The Guarded Heights
"I've been seen with him twice that I can think of," George answered.
"Why?"
"That lot'll queer you."
George put his hand on Rogers' shoulder.
"See here. If I'm so small that that will queer me, you can put me down
as damned."
He walked on with that infrequently experienced sensation of having made
an advance. Yet he couldn't quite see why. He had responded to an
instinct that must have been his even in the days at Oakmont, when he
had been less than human. If he didn't see more of men like Allen it was
because they had nothing to offer him; nothing whatever. Goodhue had----
When their paths crossed on the campus now Goodhue nodded, for each day
they met at the field, both certainties, if they escaped injury, for the
Freshmen eleven.
Football had ceased to be unalloyed pleasure. Stringham that fall used
the Freshmen rather more than the scrub as a punching bag for the
varsity. The devoted youngsters would take punishment from three or four
successive teams from the big squad. They became, consequently, as hard
as iron. Frequently they played a team of varsity substitutes off its
feet. George had settled into the backfield. He was fast with the ball,
but he found it difficult to follow his interference, losing patience
sometimes, and desiring to cut off by himself. Even so he made
consistent gains through the opposing line. On secondary defence he was
rather too efficient. Stringham was continually cautioning him not to
tackle the varsity pets too viciously. After one such rebuke Goodhue
unbent to sympathy.
"If they worked the varsity as hard as they do us Stringham wouldn't
have to be so precious careful of his brittle backs. Just the same,
Morton, I would rather play with you than against you."
George smiled, but he didn't bother to answer. Let Goodhue come around
again.
George's kicking from the start outdistanced the best varsity punts. The
stands, sprinkled with undergraduates and people from the town, would
become noisy with handclapping as his spirals arched down the field.
Squibs Bailly, George knew, was always there, probably saying, "I kicked
that ball. I made that run," and he had. The more you thought of it, the
more it became comprehensible that he had.
The afternoon George slipped outside a first varsity tackle, and dodged
two varsity backs, running forty yards for a touchdown, Squibs limped on
the field, followed by Betty Alston. The scrimmaging was over. The
Freshmen, triumphant because of George's feat, streaked toward the field
house. Goodhue ran close to George. Bailly caught George's arm. Goodhue
paused, calling out:
"Hello, Betty!"
At first Betty seemed scarcely to see Goodhue. She held out her hand to
George.
"That was splendid. Don't forget that you're going to make me
congratulate you this way next fall after the big games."
"I'll do my best. I want you to," George said.
Again he responded to the frank warmth of her fingers that seemed
unconsciously endeavouring to make more pliable the hard surface of his
mind.
"The strength of a lion," Bailly was saying, "united to the cruel
cunning of the serpent. Heaven be praised you didn't seek the higher
education at Yale or Harvard."
Betty called a belated greeting to Goodhue.
"Hello, Dicky! Wasn't it a real run? I feel something of a sponsor. I
told him before college opened he would be a great player."
Goodhue's surprise was momentarily apparent.
"It was rather nice to see those big fellows dumped," he said.
Betty went closer to him.
"Aren't you coming out to dinner soon? I'll promise Green you won't
break training."
The warm, slender fingers were no longer at George's mind. He felt
abruptly repulsed. He wanted only to get away. Her eyes caught his, and
she smiled.
"And bring Mr. Morton. I'm convinced he'll never come unless somebody
takes him by the hand."
George glanced at her hand. He had a whimsical impulse to reach out for
it, to close his eyes, to be led.
Heavy feet hurried behind the little group. A voice filled with rancour
and disgust cried out:
"You standing here without blankets just to enjoy the autumn breezes?
You ought to have better sense, Mr. Bailly."
"It's my fault, Green," Betty laughed.
"That's different," the trainer admitted, gallantly. "You can't expect a
woman to have much sense. Get to the showers now, and on the run."
Goodhue and George trotted off.
"I didn't know you were a friend of Betty Alston's," Goodhue said.
George didn't answer. Goodhue didn't say anything else.
XII
Often after those long, pounding afternoons George returned to his room,
wondering dully, as he had done last summer, why the deuce he did it.
Sylvia's picture stared the same answer, and he would turn with a sigh
to one of the novels Bailly loaned him regularly. Bailly was of great
value there, too, for he chose the books carefully, and George was
commencing to learn that as a man reads so is he very likely to think.
Whenever he spoke now he was careful to modulate his voice, to choose
his words, never to be heard without a reason.
The little fellow with the moustache whom the Goodhue crowd called Spike
met him on the campus one day after practice.
"My name," he announced in a high-pitched, slurred voice, "is Wandel.
You may not realize it, but you are a very great man, Morton."
George looked him over, astonished. He had difficulty not to mock the
other's manner, nearly effeminate.
"Why am I great, Mr. Wandel?"
"Anybody," Wandel answered in his singing voice, "who does one thing
better than others is inevitably great."
George smiled vindictively.
