What Stover in his fuddled consciousness had said to little Wookey on that last wild night returned to him with doubled force in the white of the day. He had given his opponents the right to destroy all he had stood for by pointing to his own example. He had been a deserter from the cause, but the sound of the enemy's bugle had recalled him to the battle.

He took the first occasion to stop Le Baron, for he wanted the latter to make no mistake about him.

"Hugh, I was rude as the devil to you the other night," he said directly. "I was drunk—more than you had any idea. What I want you to know is this. You put the question right up to me. You've forced me to take my stand, and I've done it. You're all wrong on the argument, but I don't blame you. Only after this you'll never have the chance to fling that at me again. You and I'll never agree on things here, we're bound to be enemies, but I want to thank you for opening my eyes, putting it squarely up to me."

He left without waiting for an answer, having said what he wished to. For several days he kept by himself, taking long walks, disciplining the ship that had sailed so long in mutiny. Then he turned up in Regan's room, and holding out his hand, said:

"Well, Tom, it's over. How in blazes did you keep from telling me what you thought about me all this time?"

Regan, unruffled and undemonstrative, said through the cloud of his pipe:

"Well, I've seen men go through it before. You never were very bad."

"What?" said Stover, who felt rather annoyed at this tame estimate.

"It's not a bad thing when you've licked the devil four ways to election," said Regan. "You know what you can do, and that's something."

"Ever been through it?" said Stover, still a little piqued.

"Ye-es."

"Really, Tom?" said Dink amazed.

"Ran about six months," said Regan, crossing his legs and dreaming. "I wasn't nice and polite like you—used to clean up the place—rather ugly time, but I pulled out."

"You've never told me about yourself," said Stover tentatively.

Regan rose, reaching for the tobacco. "No, I never have," he said. "My story is one of those stories that isn't told. Come on over to Brocky's; he's got a debating scheme you'll be interested in."

"You damned unemotional cuss," said Stover, looking at him a little defiantly.

"Are you coming with me this summer to see a little real life—get a little real education?" said Regan irrelevantly.

"If you'll take me."

"Good boy."

He rested his hand on Stover's shoulder a moment, and gave him a little tap, and the touch brought a genuine thrill of happiness to Dink.

"Lord, what a leader he'd make," he thought. "Why is it, and what's the story the old rhinoceros can't tell, I wonder?"

The old crowd was at Brocky's, the crowd which had first stirred his imagination. His return produced quite a sensation. Nothing was said, but the grip in the handshakes was different, and the diffident, hesitant little expressions of relieved good-will that came to him touched him more than he would have believed.

Brockhurst began to expound his scheme, speaking nervously, in compressed sentences, as he always did in the beginning of an argument.

"Here's what I'm trying to say. We've all been sitting round and criticizing—I mean I have—things up here. Now why not really suggest something—worth while?" He frowned, and becoming angry at his own difficulty in expressing himself, gradually became more fluent. "We all feel the need of getting together and having real discussions, and we all agree that debating here has died out, become merely perfunctory. The debates take place in a class-room, and everything is cold, stiff, mechanical. Now that all is unnecessary. What we want is something spontaneous, informal and with the incentive of a contest. This is my scheme. To take a certain number—say twenty—of the men in the class who really have ideas, and believe in expressing them; form a club to meet one night a week in some room over a restaurant where we can sit about tables, smoke, have beer and lemonade, a bit to eat if you want, everything natural, informal. Divide the club up equally into two camps, each camp to have a leader for each debate, who opens the discussion and sums it up—the only formal, perfunctory speeches. Every one else speaks as he feels like it, right from his table. Have in an outside judge, and keep a record. At the end of the year the side that loses sets the other up to a banquet."

Stover was interested at once. He saw an instrument at hand for which he had been looking—something to bring the class together.

"Look here, it's bigger than that, Brocky," he said earnestly. "I'm not criticizing—I like the idea, the whole thing, you know. But here's what we can do. Make the club, say, forty, and get into it all the representative elements of the class—make it a real meeting place. Get the fellows who are going to be managers and captains. They've all got to speak—the fellows on papers, the real debaters—and you'll have something that'll bring the class together."

