The Plastic Age - Percy Marks (trending books to read txt) 📗

The Cheer-Leaders At The Head,  Waving Their

Megaphones,  The Boys Rapidly Formed Into A Long Line In Uneven Groups,

Holding Arms,  Dancing,  Shouting,  Winding In And Out Around The Field,

Between The Goal-Posts,  Tossing Their Hats Over The Bars,  Waving Their

Hands At The Sanford Men Standing Despondently In Their Places--In And

Out,  In And Out,  In The Triumphant Serpentine. Finally They Paused,  Took

Off Their Hats,  Cheered First Their Own Team,  Then The Sanford Team,  And

Then Sang Their Hymn While The Sanford Men Respectfully Uncovered,

Silent And Despairing.

 

When The Hymn Was Over,  The Sanford Men Quietly Left The Grand Stand,

Quietly Formed Into A Long Line In Groups Of Fours,  Quietly Marched To

The College Flagpole In The Center Of The Campus. A Sanford Banner Was

Flying From The Pole,  A Blue Banner With An Orange S. Wayne Gifford

Loosened The Ropes. Down Fluttered The Banner,  And The Boys Reverently

Took Off Their Hats. Gifford Caught The Banner Before It Touched The

Ground And Gathered It Into His Arms. The Song-Leader Stepped Beside

Him. He Lifted His Hand,  Sang A Note,  And Then The Boys Sang With Him,

Huskily,  Sadly,  Some Of Them With Tears Streaming Down Their Cheeks:

 

 

 

 

                "Sanford,  Sanford,  Mother Of Men,

                 Love Us,  Guard Us,  Hold Us True.

                 Let Thy Arms Enfold Us;

                 Let Thy Truth Uphold Us.

                 Queen Of Colleges,  Mother Of Men--

                 Alma Mater,  Sanford--Hail!

                 Alma Mater--Hail!--Hail!"

 

 

 

 

Slowly The Circle Broke Into Small Groups That Straggled Wearily Across

The Campus. Hugh,  With Two Or Three Others,  Was Walking Behind Two Young

Professors--One Of Them,  Alling,  The Other,  Jones Of The Economics

Department. Hugh Was Almost Literally Broken-Hearted; The Defeat Lay On

Him Like An Awful Sorrow That Never Could Be Lifted. Every Inch Of Him

Ached,  But His Despair Was Greater Than His Physical Pain. The Sharp,

Clear Voice Of Jones Broke Into His Half-Deadened Consciousness.

 

"I Can't Understand All This Emotional Excitement," Said Jones Crisply.

"A Football Game Is A Football Game,  Not A National Calamity. I Enjoy

The Game Myself,  But Why Weep Over It? I Don't Think I Ever Saw Anything

More Absurd Than Those Boys Singing With Tears Running Into Their

Mouths."

 

Shocked,  The Boys Looked At Each Other. They Started To Make Angry

Remarks But Paused As Alling Spoke.

 

"Of Course,  What You Say,  Jones,  Is Quite Right," He Remarked Calmly,

"Quite Right. But,  Do You Know,  I Pity You."

 

"Alling's A Good Guy," Hugh Told Carl Later; "He's Human."

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11

 

 

After The Sanford-Raleigh Game,  The College Seemed To Be Slowly Dying.

The Boys Held Countless Post-Mortems Over The Game,  Explaining To Each

Other Just How It Had Been Lost Or How It Could Have Been Won. They

Watched The Newspapers Eagerly As The Sport Writers Announced Their

Choice For The So-Called All American Team. If Slade Was On The Team,

The Writer Was Conceded To "Know His Dope"; If Slade Wasn't,  The Writer

Was A "Dumbbell." But All This Pseudo-Excitement Was Merely Picking At

The Covers; There Was No Real Heart In It. Gradually The Football Talk

Died Down; Freshmen Ceased To Write Themes About Sanford's Great

Fighting Spirit; Sex And Religion Once More Became Predominant At The

"Bull Sessions."

 

Studies,  Too,  Began To Find A Place In The Sun. Hour Examinations Were

Coming,  And Most Of The Boys Knew That They Were Miserably Prepared.

Lights Were Burning In Fraternity Houses And Dormitories Until Late At

Night,  And Mighty Little Of Their Glow Was Shed On Poker Parties And

Crap Games. The College Had Begun To Study.

 

When Hugh Finally Calmed Down And Took Stock,  He Was Horrified And

Frightened To Discover How Far He Was Behind In All His Work. He Had

Done His Lessons Sketchily From Day To Day,  But He Really Knew Nothing

About Them,  And He Knew That He Didn't. Since Morse's Departure,  He Had

Loafed,  Trusting To Luck And The Knowledge He Had Gained In High School.

