Back Aa

Plastic Age, The

Close

<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> Hugh wasn't troubled only by religion and sex; the whole college was disturbing his peace of mind: all of his illusions were being ruthlessly shattered. He had supposed that all professors were wise men, that their knowledge was almost limitless, and he was finding that many of the undergraduates were frankly contemptuous of the majority of their teachers and that he himself was finding inspiration from only a few of them. He went to his classes because he felt that he had to, but in most of them he was confused or bored. He learned more in the bull sessions than he did in the class-room, and men like Ross and Burbank were teaching him more than his instructors. Further, Nu Delta was proving a keen disappointment. More and more he found himself thinking of Malcolm Graham's talk to him during the rushing season of his freshman year. He often wished that Graham were still in college so that he could go to him for advice. The fraternity was not the brotherhood that he had dreamed about; it was composed of several cliques warring with each other, never coalescing into a single group except to contest the control of a student activity with some other fraternity. There were a few "brothers" that Hugh liked, but most of them were not his kind at all. Many of them were athletes taken into the fraternity because they were athletes and for no other reason, and although Hugh liked two of the athletes—they were really splendid fellows—he was forced to admit that three of them were hardly better than thugs, cheap muckers with fine bodies. Then there were the snobs, usually prep school men with more money than they could handle wisely, utterly contemptuous of any man not belonging to a fraternity or of one belonging to any of the lesser fraternities. These were the "smooth boys," interested primarily in clothes and "parties," passing their courses by the aid of tutors or fraternity brothers who happened to study. Hugh felt that he ought to like all of his fraternity brothers, but, try as he would, he disliked the majority of them. Early in his sophomore year he knew that he ought to have "gone" Delta Sigma Delta, that that fraternity contained a group of men whom he liked and respected, most of them, at least. They weren't prominent in student activities, but they were earnest lads as a whole, trying hard to get something out of college. The Nu Delta meetings every Monday night were a revelation to him. The brothers were openly bored; they paid little or no attention to the business before them. The president was constantly calling for order and not getting it. During the rushing season in the second term, interest picked up. Freshmen were being discussed. Four questions were inevitably asked. Did the freshman have money? Was he an athlete? Had he gone to a prep school? What was his family like? Hugh had been very much attracted by a lad named Parker. He was a charming youngster with a good mind and beautiful manners. In general, only bad manners were au fait at Sanford; so Parker was naturally conspicuous. Hugh proposed his name for membership to Nu Delta. "He's a harp," said a brother scornfully. "At any rate, he's a Catholic." That settled that. Only Protestants were eligible to Nu Delta at Sanford, although the fraternity had no national rule prohibiting members of other religions. The snobbery of the fraternity cut Hugh deeply. He was a friendly lad who had never been taught prejudice. He even made friends with a Jewish youth and was severely censured by three fraternity brothers for that friendship. He was especially taken to task by Bob Tucker, the president. "Look here, Hugh," Tucker said sternly, "you've got to draw the line somewhere. I suppose Einstein is a good fellow and all that, but you've been running around with him a lot. You've even brought him here several times. Of course, you can have anybody in your room you want, but we don't want any Jews around the house. I don't see why you had to pick him up, anyway. There's plenty of Christians in college." "He's a first-class fellow," Hugh replied stubbornly, "and I like him. I don't see why we have to be so high-hat about Jews and Catholics. Most of the fraternities take in Catholics, and the Phi Thetas take in Jews; at least, they've got two. They bid Einstein, but he turned them down; his folks don't want him to join a fraternity. And Chubby Elson told me that the Theta Kappas wanted him awfully, but they have a local rule against Jews." "That doesn't make any difference," Tucker said sharply. "We don't want him around here. Because some of the fraternities are so damn broad-minded isn't any reason that we ought to be. I don't see that their broad-mindedness is getting them anything. We rate about ten times as much as the Phi Thetas or the Theta Kappas, and the reason we do is that we are so much more exclusive." Hugh wanted to mention the three Nu Delta thugs, but he wisely restrained himself. "All right," he said stubbornly, "I won't bring Einstein around here again, and I won't bring Parker either. But I'll see just as much of them as I want to. My friends are my friends, and if the fraternity doesn't like them, it can leave them alone. I pledged loyalty to the fraternity, but I'll be damned if I pledged my life to it." He got up and started for the door, his blue eyes dark with anger. "I hate snobs," he said viciously, and departed. After rushing season was over, he rarely entered that fraternity house, chumming