"What would you debate?" said Swazey, while the others considered Stover's suggestion.

"College subjects every one has an opinion about at first," said Regan. "And then get into red-hot politics."

"Of course Stover's idea is a social one—democratic if you will," said Brockhurst perplexed. "My idea was for a more intimate crowd, all alike, trying to discuss real things."

"Brocky, I don't believe you can do it," said Stover. "My experience is that the big discussions, the ones worth while, always are informal, just as they've been in this crowd, and the crowd mustn't be too large." Several nodded assent. "The other thing is something we need in the class. We've been torn to pieces, all at loggerheads, and I believe, outside of the debating, this is the first step to getting together. Moreover, I think you'll find all crowds will jump at the chance. Let me talk it around."

"I think Dink's got the practical idea, Brocky," said Regan. "And, moreover, he's the man to work it."

As they went out together they were met with the sensation of the campus—the sophomore societies had been abolished!

Stover stopped McNab, who was hurrying past.

"I say, Dopey, is it true?"

"Sure thing."

"How'd it happen?"

"Don't know."

Gimbel came up with the full news.

"The President gave them a certain time, you remember, to submit a plan of reform. They reported they couldn't agree, so he called the committee together and said:

"'Well, gentlemen, I gave you the opportunity to conform to public sentiment, you haven't been able to do it, you are now abolished.'"

"Who'd have thought it!"

"You don't say so!"

"Abolished!"

"I know you're glad, Dink, old man," said Gimbel, shaking his hand with a confidential look. "We all know how you stood."

"It's for the best," said Stover slowly; then he added: "But Gimbel, the fight's over; the big thing now is for the class to get together—be careful how you fellows take it."

Strangely enough, in the hour of defeat the instinct of caste came back to him—he was again the sophomore society man. He walked over to his rooms with a curious feeling of resentment at the rejoicing on the campus, where the news was being shouted from window to window. Bob Story, leaving the fence, came over and took him by the arm.

"Dink, old fellow, I've been waiting to see you."

"I've just heard the news," said Stover, when they reached his room.

"That's not what I came about," said Story, "though it fits in all the better. Dink, you won't mind our clearing up a little past history?"

"I wish you would, Bob," said Stover earnestly. "I know you never saw things my way."

"No, I didn't. I don't say you were wrong. It was a question of different temperaments. You did a braver thing than I would have done—"

"Oh, I say—"

"Yes, I mean it. Of course I think it was all a rotten mistake, and that if you'd talked the matter out as you've done with me, Le Baron and Reynolds would have seen your side."

"Perhaps so."

"I felt that Reynolds had acted like an ass, and you very naturally had lost your temper—the result being to put the society in the position as a society of dictating a man's friendships. I don't believe that was justified."

"Indirectly, Bob, it worked out that way."

"There I believe you're right, Dink," said Story openly. "I've come to see it, and I admit it now. I'm glad the system has gone. I'm for the best here. Now, Dink,"—he hesitated a moment—"I know you've been through a rotten time; you've felt every one was against you unjustly. I know all that, and I know you've got hold of yourself again."

"That's true."

"What I want to talk over with you now is this. Don't let what has passed keep you away from any one in the class."

"But, Bob," said Dink, amazed, "how can I help it? The soph crowd must be down on me—particularly now."

"Rats, they all know pretty well the circumstances, and they all respect your nerve, that's honest. We like a good fighter up here. Now, Dink, more than ever, we need a real leader here to bring us together again. Don't leave the field to Bain and Hunter—they're all right in their way, but they can't see things in a big way. Go right out where you've always gone, twice the man you used to be, and make us all follow you. Don't make apologies for what you did—go out as though you were proud of it, and the whole bunch will rise up and follow you."

"I get what you mean," said Stover solemnly. "That's horse sense, Bob—you've always got that. I wish you'd said it before."

"I wish I had."