"I suppose I ought to return the compliment. What do you do?"
Wandel wasn't ruffled.
"Very many things. I brew good tea for one. What about a cup now? Come
to my rooms. They're just here, in Blair tower."
George weighed the invitation. Wandel was beyond doubt of the
fortunates, yet curiously apart from them. George's diplomacy required a
forcing of the fortunates to seek him. Wandel, for that matter, had
sought. Where George might have refused a first invitation from Goodhue
he accepted Wandel's, because he was anxious to know the man's real
purpose in asking him.
"All right. Thanks. But I haven't much time. I want to do some reading
before dinner."
He hadn't imagined anything like Wandel's room existed in college, or
could be conceived or executed by one of college age. The study was
large and high with a broad casement window. The waning light increased
the values Wandel had evidently sought. The wall covering and the
draperies at the three doors and the window were a dead shade of green
that, in fact, suggested a withdrawal from life nearly supernatural, at
least medieval. The half-dozen pictures were designed to complete this
impression. They were primitives--an awkward but lovely Madonna, a
procession of saints who seemed deformed by their experiences, grotesque
conceptions of biblical encounters. There were heavy rugs, also green in
foundation; and, with wide, effective spaces between, stood
uncomfortable Gothic chairs, benches, and tables.
Two months ago George would have expressed amazement, perhaps
admiration. Now he said nothing, but he longed for Squibs' opinion of
the room. He questioned what it reflected of the pompous little man who
had brought him.
Wandel stooped and lighted the fire. He switched the heavy green
curtains over the window. In a corner a youth stirred and yawned.
"Hello, Dalrymple," Wandel said. "Waited long? You know that very great
man, Morton?"
The increasing firelight played on Dalrymple's face, a countenance
without much expression, intolerant, if anything, but in a far weaker
sense than Sylvia's assurance. George recognized him. He had seen him
accompany Goodhue through the crowd the day of the first examination.
Dalrymple didn't disturb himself.
"The football player? How do. Damn tea, Spike. You've got whiskey and a
siphon."
George's hand had been ready. He was thankful he hadn't offered it. In
that moment a dislike was born, not very positive; the emotion one has
for an unwholesome animal.
Wandel disappeared. After a moment he came in, wearing a fantastic
embroidered dressing gown of the pervading dead green tone. He lighted a
spirit lamp, and, while the water heated, got out a tea canister, cups,
boxes of biscuits, cigarettes, bottles, and glasses. Dalrymple poured a
generous drink. Wandel took a smaller one.
"You," he said to George, "being a very great man, will have some tea."
"I'll have some tea, anyway," George answered.
The door opened. Goodhue strolled in. His eyebrows lifted when he saw
George.
"Do you know you're in bad company, Morton?"
"I believe so," George answered.
Wandel was pleased. George saw Goodhue glance a question at Dalrymple.
Dalrymple merely stared.
They sat about, sipping, talking of nothing in particular, and the
curious room was full of an interrogation. George lost his earlier fancy
of being under Wandel's inspection. It was evident to him now that
Wandel was the man to do his inspecting first. Why the deuce had he
asked him here? Dalrymple and Goodhue were clearly puzzled by the same
question.
When he had emptied his cup George rose and put on his cap.
"Thanks for the cup of tea, Wandel."
"Don't go," Wandel urged.
He waved his hands helplessly.
"But, since you're a very distinguished person, I suppose I can't keep
you. Come again, any day this time. Every day."
The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his position
irritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waiting
for the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip,
unaffected by this departure.
Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed George
out. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The broken
light from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision in
his eyes.
"Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; I
mean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?"
George shook his head. He was quite frank.
"I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about that
myself."
Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand.
"Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow."
"Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you call
Wandel 'Spike'?"
Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he coloured
it.
"Maybe it's because he's so sharp."
XIII
George saw a day or two later a professor's criticism in the _Daily
Princetonian_ of the current number of the _Nassau Literary Magazine_.
Driggs Wandel, because of a poem, was excitedly greeted as a man with a
touch of genius. George borrowed a copy of the _Lit_ from a neighbour,
and read a haunting, unreal bit of verse that seemed a part of the room
in which it had probably been written. Obsessed by the practicality of
the little man, George asked himself just what Wandel had to gain by
this performance. He carried the whole puzzle to Bailly that night, and
was surprised to learn that Wandel had impressed himself already on the
faculty.
"This verse isn't genius," Bailly said, "but it proves that the man has
an abnormal control of effect, and he does what he does with no apparent
effort. He'll probably be managing editor of the _Lit_ and the
_Princetonian_, for I understand he's out for that, too. He's going to
make himself felt in his class and in the entire undergraduate body.
Don't undervalue him. Have you stopped to think, Morton, that he still
wears a moustache? Revolutionary! Has he overawed the Sophomores, or has
he too many friends in the upper classes?"
Bailly limped up and down, ill at ease, seeking words.