mostly with Carl, but finding friends in other fraternities or among non-fraternity men. He was depressed and gloomy, although his grades for the first term had been respectable. Nothing seemed very much worth while, not even making his letter on the track. He was gradually taking to cigarettes, and he had even had a nip or two out of a flask that Carl had brought to the room. He had read the "Rubaiyat," and it made a great impression on him. He and Carl often discussed the poem, and more and more Hugh was beginning to believe in Omar's philosophy. At least, he couldn't answer the arguments presented in Fitzgerald's beautiful quatrains. The poem both depressed and thrilled him. After reading it, he felt desperate—and ready for anything, convinced that the only wise course was to take the cash and let the credit go. He was much too young to hear the rumble of the distant drum. Sometimes he was sure that there wasn't a drum, anyway. He was particularly blue one afternoon when Carl rushed into the room and urged him to go to Hastings, a town five miles from Haydensville. "Jim Pearson's outside with his car," Carl said excitedly, "and he'll take us down. He's got to come right back—he's only going for some booze—but we needn't come back if we don't want to. We'll have a drink and give Hastings the once-over. How's to come along?" "All right," Hugh agreed indifferently and began to pull on his baa-baa coat. "I'm with you. A shot of gin might jazz me up a little." Once in Hastings, Pearson drove to a private residence at the edge of the town. The boys got out of the car and filed around to the back door, which was opened to their knock by a young man with a hatchet face and hard blue eyes. "Hello, Mr. Pearson," he said with an effort to be pleasant. "Want some gin?" "Yes, and some Scotch, too, Pete—if you have it. I'll take two quarts of Scotch and one of gin." "All right." Pete led the way down into the cellar, switching on an electric light when he reached the foot of the stairs. There was a small bar in the rear of the dingy, underground room, a table or two, and dozens of small boxes stacked against the wall. It was Hugh's first visit to a bootlegger's den, and he was keenly interested. He had a high-ball along with Carl and Pearson; then took another when Carl offered to stand treat. Pearson bought his three quarts of liquor, paid Pete, and departed alone, Carl and Hugh having decided to have another drink or two before they returned to Haydensville. After a second high-ball Hugh did not care how many he drank and was rather peevish when Carl insisted that he stop with a third. Pete charged them eight dollars for their drinks, which they cheerfully paid, and then warily climbed the stairs and stumbled out into the cold winter air. "Brr," said Carl, buttoning his coat up to his chin; "it's cold as hell." "So 'tis," Hugh agreed; "so 'tis. So 'tis. That's pretty. So 'tis, so 'tis, so 'tis. Isn't that pretty, Carl?" "Awful pretty. Say it again." "So 'tis. So 'tish. So—so—so. What wush it, Carl?" "So 'tis." "Oh, yes. So 'tish." They walked slowly, arm in arm, toward the business section of Hastings, pausing now and then to laugh joyously over something that appealed to them as inordinately funny. Once it was a tree, another time a farmer in a sleigh, and a third time a Ford. Hugh insisted, after laughing until he wept, that the Ford was the "funniest goddamned thing" he'd ever seen. Carl agreed with him. They were both pretty thoroughly drunk by the time they reached the center of the town, where they intended getting the bus back to Haydensville. Two girls passed them and smiled invitingly. "Oh, what peaches," Carl exclaimed. "Jush—jush—Jush swell," Hugh said with great positiveness, hanging on to Carl's arm. "They're the shwellest Janes I've ever sheen." The girls, who were a few feet ahead, turned and smiled again. "Let's pick them up," Carl whispered loudly. "Shure," and Hugh started unsteadily to increase his pace. The girls were professional prostitutes who visited Hastings twice a year "to get the Sanford trade." They were crude specimens, revealing their profession to the most casual observer. If Hugh had been sober they would have sickened him, but he wasn't sober; he was joyously drunk and the girls looked very desirable. "Hello, girls," Carl said expansively, taking hold of one girl's arm. "Busy?" "Bish-bishy?" Hugh repeated valiantly. The older "girl" smiled, revealing five gold teeth. "Of course not," she replied in a hard, flat voice. "Not too busy for you boys, anyway. Come along with us and we'll make this a big afternoon." "Sure," Carl agreed. "Sh-shure," Hugh stuttered. He reached forward to take the arm of the girl who had spoken, but at the same instant some one caught him by the wrist and held him still. Harry Slade, the star football player and this year's captain, happened to be in Hastings; he was, in fact, seeking these very girls. He had intended to pass on when he saw two men with them, but as soon as he recognized Hugh he paused and then impulsively strode forward. "Here, Carver," he said sharply. "What are you doing?" "None—none of you da-damn business," Hugh replied angrily, trying to shake his wrist free. "Leggo of me or—or I'll—I'll—" "You won't do anything," 'Slade interrupted. "You're going home with me." "Who in hell are you?" one of the girls asked viciously. "Mind your own damn business." "You mind yours, sister, or you'll get into a peck of trouble. This kid's going with me—and don't forget that. Come on, Carver." Hugh