THE TROUBLE WITH BEING A HERO
The winter, with its jolly long evenings about cosey fire-places, was over, and the Freshman-Sophomore snowball fight was almost forgotten. The University baseball candidates had left the "Cage" and were practising outdoors on the diamond. The glorious spring term had come, and the Seniors had begun twilight singing on the steps of Old North. The elms were putting on their new leaves; the undergraduates their new flannel trousers.
The Invincibles were on their way from the club, to stretch out under the old elms and hear the Seniors sing the old songs.
Powelton was saying: "I don't see why you are so anxious to put him up for any office. To tell the truth, the old chump has been disgusting me lately."
"I'm not anxious," returned Todd, "but you see, he'll take with the poling element."
"But will he, now? He isn't such a gospel shark as we all thought at first."
"Of course, he's no saint, but they don't know anything about the Deacon, except his high stand and his serious-looking face, and the reputation he made with that C. C. business. Now, as we're running you and Ashley for president and vice-president, I think it would be foxy to put up somebody like the old Deacon for the secretary-treasurership." It was drawing near the time for the election of class officers for the next year, and Todd was somewhat of a politician.
"Maybe you're right, but I don't care to serve with him. He's so uncouth."
Powelton need not have worried about that; he did not have to serve with Young. Powelton was not elected; Young was the only nominee of the Invincibles that was.
The club had gained a reputation, not altogether deserved, for snobbishness. They were also considered, rightly perhaps, the sportiest crowd in the class; and either of these is dangerous, and the two together are fatal to a crowd's chances when it comes to class elections. Besides, the Invincibles had been running class affairs long enough, and the class thought it would be just as well to distribute authority and prominence.
The Invincibles had made the error of taking it for granted that they would continue to run the class, and bitter was their chagrin when they found how very mistaken they were. They did not know how to take it; for several days nobody said very much at the table; they only looked glum and sour—except Deacon Young.
"Oh, cork up that tuneless whistle," growled Minerva Powelton; "you make too much noise." They were familiar with him now.
Young laughed noisily, but kept on whistling and looked about the table, as he had seen the others do. Then lighting a cigar, he arose, said, "So long, fellows—see you later," and walked up the street with his hands deep in his pockets, his body inclined forward in a kind of slouch, like a certain upper-classman he admired.
"Look at him," said Powelton from the window. "My, but he makes me tired when he tries to do the dead-game act."
He made them all more or less tired, though most of them liked him somewhat still, but in a very different way now. He was not a hero any more.
He tried to make himself as much like them as he could, but he had only succeeded in seeming unlike himself. They had not expected or wanted him to be like them.
They laughed at him, behind his back and to his face.
He tried harder.
They laughed more. He did not realize why.
There were a great many things that he did not realize. When he was nominated for the secretary-treasurership, as Powelton now felt like telling him, it was not because they wanted him, but because the club wanted the office. And neither did he realize that he was elected chiefly because of his good reputation, now undeserved, with the despised quiet fellows of the class.
All he realized was that he, William Young, who had started out a poor, ridiculed nonentity from the country, had conquered the famous bully of the Sophomore class, had won a place as right guard of the Freshman team, had been sought out by the Invincibles, had earned enough money to take him through the year, and, finally, had been elected the secretary and treasurer of the great class of Ninety-blank by popular vote. It was the very office formerly held by the admired Lucky Lee. It was ill that was needed to turn his head.
So he strutted about and looked patronizingly down on his old friends Barrows and Wilson, and blew smoke in their faces, telling himself how narrow-minded they were.
You see, he came to the Invincibles a hero dizzy with success. It is hard on anyone to be a hero, and success had proved too much for him. Instead of doing the Invincibles good, as he had intended, they had done him harm, as they surely never intended. It was such a pity. He could have made a very different thing of the whole club if he had only used his influence in the right way.
But this was another thing he did not realize; at least not until a little later. And then he did not have the influence.