Stover looked at him wondering, but not daring to ask if some one else had prompted him to the act.

"It's strange you came just now, Bob," he said. "You've put words in my mouth that were already there. I've just been talking over a scheme that I think's a big idea. It's Brockhurst's."

He detailed the plan and his own suggestion. Story was enthusiastic. They talked at length, drawing up a list of possible members, with the enthusiasm of pioneers.

"I say, Dink, there's one thing more," said Bob, as he started to go. "I've been thinking a lot lately about things here, and what I want for the next two years—this is about ended. I'd like to propose something to you."

"Propose it."

"What do you say to you and me, Joe Hungerford, and Tom Regan, all rooming together another year?"

"Tom?" said Stover, surprised a moment. "The very thing if he'd do it."

"The four of us are all different enough to make just the combination we need. I'm tired of bunking alone. I want to rub up against some one else."

"There's nothing I could have thought of better, Bob. You're right, we four ought to be friends—real friends—and stand together. Here's my hand on it."

"Bully. I've spoken to Joe, and he's going to see Regan. I say, Dink, drop in soon."

"Sure thing."

"I mean at the house."

"Oh, yes." A little constraint came to him, and then a flush of boyish hope. "I'm coming round."

"Because—the family have been wondering."

When Bob had gone, Stover stood a long while gazing at the excited groups about the fence, retailing the all-important news.

"By George, I'll do it," he said at last. "I'll not leave it to Tommy Bain or Jim Hunter. It may be a fight, but I'm going out to lead because I can do it, and because I believe in the right things." Then he thought over all the incidents of Bob's visit, and he fell into a musing state with sudden wild jumps of the imagination. "I wonder—did he come of his own accord—I wonder if she knew!"

With one of his old-time sudden resolves, he went that very night to the Storys'. The struggle he had come through in victory showed in a new, abrupt self-confidence. He felt older by a year than at his last visit.

Jean Story was at the piano, Jim Hunter on the wide seat beside her, turning over the leaves of her music. He saw it from the hall in the first glance.

The Judge, surprised, came to him, delighted.

"Well, if here isn't Dink in the flesh. How are you? Thought you'd eloped somewhere. Glad to see you; tarnation if I'm not glad to shake your hand."

Hungerford, Bain, Bob Story, and Stone were present; a little difference in their several greetings.

"Well, we're holding a sort of wake here," said the Judge cheerily. "Bain seems the most afflicted."

"It's a hard moment," said Stover calmly, knowing that any expression of opinion from him would be resisted in certain quarters. "I felt quite upset myself to-day when I heard the news, despite the stand I've taken."

Hunter looked up and then down, but said nothing.

"It's for the best," said Hungerford, not wishing him to stand alone. "Best for the college as a whole."

"That remains to be seen," said Bain. "I passed Gimbel coming over, and his crowd. It wasn't very pleasant."

"Well, it's over," said Dink in a matter-of-fact tone. "No post-mortem! The great thing now is to recognize what exists. The class to-day is shot to pieces. We want to get together again. One half our time's up, and, wherever the fault, we've done nothing but scrap and get apart."

"I've been telling them a little about your scheme, yours and Brockhurst's," said Story.

Stover launched into an enthusiastic argument in its support. Bain and Hunter followed, instinctive in their opposition, each perceiving all the superiority that would derive to Stover from its success.

"May I ask," said Hunter finally, in a tone of icy criticism, "What is the difference between knocking down the sophomore society and putting up this organization?"

"Very glad to tell you, Jim," said Stover, assuming an attitude of careful good-will. "The difference is that this is an open organization, drawing from every element of the class, to meet for the sole purpose of doing a little thinking and getting to know other crowds. The sophomore society was an organization drawn from one element of the class, consciously or unconsciously for the purpose of advancing the social ambitions of its members at the expense of others. One is natural and democratic, and the other's founded on selfishness and exclusiveness."

The Judge, fearing the results of a controversy, broke in, switching the conversation to safer channels.