was still vainly trying to twist his wrist free and was muttering, "Leggo, leggo o' me." Slade jerked him across the sidewalk. Carl followed expostulating. "Get the hell out of here, Peters," Slade said angrily, "or I'll knock your fool block off. You chase off with those rats if you want to, but you leave Carver with me if you know what's good for you." He shoved Carl away, and Carl was sober enough to know that Slade meant what he said. Each girl took him by an arm, and he walked off down the street between them, almost instantly forgetting Hugh. Fortunately the street was nearly deserted, and no one had witnessed the little drama. Hugh began to sob drunkenly. Slade grasped his shoulders and shook him until his head waggled. "Now, shut up!" Slade commanded sharply. He took Hugh by the arm and started down the street with him, Hugh still muttering, "Leggo, leggo o' me." Slade walked him the whole five miles back to Haydensville, and before they were half way home Hugh's head began to clear. For a time he felt a little sick, but the nausea passed, and when they reached the campus he was quite sober. Not a word was spoken until Hugh unlocked the door of Surrey 19. Then Slade said: "Go wash your face and head in cold water. Souse yourself good and then come back; I want to have a talk with you." Hugh obeyed orders, but with poor grace. He was angry and confused, angry because his liberty had been interfered with, and confused because Slade had never paid more than passing attention to him—and for a year and a half Slade had been his god. Slade was one of those superb natural athletes who make history for many colleges. He was big, powerfully built, and moved as easily as a dancer. His features were good enough, but his brown eyes were dull and his jaw heavy rather than strong. Hugh had often heard that Slade dissipated violently, but he did not believe the rumors; he was positive that Slade could not be the athlete he was if he dissipated. He had been thrilled every time Slade had spoken to him—the big man of the college, the one Sanford man who had ever made All American, as Slade had this year. When he returned to his room from the bath-room, Slade was sitting in a big chair smoking a cigarette. Hugh walked into his bedroom, combed his dripping hair, and then came into the study, still angry but feeling a little sheepish and very curious. "Well, what is it?" he demanded, sitting down. "Do you know who those women were?" "No. Who are they?" "They're Bessie Haines and Emma Gleeson; at least, that's what they call themselves, and they're rotten bags." Hugh had a little quiver of fright, but he felt that he ought to defend himself. "Well, what of it?" he asked sullenly. "I don't see as you had any right to pull me away. You never paid any attention before to me. Why this sudden interest? How come you're so anxious to guard my purity?" Slade was embarrassed. He threw his cigarette into the fireplace and immediately lighted another one. Then he looked at his shoes and muttered, "I'm a pretty bad egg myself." "So I've heard." Hugh was frankly sarcastic. "Well, I am." Slade looked up defiantly. "I guess it's up to me to explain—and I don't know how to do it. I'm a dumbbell. I can't talk decently. I flunked English One three times, you know." He hesitated a moment and then blurted out, "I was looking for those bags myself." "What?" Hugh leaned forward and stared at him, bewildered and dumfounded. " You were looking for them?" "Yeah.... You see, I'm a bad egg—always been a bad one with women, ever since I was a kid. Gotta have one about every so often.... I—I'm not much." "But what made you stop me?" Hugh pressed his hand to his temple. His head was aching, and he could make nothing out of Slade's talk. "Because—because.... Oh, hell, Carver, I don't know how to explain it. I'm twenty-four and you're about nineteen and I know a lot that you don't. I was brought up in South Boston and I ran with a gang. There wasn't anything rotten that we didn't do.... I've been watching you. You're different." "How different?" Hugh demanded. "I want women just as much as you do." "That isn't it." Slade ran his fingers through his thick black hair and scowled fiercely at the fireplace. "That isn't it at all. You're—you're awfully clean and decent. I've been watching you lots—oh, for a year. You're—you're different," he finished lamely. Hugh was beginning to understand. "Do you mean," he asked slowly, "that you want me to keep straight—that—that, well—that you like me that way better?" He was really asking Slade if he admired him, and Slade got his meaning perfectly. To Hugh the idea was preposterous. Why, Slade had made every society on the campus; he had been given every honor that the students could heap on him—and he envied Hugh, an almost unknown sophomore. Why, it was ridiculous. "Yes, that's what I mean; that's what I was trying to get at." For a minute Slade hesitated; he wasn't used to giving expression to his confused emotions, and he didn't know how to go about it. "I'd—I'd like to be like you; that's it. I—I didn't want you to be like me.... Those women are awful bags. Anything might happen." "Why didn't you stop Carl Peters, too, then?" "Peters knows his way about. He can take care of himself. You're different, though.... You've never been drunk before, have you?" "No. No, I never have." Hugh's irritation was all gone. He was touched, deeply touched, by Slade's clumsy admiration, and he felt weak, emotionally exhausted after his little spree. "It's awfully good of