Finally Hugh spoke.

"I met a girt this summer, Carl," he said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Little peach. Awf'lly pretty. Dainty, you know. Awf'lly dainty--like a little kid. You know."

Carl had slumped down into his chair. He was smoking his pipe and staring pensively at the flames. "Un-huh. Go on."

"Well, I fell pretty hard. She was so--er, dainty. She always reminded me of a little girl playing lady. She had golden hair and blue eyes, the bluest eyes I've ever seen; oh, lots bluer than mine, lots bluer. And little bits of hands and feet."

Carl continued to puff his pipe and stare at the fire. "Pet?" he asked dreamily.

"Uh-huh. Yeah, she petted--but she was kinda funny--cold, you know, and kinda scared. Gee, Carl, I was crazy about her. I--I even wrote her a poem. I guess it wasn't very good, but I don't think she knew what it was about. I guess I'm off her now, though. She's too cold. I don't want a girl to fall over me--my last girl did that--but, golly, Carl, Janet didn't understand. I don't think she knows anything about love."

"Some of 'em don't," Carl remarked philosophically, slipping deeper into his chair. "They just pet."

"That's the way she was. She liked me to hold her and kiss her just as long as I acted like a big brother, but, criminy, when I felt that soft little thing in my arms, I didn't feel like a big brother; I loved her like h.e.l.l.... She was awfully sweet," he added regretfully; "I wish she wasn't so cold."

"Hard luck, old man," said Carl consolingly, "hard luck. Guess you picked an iceberg."

For a few minutes the room was quiet except for the crackling of the fire, which was beginning to burn low. The shadows were creeping up on the boys; the flames were less merry.

Carl took his pipe out of his mouth and drawled softly, "I had better luck."

Hugh p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. "You haven't really fallen in love, have you?"

he demanded eagerly. Carl had often said that he would never fall in love, that he was "too wise" to women.

"No, I didn't fall in love; nothing like that. I met a bunch of janes down at Bar Harbor. Some of them I'd known before, but I met some new ones, too. Had a d.a.m.n good time. Some of those janes certainly could neck, and they were ready for it any time. Gee, if the old lady hadn't been there, I'd a been potted about half the time. As it was, I drank enough gin and Scotch to float a battle-ship. Well, the old lady had to go to New York on account of some business; so I went down to Christmas Cove to visit some people I know there. Christmas Cove's a nice place; not so high-hat as Bar Harbor, but still it's a nice place."

Hugh felt that Carl was leaving the main track, and he hastened to shunt him back. "Sure," he said in cheerful agreement; "sure it is--but what happened?"

"What happened? Oh--oh, yes!" Carl brought himself back to the present with an obvious effort. "Sure, I'll tell you what happened. Well, there was a girl there named Elaine Marston. She wasn't staying with the folks I was, but they knew her, so I saw a lot of her. See?"

"Sure." Hugh wished he would hurry up. Carl didn't usually wander all over when telling a story. This must be something special.

"Well, I saw lots of her. Lots. Pretty girl, nice family and everything, but she liked her booze and she liked to pet. Awful hot kid. Well, one night we went to a dance, and between dances we had a lot of gin I had brought with me. Good stuff, too. I bought it off a guy who brought it down from Canada himself. Where was I? Oh, yes, at the dance. We both got pie-eyed; I was all liquored up, and I guess she was, too. After the dance was over, I dared her to walk over to South Bristol--that's just across the island, you know--and then walk back again. Well, we hadn't gone far when we decided to sit down. We were both kinda dizzy from the gin. You have to go through the woods, you know, and it's dark as h.e.l.l in there at night.... We sat down among some ferns and I began to pet her. Don't know why--just did.... Oh, h.e.l.l! what's the use of going into details? You can guess what happened."

Hugh sat suddenly erect. "You didn't--"

Carl stood up and stretched. "Yeah," he yawned, "I did it. Lots of times afterwards."

Hugh was dazed. He didn't know what to think. For an instant he was shocked, and then he was envious. "Wonder if Janet would have gone the whole way," flitted across his mind. He instantly dismissed the question; he felt that it wasn't fair to Janet. But Carl? Gosh!

Carl yawned again. "Great stuff," he said nonchalantly. "Sleepy as h.e.l.l.

Guess I'll hit the hay." He eyed Hugh suspiciously. "You aren't shocked, are you? You don't think I'm a moral leper or anything like that?" He attempted to be light but wasn't altogether successful.

"Of course not." Hugh denied the suggestion vehemently, and yet down in his heart he felt a keen disappointment. He hardly knew why he was disappointed, but he was. "Going to bed?" he asked as casually as he could.

"Yeah. Good night."

"Good night, old man."

