SERVING TWO MASTERS
Although Deacon Young was trying so hard to do the "dead-game act," the Freshman First Honor prize was still a matter of daily effort with him. He was really working exceedingly hard for it. He pretended that he was not working at all.
He was nearly always with the "crowd" in the evenings and was frequently seen wandering around as aimlessly as the rest of them during the day. That was the way he kept from being called a poler.
2 A.M.
However, after saying good night ... he would sneak off to his room, tie a wet towel around his head, and pole....
However, after saying good-night yawningly to the other fellows, he would sneak off to his room, tie a wet towel around his head, and pole until 2 a.m. He utilized half-holidays when the others were reading or were off running hare and hounds, or taking long rambles across country, or canoeing up the Millstone, or shooting with the gun club, or paying visits to the neighboring cities; also he had dropped out of literary Hall work entirely, took little exercise, and devoted to his curriculum studies even the spare time he had formerly put in at miscellaneous reading. That was the way he kept up his high stand in class.
So, as the fellows would see him with the idlers until bedtime at night, and then heard of his making recitations as good as "Poler" Barrows in the morning, it was no wonder that some began to think him a "phenomenon" like Todd. That was what Young wanted them to think. He thought a great deal about what others thought about him—a great deal too much, some of his more intimate associates decided one evening, while waiting for him in Minerva Powelton's room.
"No, don't begin yet," Powelton was saying. "I promised the Deacon we'd wait for him."
"I don't see why he is always so anxious to get in the game," said Billy Drew, inhaling cigarette-smoke. "I don't believe he really enjoys it very much."
"The trouble with the Deacon," said Todd, "is that he is too much afraid of your opinion. If he hadn't got so bored when we called him dignified he wouldn't have made the mistake in the first place of trying to be a dead-game, you know. It isn't his style to be that, so he was guyed and laughed at. But instead of bracing up and being like himself, he sticks it on all the harder. He thinks to win favor that way. That's the plain English of it."
"Aw, you make me tired!" said Lee, good-naturedly. "Somehow, lately, you're always preaching. The Deacon wants a little recreation, like the rest of us. That's all. He has plenty of good stuff in him."
"Plenty," said Todd. "Trouble is, he doesn't let it out."
The door opened.
"Yea! Deacon," said the others.
"Been doing the poler act on the sly again, have you?" asked Powelton, throwing a sofa cushion at him.
"Naw. Hello there, Lucky! You here? Going to get in the little game this evening, hey?" said Young, smiling. "Toddie, you are, aren't you?"
"No, thanks," said Todd, arising and stretching himself.
"'Fraid, are you?" asked Young.
Todd laughed contemptuously. "I'm not afraid to have you think I'm afraid, if it gives you any pleasure; it doesn't hurt me. Lucky, are you coming with me?"
"No," said Lee, looking at the Deacon, "I reckon I'll stay awhile."
"Come on, Lucky," Todd said.
Lee shook his head.
Todd turned, watched the others a moment, while they got out the cards and chips, and drew up their chairs to the table; then, smiling quizzically at Young, he took his hat and left the room.
Now Young may not have been poling just before he arrived, but together with late hours and lack of exercise, he looked as pale and haggard as the hardest poler in college. And by the strong light opposite him, as he sat playing at the table, a fellow like Linton might have fancied he saw other lines in his face—unpleasant lines that meant something besides hard study and lack of exercise.
Somehow, at this game, he did not look like the same Deacon Young who trotted home from football practice last fall, glowing and glad to be alive.
The attitude of most of the club toward the class at large was very much what Young's was toward Barrows and Wilson and those fellows. The Invincibles had been frowned upon by the class for being "sporty"; consequently they hated the class. Instead of changing their conduct, they became "sportier" than ever, and they were fast gaining a reputation throughout the college world, and they considered themselves very dangerous.
The poker game went on. It was getting late, but nobody noticed that.
"Whose deal is it?"
"Mine," said Lucky, picking up the cards with a nervous hand; he began to shuffle them.
Powelton smiled in his superior way. "Look at Lucky's fingers twitch," he said. The others laughed, and Young added, indulgently, "The little boy will get over that in time."
Lee was dealing, and he was too much excited to hear or reply to this sally; it was 1 a.m. of the first night he had ever played cards for money in his life, and with a beginner's luck he had been winning all evening.
"Can you open it, Tommy?" asked Lee, the dealer.
"Nope," said Stevens.
"I can't," said Powelton.
"Can you, Deacon?"
"No, of course not."
"Can you, Billy?"
Drew shook his head.
