Hugh a.s.sured Cynthia that it was going to be a "wet party," and that Vinton had sold him a good supply of Scotch.

The campus was rife with stories: this was the wettest Prom on record, the girls were drinking as much as the men, some of the fraternities had made the sky the limit, the dormitories were being invaded by couples in the small hours of the night, and so on. Hugh heard numerous stories but paid no attention to them. He was supremely happy, and that was all that mattered. True, several men had advised him to bring plenty of liquor along to the Prom if he wanted to have a good time, and he was careful to act on their advice, especially as Cynthia had a.s.sured him that she would dance until doomsday if he kept her "well oiled with hooch."

The gymnasium was gaily decorated for the Prom, the walls hidden with greenery, the rafters twined with the college colors and almost lost behind hundreds of small j.a.panese lanterns. The fraternity booths were made of fir boughs, and the orchestra platform in the middle of the floor looked like a small forest of saplings.

The girls were beautiful in the soft glow of the lanterns, their arms and shoulders smooth and white; the men were trim and neat in their Tuxedos, the dark suits emphasizing the brilliant colors of the girls'

gowns.

It was soon apparent that some of the couples had got at least half "oiled" before the dance began, and before an hour had pa.s.sed many more couples gave evidence of imbibing more freely than wisely. Occasionally a hysterical laugh burst shrilly above the pounding of the drums and the moaning of the saxophones. A couple would stagger awkwardly against another couple and then continue unevenly on an uncertain way.

The stags seemed to be the worst offenders. Many of them were joyously drunk, dashing dizzily across the floor to find a partner, and once having taken her from a friend, dragging her about, happily unconscious of anything but the girl and the insistent rhythm of the music.

The musicians played as if in a frenzy, the drums pound-pounding a terrible tom-tom, the saxophones moaning and wailing, the violins singing sensuously, shrilly as if in pain, an exquisite searing pain.

Boom, boom, boom, boom. "Stumbling all around, stumbling all around, stumbling all around so funny--" Close-packed the couples moved slowly about the gymnasium, body pressed tight to body, swaying in place--boom, boom, boom, boom--"Stumbling here and there, stumbling everywhere--"

Six dowagers, the chaperons, sat in a corner, gossiped, and idly watched the young couples.... A man suddenly released his girl and raced clumsily for the door, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other stretched uncertainly in front of him.

Always the drums beating their terrible tom-tom, their primitive, blood-maddening tom-tom.... Boom, boom, boom, boom--"I like it just a little bit, just a little bit, quite a little bit." The music ceased, and some of the couples disentangled themselves; others waited in frank embrace for the orchestra to begin the encore.... A boy slumped in a chair, his head in his hands. His partner sought two friends. They helped the boy out of the gymnasium.

The orchestra leader lifted his bow. The stags waited in a broken line, looking for certain girls. The music began, turning a song with comic words into something weirdly sensuous--strange syncopations, uneven, startling drum-beats--a mad tom-tom. The couples pressed close together again, swaying, barely moving in place--boom, boom, boom, boom--"Second-hand hats, second-hand clothes--That's why they call me second-hand Rose...." The saxophones sang the melody with pa.s.sionate despair; the violins played tricks with a broken heart; the clarinets rose shrill in pain; the drums beat on--boom, boom, boom, boom.... A boy and girl sought a dark corner. He shielded her with his body while she took a drink from a flask. Then he turned his face to the corner and drank. A moment later they were back on the floor, holding each other tight, drunkenly swaying... Finally the last strains, a wall of agony--"Ev-'ry one knows that I'm just Sec-ond-hand Rose--from Sec-ond Av-en-ue."

The couples moved slowly off the floor, the pounding of the drums still in their ears and in their blood; some of them sought the fraternity booths; some of the girls retired to their dressing-room, perhaps to have another drink; many of the men went outside for a smoke and to tip a flask upward. Through the noise, the s.e.x-madness, the half-drunken dancers, moved men and women quite sober, the men vainly trying to shield the women from contact with any one who was drunk. There was an angry light in those men's eyes, but most of them said nothing, merely kept close to their partners, ready to defend them from any too a.s.sertive friend.

Again the music, again the tom-tom of the drums. On and on for hours. A man "pa.s.sed out cold" and had to be carried from the gymnasium. A girl got a "laughing jag" and shrieked with idiotic laughter until her partner managed to lead her protesting off the floor. On and on, the constant rhythmic wailing of the fiddles, syncopated pa.s.sion screaming with l.u.s.t, the drums, horribly primitive; drunken embraces.... "Oh, those Wabash Blues--I know I got my dues--A lone-some soul am I--I feel that I could die..." Blues, sobbing, despairing blues.... Orgiastic music--beautiful, hideous! "Can-dle light that gleams--Haunts me in my dreams..." The drums boom, boom, boom, booming--"I'll pack my walking shoes, to lose--those Wa-bash Blues..."

Hour after hour--on and on. Flushed faces, breaths hot with pa.s.sion and whisky.... Pretty girls, cool and sober, dancing with men who held them with drunken lasciviousness; sober men hating the whisky breaths of the girls.... On and on, the drunken carnival to maddening music--the pa.s.sion, the l.u.s.t.

Both Hugh and Cynthia were drinking, and by midnight both of them were drunk, too drunk any longer to think clearly. As they danced, Hugh was aware of nothing but Cynthia's body, her firm young body close to his.

His blood beat with the pounding of the drums. He held her tighter and tighter--the gymnasium, the other couples, a swaying mist before his eyes.

