XXI
George took his physical examination at Governor's Island with the earliest of the candidates for the First Officers' Training Camp. As soon as he had returned to his office he wrote to Bailly:
"I'm going to your cheerful war, after all. I'll drop in the end of the week."
He summoned Lambert and Goodhue. Until then he had told them nothing definite.
"Of course," he said, "we'll have a few months, but before we leave America everything will have to be settled. We'll have to know just where we stand."
Into the midst of their sombre discussion slipped the tinkling of the telephone. George answered. He glanced at the others.
"It's Blodgett. Wants me right away. Something important."
He hurried down, wondering what was up. Blodgett's voice had vibrated with an unaccustomed passion that had left with George an impression of whole-hearted revolt; and when he got in the massive, over-decorated office his curiosity grew, for Blodgett looked as if he had dressed against time and without valet or mirror. The straggly pale hair about the ears was rumpled. His necktie was awry. The pudgy hands shook a trifle. George's heart quickened. Blodgett had had bad news. What was the worst news Blodgett could have?
"I know," Blodgett began, "that you and your partners have passed and are going to Plattsburgh to become officers."
All at once George caught the meaning of Blodgett's disarray, and his hope was replaced by a mirth he had difficulty hiding.
"You don't mean you've been over to Governor's Island——"
Blodgett stood up.
"Yes," he confessed, solemnly. "Just got back from my physical examination. Would you believe it, George, the darned fools wouldn't have me, because I'm too fat? Called it obese, as if it was some kind of a disease, instead of just my natural inclination to fleshiness."
One of his pudgy hands struck his chest.
"Never stopped to see that my heart's all right, and that's what we want, people whose hearts are all right."
Momentarily the enmity aroused by circumstances fled from George. The man was genuine, suffering from a devastating disappointment; but surely he hadn't called him downstairs only to witness this outbreak.
Blodgett lowered himself to his chair. He wiped his face with one of his gay handkerchiefs. He spoke reasonably.
"My place is at home. All right. I'll make it easier then for the thin people that can go. I'm going to look after you boys. Mundy's not big enough. I've got a man in view I can keep tabs on, and Blodgett'll always be sitting down here seeing you don't get stung."
He sighed profoundly.
"Guess that'll have to be my share."
George would rather have had the man curse him. It struck directly at his pride to submit to this unmasking of his jealous opinion. He strangled his quick impulse to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, to beg his pardon. Instead he tried to find ways of avoiding the generous gift.
"We can't settle anything yet. A dozen circumstances may arise. The war may end——"
"When you go, George," Blodgett said, wistfully.
And George knew that in the end he couldn't refuse without disclosing everything; that his partners wouldn't let him. It added strangely enough to his discomfort that he should leave the disappointed man with a confident feeling that he need make no move to see Sylvia before going to Plattsburgh. In any case, the camp ought to be over before the fifteenth of August.
His partners were pleased enough by his recital, and determined to accept Blodgett's offer.
"He's the most generous soul that ever lived," Goodhue said, warmly.
Lambert agreed, but George thought he detected a troubled light in his eyes.
Blodgett's generosity continued to worry George, to accuse him. After all, Blodgett had accomplished a great deal more than he. With only one of the necessities he had made friends, had become engaged to Sylvia Planter. No. There was something besides that. He had had an unaffected personality to offer, and—he had said it himself—a heart that was all right.
George asked himself now if Blodgett had helped him in the first place, not because he had been Mr. Alston and Dicky Goodhue's friend, but simply because he had liked him. He was inclined to believe it. He had reached the point where he admitted that many people had been friendly and useful to him because he had what Blodgett lacked, an exceptional appearance, a rugged power behind acquired graces. Squibs, he realized, had put his finger on that long ago. He was glad he was going down. The tutor would give him his usual disciplinary tonic.
But it was a changed Squibs that met George; a nearly silent Squibs, who spoke only to praise; a slightly apprehensive Squibs. George tried to reassure Mrs. Bailly.
"Three months at Plattsburgh, then nobody knows how much longer to whip our division into shape. The war will probably be over before we get across."
But she didn't believe it, nor did her husband.
"You'll be in it, George, before the war's over. Do you know, you're nearer paying me back than you've ever been."
George was uncomfortable before such adulation.
"Please don't think," he protested, "that I'm going over for any tricky ideals or to save a lot of advanced thinkers from their utter folly."
"Then what are you going for?" Bailly asked.
George was surprised that he lacked an answer.
"Oh, because one has to go," he evaded.
Bailly's smile was contented.
"What better reason could any man want?"
They had an air of showing him about Princeton as if he must absorb its beauties for the last time. Their visit to the Alstons was shrouded with all the sullen accompaniments of a permanent farewell. George was inclined to smile. He hadn't got as far as weighing his chances of being hit; the present was too crowded, stretched too far; included Betty, for instance, and Lambert whom he was surprised to find in the Tudor house, prepared to remain evidently until he should leave for Plattsburgh. The Alstons misgivings centred rather obviously on Lambert. George, when he took Betty's hand to say good-bye that evening, felt with a desolate regret that for the first time in all their acquaintance her fingers failed to reach his mind.