"No," said Jones, without waiting to be asked.
"Sweeten it up, then," said Powelton.
"Wait a minute," said Lee. "I can. Who's coming in?" He giggled excitedly.
Three of the six simply laid down their hands hopelessly. "I never saw such luck," one of them said.
Young hesitated a moment "I guess I'll come in," he said finally. "Four cards please." He puffed on an extinguished cigar-butt.
"Well, well! the Deacon's got nerve," said Drew.
"Oh! he's getting to be an old hand," said Minerva Powelton, winking.
"See how coolly he picks up his cards," remarked Billy Drew.
Young paid no attention to these remarks. He was cool outwardly, but it was the coolness of desperation. He had been losing all the evening as steadily as Lucky had been gaining. But you see he was not a beginner now; he had played five or six times and felt himself, as they said, an old hand at it, and he too had laughed at Lucky's greenness—early in the evening. But now Lucky, who was never persuaded to play poker until the Deacon played, was winning away all his money.
Young did not know how much he had lost; he would not let himself think. But he knew it was more than he could afford, and he made up his mind that if he lost this time he would not give himself a chance to lose again. He picked up the four cards he had drawn in place of the discarded ones, and looked at them. His heart gave a bound. He covered the cards for a moment, and then looked at them again.
"Yes, it's really true," he said to himself. "Surely this hand can't be beaten."
"Well, what do you do, Deacon?"
For answer Young simply laid down a large bet.
"Hully Gee!" whispered Powelton to Drew. "Big bluff the Deacon is throwing, eh?"
Lee overheard it. He meant to show the Deacon that he could not be bluffed out, even if he were a beginner. Besides, he had a hand he was willing to stake a good deal upon. He put down twice the amount of Young's bet.
"Hoho! the bluff didn't work," laughed Drew. "Now, then, Deacon, let's see what you can do."
"Shut up!" said Young. "Don't bother us!" He puffed on his cold cigar a moment, and then put down another large bet.
"I'm with you!" said Lucky Lee, and he increased the stake again. His eyes were glistening.
For several minutes they kept on increasing the amount in the centre of the table, one thoughtfully, the other excitedly. The older players now left off making patronizing remarks, and became interested. Finally Young said, "No, I won't make it any higher. What have you got?"
Lee slapped down his cards. His voice trembled a little as he asked, confidently, "Can you beat that?"
"Yep," said Young, and he coolly laid down his victorious hand. The others all looked at it. "It's about time I was winning," he said, calmly enough; but his heart was thumping.
"Why didn't you keep on raising him?" asked Powelton, sneeringly.
"I wish I had," thought Young, as he gathered in what meant a large winning for one swoop. Lee was laughing loudly to show he did not care. He was excited, and would have gone on betting for a long time, Young thought.
That was the turning-point. Had Young lost, he might have stopped; but to stop now would look mean, he reflected.
"The luck has turned," he whispered to himself. "I'll play a few more hands." And when the game broke up at dawn, he had lost his winnings, and more.
That night he tossed in his bed, and said: "I must stop; that's all there is about it; I must stop."
The next time they met to play, Young said, "Go ahead without me; I don't feel like it to-night."
"The Deacon hasn't any sporting blood. He's afraid of his own pupil," Powelton said, and the others laughed. Lucky laughed, too; he was the pupil. Young played.
That night Young won handily. He felt especially pleased to win that night. He thought, "I'll stop the minute I have won back what I lost." But he did not win back what he had lost, and so played on the next night, and on the next. And so it went until he was brought to a stop with a jerk.
It came near the end of the term and of the year, shortly before the final examinations. The crowd had been playing nearly every night, and of late, somehow, Young had been losing nearly every time he played; but he said: "I can't afford to stop now. Surely this bad luck can't continue. I must win! I will win next time!" He could not stop. It is called "gambler's fever."
He could not sleep; he was neglecting his studies. He had used up all his allowance of "absences." He did not mind that, but he had within these few weeks lost—he would not allow himself to reckon how much! He had borrowed from the fellows, and he had been steadily drawing from the bank the precious money for which he had worked so hard, and which meant so much more to him than money meant to boys with monthly allowances from home. One morning he made out another check to his own order. "This is positively the last time," he said to himself. He had said that before, but this time it was true.
That night he began to lose with the first hand. He laughed, he played recklessly, he lost. He went home, and found a letter in his pocket while undressing which he had forgotten to open, in hurrying to the game. This letter said, "We beg leave to call your attention to the fact that your account seems to be overdrawn to the amount of seventy-five cents." It was from the Princeton Bank.