When the dance ended, Cynthia whispered huskily, "Ta-take me somewhere, Hugh."

Strangely enough, he got the significance of her words at once. His blood raced, and he staggered so crazily that Cynthia had to hold him by the arm.

"Sure--sure; I'll--I'll ta-take you some-somewhere. I--I, too, Cyntheea."

They walked unevenly out of the gymnasium, down the steps, and through the crowd of smokers standing outside. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Hugh led Cynthia to Keller Hall, which was not more than fifty yards distant.

He took a flask out of his pocket. "Jush one more drink," he said thickly and emptied the bottle. Then, holding Cynthia desperately by the arm, he opened the door of Keller Hall and stumbled with her up the stairs to Norry Parker's room. Fortunately the hallways were deserted, and no one saw them. The door was unlocked, and Hugh, after searching blindly for the switch, finally clicked on the lights and mechanically closed the door behind him.

He was very dizzy. He wanted another drink--and he wanted Cynthia. He put his arms around her and pulled her drunkenly to him. The door of one of the bedrooms opened, and Norry Parker stood watching them. He had spent the evening at the home of a musical professor and had returned to his room only a few minutes before. His face went white when he saw the embracing couple.

"Hugh!" he said sharply.

Hugh and Cynthia, still clinging to each other, looked at him. Slowly Cynthia took her arms from around Hugh's neck and forced herself from his embrace. Norry disappeared into his room and came out a minute later with his coat on; he had just begun to undress when he had heard a noise in the study.

"I'll see you home, Cynthia," he said quietly. He took her arm and led her out of the room--and locked the door behind him. Hugh stared at them blankly, swaying slightly, completely befuddled. Cynthia went with Norry willingly enough, leaning heavily on his arm and occasionally sniffing.

When he returned to his room, Hugh was sitting on the floor staring at a photograph of Norry's mother. He had been staring at it for ten minutes, holding it first at arm's length and then drawing it closer and closer to him. No matter where he held it, he could not see what it was--and he was determined to see it.

Norry walked up to him and reached for the photograph.

"Give me that," he said curtly. "Take your hands on my mother's picture."

"It's not," Hugh exclaimed angrily; "it's not. It's my musher, my own mu-musher--my, my own dear musher. Oh, oh!"

He slumped down in a heap and began to sob bitterly, muttering, "Musher, musher, musher."

Norry was angry. The whole scene was revolting to him. His best friend was a disgusting sight, apparently not much better than a gibbering idiot. And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospitality. Norry was no longer gentle and boyish; he was bitterly disillusioned.

"Get up," he said briefly. "Get up and go to bed."

"Tha's my musher. You said it wasn't my--my musher." Hugh looked up, his face wet with maudlin tears.

Norry leaned over and s.n.a.t.c.hed the picture from him. "Take your dirty hands off of that," he snapped. "Get up and go to bed."

"Tha's my musher." Hugh was gently persistent.

"It's not your mother. You make me sick. Go to bed." Norry tugged at Hugh's arm impotently; Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight.

Norry's gray eyes narrowed. He took a gla.s.s, filled it with cold water in the bedroom, and then deliberately dashed the water into Hugh's face.

Then he repeated the performance.

Hugh shook his head and rubbed his hands wonderingly over his face. "I'm no good," he said almost clearly. "I'm no good."

"You certainly aren't. Come on; get up and go to bed." Again Norry tugged at his arm, and this time Hugh, clinging clumsily to the edge of the table by which he was sitting, staggered to his feet.

"I'm a blot," he declared mournfully; "I'm no good, Norry. I'm an--an excreeshence, an ex-cree-shence, tha's what I am."

"Something of the sort," Norry agreed in disgust. "Here, let me take off your coat."

"Leave my coat alone." He pulled himself away from Norry. "I'm no good.

I'm an ex-cree-shence. I'm goin' t' commit suicide; tha's what I'm goin'

t' do. n.o.body'll care 'cept my musher, and she wouldn't either if she knew me. Oh, oh, I wish I didn't use a shafety-razor. I'll tell you what to do, Norry." He clung pleadingly to Norry's arm and begged with pa.s.sionate intensity. "You go over to Harry King's room. He's got a re-re--a pistol. You get it for me and I'll put it right here--" he touched his temple awkwardly--"and I'll--I'll blow my d.a.m.n brains out.

I'm a blot, Norry; I'm an ex-cree-shence."

Norry shook him. "Shut up. You've got to go to bed. You're drunk."

"I'm sick. I'm an ex-cree-shence." The room was whizzing rapidly around Hugh, and he clung hysterically to Norry. Finally he permitted himself to be led into the bedroom and undressed, still moaning that he was an "ex-cree-shence."

The bed pitched. He lay on his right side, clutching the covers in terror. He turned over on his back. Still the bed swung up and down sickeningly. Then he twisted over to his left side, and the bed suddenly swung into rest, almost stable. In a few minutes he was sound asleep.

He cut chapel and his two cla.s.ses the next morning, one at nine and the other at ten o'clock; in fact, it was nearly eleven when he awoke. His head was splitting with pain, his tongue was furry, and his mouth tasted like bilge-water. He made wry faces, pa.s.sed his thick tongue around his dry mouth--oh, so d.a.m.nably dry!--and pressed the palms of his hands to his pounding temples. He craved a drink of cold water, but he was afraid to get out of bed. He felt pathetically weak and dizzy.

Norry walked into the room and stood quietly looking at him.

"Get me a drink, Norry, please," Hugh begged.