The night the freshmen took their men on the harbor, Orson Arnold and Ben Snodgrass met in the little back room at Jackson’s. They sneaked into the place by the side door, taking care not to be seen, for their days on their respective crews would terminate if they were known to frequent that resort.
Arnold was a fellow with a fine pair of shoulders, coal-black hair, and eyes that seldom looked any one squarely in the face. That is, they seldom looked higher than the chin of another. He had a way of looking at the chin of any person with whom he was talking, but he looked higher only for instants. He was not a bad-looking chap, and he considered himself something of a lady’s man, and it was his ambition to cut a figure at Yale. His ambition was altogether beyond his means, as his grandmother was sending him to college, and she had limited him to an allowance, having repeatedly warned him that overstepping that allowance meant the termination of his college-course.
Snodgrass had muscular arms and a broad back, but his chest was not properly developed. His shoulders seemed burdened by too much muscle, and already they were beginning to roll inward somewhat. He was a rowing-crank. Since the day he entered Yale he had done nothing but row, row, row. It was his one engrossing ambition to finally make the varsity. Thus far he had succeeded only in getting onto the sophomore eight. In his first year he had not found a place in the freshman boat.
The fellow craved attention and admiration, and he was determined that the sophomore crew should attract attention this year by defeating the freshmen. Almost always the freshmen were the winners in the class races at Lake Whitney, being given far greater attention than the sophomores; but this year Snodgrass had sworn to himself that there should be a change about of the usual order of things. If the sophs won, attention would be drawn to their men, and that might mean that he, Snodgrass, would be observed at last and rated for what he believed himself worth. In such a case, he would go onto the varsity with a bound.
Now, it happened that Snodgrass had just what Arnold wanted—money. He spent it freely on himself, but Arnold was the only man to whom he lent it freely. A mutual attraction seemed to draw these fellows together, and somehow they came to an understanding. Snodgrass found Arnold could be bought, and then there were secret meetings between them.
This night, having slipped into that dingy back room, with the green baize table in the middle of the narrow floor, they took care to bolt the door behind them. Then they sat down at the table and Snodgrass pushed the button. Pretty soon a panel in the door at the opposite side of the room slid open, and the face of one of the barkeepers appeared.
“What’s yours, Ors, old boy?” asked Ben.
“A gin fizz,” said Arnold.
“Ginger ale for me,” said Snodgrass.
The slide went shut with a little bang.