So Far He Had Escaped A Summons From The Dean,  But He Daily Expected

One,  And The Mere Thought Of Hour Examinations Made Him Shiver. He

Studied Hard For A Week,  Succeeding Only In Getting Gloriously Confused

And More Frightened. The Examinations Proved To Be Easier Than He Had

Expected; He Didn't Fail In Any Of Them,  But He Did Not Get A Grade

Above A C.

 

The Examination Flurry Passed,  And The College Was Left Cold. Nothing

Seemed To Happen. The Boys Went To The Movies Every Night,  Had A Peanut

Fight,  Talked To The Shadowy Actors; They Played Cards,  Pool,  And

Billiards,  Or Shot Craps; Saturday Nights Many Of Them Went To A Dance

At Hastings,  A Small Town Five Miles Away; They Held Bull Sessions And

Discussed Everything Under The Sun And Some Things Beyond It; They

Attended A Performance Of Shaw's "Candida" Given By The Dramatic Society

And Voted It A "Wet" Show; And,  Incidentally,  Some Of Them Studied. But,

All In All,  Life Was Rather Tepid,  And Most Of The Boys Were Merely

Marking Time And Waiting For Christmas Vacation.

 

For Hugh The Vacation Came And Went With A Rush. It Was Glorious To Get

Home Again,  Glorious To See His Father And Mother,  And,  At First,

Glorious To See Helen Simpson. But Helen Had Begun To Pall; Her Kisses

Hardly Compensated For Her Conversation. She Gave Him A Little Feeling

Of Guilt,  Too,  Which He Tried To Argue Away. "Kissing Isn't Really

Wrong. Everybody Pets; At Least,  Carl Says They Do. Helen Likes It

But..." Always That "But" Intruded Itself. "But It Doesn't Seem Quite

Right When--I Don't Really Love Her." When He Kissed Her For The Last

Time Before Returning To College,  He Had A Distinct Feeling Of Relief:

Well,  That Would Be Off His Mind For A While,  Anyway.

 

It Was A Sober,  Quiet Crowd Of Students--For The First Time They Were

Students--That Returned To Their Desks After The Vacation. The Final

Examinations Were Ahead Of Them,  Less Than A Month Away; And Those

Examinations Hung Over Their Heads Like The Relentless,  Glittering Blade

Of A Guillotine. The Boys Studied. "College Life" Ceased; There Was A

Brief Period Of Education.

 

Of Course,  They Did Not Desert The Movies,  And The Snow And Ice Claimed

Them. Part Of Indian Lake Was Scraped Free Of Snow,  And Every Clear

Afternoon Hundreds Of Boys Skated Happily,  Explaining Afterward That

They Had To Have Some Exercise If They Were Going To Be Able To Study.

On Those Afternoons The Lake Was A Pretty Sight,  Zestful,  Alive With

Color. Many Of The Men Wore Blue Sweaters,  Some Of Them Brightly Colored

Mackinaws,  All Of Them Knitted Toques. As Soon As The Cold Weather

Arrived,  The Freshmen Had Been Permitted To Substitute Blue Toques With

Orange Tassels For Their "Baby Bonnets." The Blue And Orange Stood Out

Vividly Against The White Snow-Covered Hills,  And The Skates Rang

Sharply As They Cut The Glare Ice.

 

There Was Snow-Shoeing,  Skiing,  And Sliding "To Keep A Fellow Fit So

That He Could Do Good Work In His Exams," But Much As The Boys Enjoyed

The Winter Sports,  A Black Pall Hung Over The College As The Examination

Period Drew Nearer And Nearer. The Library,  Which Had Been Virtually

Deserted All Term,  Suddenly Became Crowded. Every Afternoon And Evening

Its Big Tables Were Filled With Serious-Faced Lads Earnestly Bending

Over Books,  Making Notes,  Running Their Fingers Through Their Hair,

Occasionally Looking Up With Dazed Eyes,  Or Twisting About Miserably.

 

The Tension Grew Greater And Greater. The Upper-Classmen Were Quiet And

Businesslike,  But Most Of The Freshmen Were Frankly Terrified. A Few Of

Them Packed Their Trunks And Slunk Away,  And A Few More Openly Scorned

The Examinations And Their Frightened Classmates; But They Were The

Exceptions. All The Buoyancy Seemed Gone Out Of The College; Nothing Was

Left But An Intense Strain. The Dormitories Were Strangely Quiet At

Night. There Was No Playing Of Golf In The Hallways,  No Rolling Of Bats

Down The Stairs,  No Shouting,  No Laughter; A Man Who Made Any Noise Was

In Danger Of A Serious Beating. Even The Greetings As The Men Passed

Each Other On The Campus Were Quiet And Abstracted. They Ceased To Cut

Classes. Everybody Attended,  And Everybody Paid Close Attention Even To

The Most Tiresome Instructors.