This meant that William Young owned not a cent in the world, and was a debtor even to the bank besides owing various sums to his companions. He was bankrupt. It was pretty bad. But that was not the worst of it. That was not the reason he stood by the table letting his lamp smoke while he kept staring at the letter in his hand.
He had kept with his personal account the fund of his class, and every cent of it was gone with the rest. He had held it in trust as treasurer. It had amounted to something over one hundred dollars.
But he had drawn it out unconsciously? No; he knew he had used all his own money long ago.
But surely he had meant to return what he had borrowed from the class fund? Oh, yes; but this kind of "borrowing" is called embezzlement—an ugly word. It really means theft and breach of trust combined.
Young could not take it all in at first. For awhile he stood there, saying to himself, "Isn't it funny this letter was in my pocket all the evening while I was playing—isn't it funny?"
Then he looked up, sniffed, and said, "That lamp is smoking." He turned it down, and stared at the flame for nearly a minute. Then suddenly he blew it out, and was alone in the darkness.
Oh, yes, it was all true. There was no way of getting out of it. He realized it all now vividly. He, William Young, a member of the church, son of honest old Farmer Young, was a gambler and—yes, he might just as well call it by its right name—a thief!
He was the one of whom the others at home used to stand in awe because he was going East for a higher education. He was the one for whom the minister predicted such great things. He was the one who had his tuition remitted in consideration of "high moral character." He was the one whose letters from college were read aloud at the sewing society by a proud little mother, who thought he was the best son in the world.
Why hadn't he stayed at home and remained an honest man, working hard in the bank or as a plain farmer, like good little Charlie? Oh, how did he ever sink so low? If he only had a chance to do it all over again—if he could only wake up and find it all a dream—if he could only wipe it all out of existence, how joyous and sunny would be life and duty and hard work again!
But it wasn't a dream! It was all very real, indeed. None of it could be wiped out. It was all there and staring him in the face, real, horribly real. And that was not all; matters could not remain only as bad as this. He was an out-and-out embezzler, liable to be found out and exposed as such at any moment—and then what?
Leave college with a disgraced name—but that would not be all. The news would go home; it would get there before he did. Everyone in the county would hear it, and talk about him. Some of them would laugh and sneer, and say, "Too bad!" and really be secretly glad.
Perhaps the authorities would send and—it made him weak and sick to think of it—have him arrested—by an officer of the law—and put in jail. This would kill his honest, old gray-bearded father. And as for his mother—but that hurt too much! He shut his eyes; he simply would not let himself think of that.
But what could he do? Time was flying. Just now he had heard Old North strike four in the dark, silent distance—good Old North, on whose steps he had hoped to sing as a Senior some day. Every moment brought him nearer to ruin. Something must be done.
He took hold of his head to quiet its buzzing. "It will do no good to think about it any more," he said aloud. "Act, act, act—you must!"
First, he spent a few bitter moments on his knees by the bed It is no one's concern what he said to God. Then he arose, quite calmly struck a match, and with an almost steady hand lighted the lamp. Then very deliberately, in a matter-of-fact way, he drew up the rocking-chair so that the light would come over his left shoulder. He dragged over another chair to put his feet upon. He sat down. He did a little figuring at first on the envelope in his hand. Then he opened his trigonometry and studied furiously until chapel-time. There was, you see, good stuff in Will Young yet.
It would do no good to tell himself any longer how low he had fallen; but it would do a great deal of good to win the Freshman First Honor prize; and he had no time to lose.
To win was not a mere ambition now—it was a grim necessity. It was the one way of keeping from being disgraced in the eyes of the world as deeply as he was in his own and God's.
The prize would not come until commencement. Before that time the class might vote to use its money. They might instruct their "honorable treasurer" to expend the funds on decorations and a brass band, as was sometimes done at the close of examinations to celebrate their Sophomorehood; and what would he do then! He decided that he must not let himself think about that now. It made his heart stop so short it fairly hurt; besides, it interrupted his work.
He had figured it all out in his neat businesslike hand on the envelope. On one side, under assets, he wrote, "Freshman prize, if won, $200;" on the other side the following list:
| The Princeton Bank overdraw | $0.75 |
| Henry Powelton, borrowed | 10.00 |
| Carey H. Lee, borrowed | 25.00 |
| William Sinclair Drew | 23.35 |
| The class of Ninety-blank debt | 117.20 |
| ———- | |
| Total | $176.30 |
Two hundred dollars would "square" him, and just leave enough to buy a ticket back to the old farm—that is, if he wanted to go there.