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?"