Each boy went to his own bedroom, Hugh to go to bed and think Carl's story over. It thrilled him, and he envied Carl, and yet--and yet he wished Carl hadn't done it. It made him and Carl different--sorta not the same; no that wasn't it. He didn't know just what the trouble was, but there was a sharp sting of disillusionment that hurt. He would have been more confused had he known what was happening in Carl's room.

Carl had walked into his own bedroom, lighted the light, and closed the door. Then he walked to the dresser and stared at himself in the mirror, stared a long time as if the face were somehow new to him.

There was a picture of the "old lady" on the dresser. It caught his eye, and he flinched. It seemed to look at him reproachfully. He thought of his mother, and he thought of how he had bluffed Hugh. He had cried after his first experience with the girl.

He looked again into the mirror. "You G.o.dd.a.m.n hypocrite," he said softly; "you G.o.dd.a.m.n hypocrite." His lip curled in contempt at his image.

He began to undress rapidly. The eyes of the "old lady" in the picture seemed to follow him around the room. The thought of her haunted him.

Desperately, he switched out the light.

Once in bed, he rolled over on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. "G.o.d!" he whispered. "G.o.d!"

CHAPTER XV

Sanford defeated Raleigh this year in football, and for a time the college was wild with excitement and delight. Most of the free lumber in Haydensville was burned in a triumphant bonfire, and many of the undergraduates celebrated so joyously with their winnings that they looked sadly bedraggled for several days afterward.

The victory was discussed until the boys were thoroughly sick of it, and then they settled down to a normal life, studying; playing pool, billiards, and cards; going to the movies, reading a little, and holding bull sessions.

Hugh attended many bull sessions. Some of them he found interesting, but many of them were merely orgies of filthy talk, the partic.i.p.ants vying with one another in telling the dirtiest stories; and although Hugh was not a prig, he was offended by a dirty story that was told merely for the sake of its dirt. Pudge Jamieson's stories were s.m.u.tty, but they were funny, too, and he could send Hugh into paroxysms of laughter any time that he chose.

One night in late November Hugh was in Gordon Ross's room in Surrey along with four others. Ross was a senior, a quiet man with gray eyes, rather heavy features, and soft brown hair. He was considerably older than the others, having worked for several years before he came to college. He listened to the stories that were being told, occasionally smiled, but more often studied the group curiously.

The talk became exceedingly nasty, and Hugh was about to leave in disgust when the discussion suddenly turned serious.

"Do you know," said George Winsor abruptly, "I wonder why we hold these s.m.u.t sessions. I sit here and laugh like a fool and am ashamed of myself half the time. And this isn't the only s.m.u.t session that's going on right now. I bet there's thirty at least going on around the campus. Why are we always getting into little groups and covering each other with filth? College men are supposed to be gentlemen, and we talk like a lot of gutter-pups." Winsor was a soph.o.m.ore, a fine student, and thoroughly popular. He looked like an unkempt Airedale. His clothes, even when new, never looked neat, and his rusty hair refused to lie flat. He had an eager, quick way about him, and his brown eyes were very bright and lively.

"Yes, that's what I want to know," Hugh chimed in, forgetting all about his desire to leave. "I'm always sitting in on bull sessions, but I think they re rotten. About every so often I make up my mind that I won't take part in another one, and before I know it somebody's telling me the latest and I'm listening for all I'm worth."

"That's easy,"' Melville Burbank answered. He was a junior with a brilliant record. "You're merely sublimating your s.e.x instincts, that's all. If you played around with cheap women more, you wouldn't be thinking about s.e.x all the time and talking s.m.u.t."

"You're crazy!" It was Keith Nutter talking, a soph.o.m.ore notorious for his dissipations. "h.e.l.l, I'm out with bags all the time, as you d.a.m.n well know. My s.e.x instincts don't need sublimating, or whatever you call it, and I talk s.m.u.t as much as anybody--more than some."

"Perhaps you're just naturally dirty," Burbank said, his voice edged with sarcasm. He didn't like Nutter. The boy seemed gross to him.

"Go to h.e.l.l! I'm no dirtier than anybody else." Nutter was not only angry but frankly hurt. "The only difference between me and the rest of you guys is that I admit that I chase around with rats, and the rest of you do it on the sly. I'm no hypocrite."

"Oh, come off, Keith," Gordon Ross said quietly; "you're not fair. I admit that lots of the fellows are chasing around with rats on the sly, but lots of them aren't, too. More fellows go straight around this college than you think. I know a number that have never touched a woman.

They just hate to admit they're pure, that's all; and you take their bluff for the real thing."

"You've got to show me." Nutter was almost sullen. "I admit that I'm no angel, but I don't believe that I'm a d.a.m.n bit worse than the average.

Besides, what's wrong about it, anyhow? It's just as natural as eating, and I don't see where there is anything worse about it."