 

Studious Seniors Began To Reap A Harvest Out Of Tutoring Sections. The

Meetings Were A Dollar "A Throw," And For Another Dollar A Student Could

Get A Mimeographed Outline Of A Course. But The Tutoring Sections Were

Only For The "Plutes" Or The Athletes,  Many Of Whom Were Subsidized By

Fraternities Or Alumni. Most Of The Students Had To Learn Their Own

Lessons; So They Often Banded Together In Small Groups To Make The Task

Less Arduous,  Finding Some Relief In Sociability.

 

The Study Groups,  Quite Properly Called Seminars,  Would Have Shocked

Many A Worthy Professor Had He Been Able To Attend One; But They Were

Truly Educative,  And To Many Students Inspiring. The Professor Had

Planted The Seed Of Wisdom With Them; It Was At The Seminars That They

Tried Honestly,  If Somewhat Hysterically And Irreverently,  To Make It

Grow.

 

Hugh Did Most Of His Studying Alone,  Fearing That The Seminars Would

Degenerate Into Bull Sessions,  As Many Of Them Did; But Carl Insisted

That He Join One Group That Was Going "To Wipe Up That Goddamned

English Course To-Night."

 

There Were Only Five Men At The Seminar,  Which Met In Surrey 19,  Because

Pudge Jamieson,  Who Was "Rating" An A In The Course And Was Therefore An

Authority,  Said That He Wouldn't Come If There Were Any More. Pudge,  As

His Nickname Suggests,  Was Plump. He Was A Round-Faced,  Jovial Youngster

Who Learned Everything With Consummate Ease,  Wrote With Great Fluency

And Sometimes Real Beauty,  Peered Through His Horn-Rimmed Spectacles

Amusedly At The World,  And Read Every "Smut" Book That He Could Lay His

Hands On. His Library Of Erotica Was Already Famous Throughout The

College,  His Volumes Of Balzac's "Droll Stories," Rabelais Complete,

"Mlle. De Maupin," Burton's "Arabian Nights," And The "Decameron" Being

In Constant Demand. He Could Tell Literally Hundreds Of Dirty Stories,

Always Having A New One On Tap,  Always Looking When He Told It Like A

Complacent Cherub.

 

There Were Two Other Men In The Seminar. Freddy Dickson,  An Earnest,

Anemic Youth,  Seemed To Be Always Striving For Greater Acceleration And

Never Gaining It; Or As Pudge Put It,  "The Trouble With Freddy Is That

He's Always Shifting Gears." Larry Stillwell,  The Last Man,  Was A Dark,

Handsome Youth With Exceedingly Regular Features,  Pomaded Hair Parted In

The Center And Shining Sleekly,  Fine Teeth,  And Rich Coloring: A

"Smooth" Boy Who Prided Himself On His Conquests And The Fact That He

Never Got A Grade Above A C In His Courses. There Was No Man In The

Freshman Class With A Finer Mind,  But He Declined To Study,  Declaring

Firmly That He Could Not Waste His Time Acquiring Impractical Tastes For

Useless Arts.

 

"Now Everybody Shut Up," Said Pudge,  Seating Himself In A Big Chair And

Laboriously Crossing One Leg Over The Other. "Put Some More Wood On The

Fire,  Hugh,  Will You?"

 

Hugh Stirred Up The Fire,  Piled On A Log Or So,  And Then Returned To His

Chair,  Hoping Against Belief That Something Really Would Be Accomplished

In The Seminar. All The Boys,  He Excepted,  Were Smoking,  And All Of Them

Were Lolling Back In Dangerously Comfortable Attitudes.

 

"We've Got To Get Going," Pudge Continued,  "And We Aren't Going To Get

Anything Done If We Just Sit Around And Bull. I'm The Prof,  And I'm

Going To Ask Questions. Now,  Don't Bull. If You Don't Know,  Just Say,

'No Soap,' And If You Do Know,  Shoot Your Dope." He Grinned. "How's That

For A Rime?"

 

"Atta Boy!" Carl Exclaimed Enthusiastically.

 

"Shut Up! Now,  The Stuff We Want To Get At To-Night Is The Poetry. No Use

Spending Any Time On The Composition. My Prof Said That We Would Have

To Write Themes In The Exam,  But We Can't Do Anything About That Here.

You're All Getting By On Your Themes,  Anyway,  Aren't You?"

 

"Yeah," The Listening Quartet Answered In Unison,  Larry Stillwell Adding

Dubiously,  "Well,  I'm Getting C's."

 

"Larry," Said Carl In Cold Contempt,  "You're A Goddamn Liar. I Saw A B

On One Of Your Themes