"By the way, Jim," said Stover, in an interlude, "we're counting on you and Tommy Bain to go into this thing and make it a success. Is that right?"

Despite their reluctance at so prompt an espousal, Hunter and Bain were too far-seeing to set themselves in opposition. But the acceptance was given without enthusiasm, and, not relishing this sudden renewal of authority in one whom they naturally held at fault, they soon broke up the party.

Hungerford and Bob went into the billiard room for a game, and presently the Judge disappeared upstairs to run over some routine work.

Stover took the seat vacated by Hunter, with perhaps a little malicious pleasure, saying:

"Aren't you going on playing?"

The young girl hesitated a moment, turning the leaves aimlessly.

"I don't know," she said. "Do you want me to very much?"

"I'd much rather talk."

She closed the music, turning to him with a little reproachful seriousness.

"You've been away a long while."

"Yes." He admitted the implied accusation with a moment's silence. "A crazy spell of mine. Bob was over this afternoon and we had a long talk." He said it point blank, watching her face for some indication he hoped to find there of her complicity. "Did he tell you?"

"He was speaking of it at the dinner table," she said quietly.

"Did you blame me," he said impulsively, "for what I did about getting out of my society?"

"No."

"Bob did, at least for a while," he said, looking eagerly into her eyes.

"I did not agree with him there."

She rose.

"If we are going to talk, let's find more comfortable chairs."

He followed her, a little irritated at the sudden closing on this delightful prospect. They took chairs by the window. Through the vista of open rooms could be seen the glare of the brilliant lights, and the figures of the two young fellows moving at their game.

Suddenly, with a return of the old-time feeling of camaraderie between them, he burst out:

"You know I've got into such a serious point of view! I don't quite know how it happened. Sometimes it seems to me I'm missing all the fun of college life." He made a gesture toward the billiard room. "Even fellows like McNab, good for nothing, jovial little loafers, according to Yale standards, do seem to be getting something wonderful out of these years. I don't. It's been all work or fighting."

"That's because they are going different ways in life than you are," she said quickly. "Tell me more about this new organization. It seems a big idea. Whom will you take in?" She added suddenly: "Take charge yourself, do it all yourself. It's just what you should do."

He was too much interested in the expounding of the idea to notice the solicitude she showed him. After a while the conversation drifted to other topics. He spoke of the summer.

"Joe wants me to go on a cruise, and Bob wants me to run up to your camp for a visit, but I've about decided to do neither."

She looked up.

"Why not?"

"I am going with Regan for the summer—slumming it, I suppose some would call it; Tom calls it getting real education. We're going down to work among men who work, to know something of what they think and want—and what they think of us. It appeals to me tremendously. I want to have an all-around point of view. There are so many opportunities coming now, and I want to grasp them all—learn all I can. What do you think?"

"It is a splendid idea, just the thing for you now. It will broaden you," she said, with a determined bob of her head. "Why doesn't Bob ever bring Regan around? He sounds interesting."

"Don't know—he sticks by himself. You can't move him. Bob's told you about the four of us rooming together?"

"Yes."

"I wonder—"

"What?" she asked as he stopped.

"Did you suggest to Bob what he said to me this afternoon?" he said point blank.

She looked at him troubled and undecided, and he suddenly guessed the reason.

"Oh, won't you trust me enough to tell me," he said boyishly, "if you did?"

She looked into his eyes a moment longer.

"He was afraid you wouldn't like it," she said simply. "Yes, I told him to go."

A dozen things rushed to his lips, and he said nothing. Perhaps she liked his silence better than anything he could have said, for she added:

"You will do the big things now, won't you? You see, I want to see you at your biggest."

When he went home that night, he seemed to walk on air. He had taken no advantage of her friendship, tempted almost beyond his powers as he had been by the kindness in her voice and her direct appeal. He had to tell some one, not of the interest he felt she had shown him, but of his own complete adoration and supreme consecration. So he hauled Hungerford up to his room, who received the information as to Stover's state of mind with gratifying surprise, as though it were the most incredible, mystifying, and incomprehensible bit of news.