you to—to think of me that way. I'm—I'm glad you stopped me." Slade stood up. He felt that he had better be going. He couldn't tell Hugh how much he liked and admired him, how much he envied him. He was altogether sentimental about the boy, entirely devoted to him. He had wanted to talk to Hugh more than Hugh had wanted to talk to him, but he had never felt that he had anything to offer that could possibly interest Hugh. It was a strange situation; the hero had put the hero worshiper on a high, white marble pedestal. He moved toward the door. "So long," he said as casually as he could. Hugh jumped up and rushed to him. "I'm awfully grateful to you, Harry," he said impulsively. "It was damn white of you. I—I don't know how to thank you." He held out his hand. Slade gripped it for a moment, and then, muttering another "So long," passed out of the door. Hugh was more confused than ever and grew steadily more confused as the days passed. He couldn't understand why Slade, frankly unchaste himself, should consider his chastity so important. He was genuinely glad that Slade had rescued him, genuinely grateful, but his confusion about all things sexual was more confounded. The strangest thing was that when he told Carl about Slade's talk, Carl seemed to understand perfectly, though he never offered a satisfactory explanation. "I know how he feels," Carl said, "and I'm awfully glad he butted in and pulled you away. I'd hate to see you messing around with bags like that myself, and if I hadn't been drunk I wouldn't have let you. I'm more grateful to him than you are. Gee! I'd never have forgiven myself," he concluded fervently. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> Just when the Incident was beginning to occupy less of Hugh's thoughts, it was suddenly brought back with a crash. He came home from the gymnasium one afternoon to find Carl seated at his desk writing. He looked up when Hugh came in, tore the paper into fragments, and tossed them info the waste-basket. "Guess I'd better tell you," he said briefly. "I was just writing a note to you." "To me? Why?" Carl pointed to his suit-case standing by the center-table. "That's why." "Going away on a party?" "My trunk left an hour ago. I'm going away for good." Carl's voice was husky, and he spoke with an obvious effort. Hugh walked quickly to the desk. "Why, old man, what's the matter? Anything wrong with your mother? You're not sick, are you?" Carl laughed, briefly, bitterly. "Yes, I'm sick all right. I'm sick." Hugh, worried, looked at him seriously. "Why, what's the matter? I didn't know that you weren't feeling well." Carl looked at the rug and muttered, "You remember those rats we picked up in Hastings?" "Yes?" "Well, I know of seven fellows they've sent home." "What!" Hugh cried, his eyes wide with horror. "You don't mean that you—that you—" "I mean exactly that," Carl replied in a low, flat voice. He rose and moved to the other side of the room. "I mean exactly that; and Doc Conners agrees with me," he added sarcastically. Then more softly, "He's got to tell the dean. That's why I'm going home." Hugh was swept simultaneously by revulsion and sympathy. "God, I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "Oh, Carl, I'm so damn sorry." Carl was standing by Hugh's desk, his hands clenched, his lips compressed. "Keep my junk," he said unevenly, "and sell anything you want to if you live in the house next year." "But you'll be back?" "No, I won't come back—I won't come back." He was having a hard time to keep back the tears and bit his trembling lip mercilessly. "Oh, Hugh," he suddenly cried, "what will my mother say?" Hugh was deeply distressed, but he was startled by that "my mother." It was the first time he had ever heard Carl speak of his mother except as the "old lady." "She will understand," he said soothingly. "How can she? How can she? God, Hugh, God!" He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly. Hugh put his arm around his shoulder and tried to comfort him, and in a few minutes Carl was in control of himself again. He dried his eyes with his handkerchief. "What a fish I am!" he said, trying to grin. "A goddamn fish." He looked at his watch. "Hell, I've got to be going if I'm going to make the five fifteen," He picked up his suit-case and held out his free hand. "There's something I want to say to you, Hugh, but I guess I'll write it. Please don't come to the train with me." He gripped Hugh's hand hard for an instant and then was out of the door and down the hall before Hugh had time to say anything. Two days afterward the letter came. The customary "Dear brother" and "Fraternally yours" were omitted. Dear Hugh: I've thought of letters yards long but I'm not going to write them. I just want to say that you are the finest thing that ever happened to me outside of my mother, and I respect you more than any fellow I've ever known. I'm ashamed because I started you drinking and I hope you'll stop it. I feel toward you the way Harry Slade does, only more I guess. You've done an awful lot for me. I want to ask a favor of you. Please leave women alone. Keep straight, please. You don't know how much I want you to do that. Thanks for all you've done for me. CARL. Hugh's eyes filled with tears when he read that letter. Carl seemed a tragic figure to him, and he missed him dreadfully. Poor old Carl! What hell it must have been to tell his mother! "And he wants me to keep straight. By God, I will.... I'll try to, anyhow."   <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2