've fought fight—good fight—big fight—real democracy—'n then I lost nerve. I'm wrong; I'm all wrong. I know it. Fault's with me, not what fought for. Wookey, listen to me. Le Baron's wrong, all wrong, you understand; doesn't know—realize—see."

"Yes, sir," said Wookey, in terror and complete incomprehension.

"I'm fool—big fool, but that's over, y'understand. Never give Le Baron chance say again what he did to-night. 'M going fight again—good fight. An' no one's ever going say saw me like this again, y'understand."

"Yes, sir," said the freshman weakly, terrified at the passion that showed in Stover, rocking before the mantelpiece.

"Last time they ever get me this way!"

The green shaded lamp was burning on the table before him.

"The last time—by God," he said, and lifting his fist he drove it through the shattering glass, reeled, and stretched insensible on the floor.

On the following night, a Saturday, Kelly, Buck Waters, and McNab at Mory's set up a shout of welcome as Stover came in quietly:

"Good old Dink!"

"Hard old head."

"What is it, old boy?—get in the game."

"A toby of musty, Louis," he said, quietly sitting down.

McNab glanced at him, aware of something new in the sharp, businesslike movements, and the old determined lines of the lips.

"My round," said Buck Waters presently.

"Another toby for me," said Stover.

A little later Kelly rang on the table:

"Bring 'em in all over again."

"Not for me," said Stover. "I guess two'll be my limit from now on."

There was no protest. McNab surreptitiously, while the others were in an argument, leaned over and patted him on the knee.