Stacy little imagined that he was of so much consequence, but Stehman, the tackle, had been talking about him on Sunday evening by the club fireplace. Two of the fellows who were younger than juniors ought to be had smiled at what he said.
To them Jack turned with some heat, and observed, "You fellows make me tired. You aren't under-class men now; you're old enough to know better than to size up people by under-class man standards. Just because Stacy has not learned to swear or smoke, and because he worries and fusses and gets pale over what he came to college for, you think you have a right to laugh at him. I respect him, and I wish to the deuce I was more like him. Little Stacy is all right. And he'll be in it all right some of these days, and he'll do a great deal more good in the world than most of us."
This was the longest speech Jack Stehman had ever made, and he was duly applauded and guyed for it. But he was serious. He had a Sunday night sour on. It was junior year for Stehman also, and he too had been coming to some conclusions about his college course. But of a different kind.
It was nearly half after six when Stacy heard his friend's big voice echo across the campus. As he pattered down the stairs in his stiff, new Bluchers, he could not help wishing that Stehman had come a little earlier. Not that he was hungry, but the campus would then have been more crowded, while Stehman called, "Hello, Ray Stace."
As they passed under the lamp-post and Jack said "Hello" to somebody going in the other direction, Stacy remembered how that once he would not have believed that he should ever be walking as he was now with Stehman's big, strong arm upon his shoulder, the same arm that had brought down many a canvas jacket. But that was long ago.
When they reached the club, Stehman kicked the mud from his big, heavy shoes on the porch steps, and Stacy did the same for his bright new little ones. The door flew open and the brightly lighted interior of the club was before them. Stacy caught a glimpse of an open fire and deep, comfortable places to lounge in beside it, and some etchings on the wall. He heard knives and forks and many voices, all going at once, and laughter and exclamations. He spied a waiter hurrying in with a tray full of dishes. A little nigger boy, with innumerable buttons on his jacket, began to help him off with his overcoat, and just then he heard one voice exclaim emphatically, "Doc., I say they can't do it," and he wondered what it was and who could not do it.
Stehman said, "Come over here a moment—no, this way."
"Oh, this way?" said Stacy. He was led to a large open book with names written on it.
"Will you give us your distinguished signature?" said Stehman, dipping the pen in ink and handing it to him.
"Where shall I write—oh, yes, of course." Stacy wondered how many people would read Horatio B. Stacy, introduced by John Carter Stehman.