“There’s a futurity list, too, you know,” Van Arden spoke in his buoyant, eager way. “Here’s Dickey Elliot’s mark—football captain to-day, President of the United States to-morrow—who knows?”
“What’s the matter with Daisy Van Arden, editor Yale News to-day—Emperor of Russia next week-ski?” Jimmy Selden contributed, and then, in an awed tone, with a big forefinger pointed to letters freshly cut, “Boys, here’s Carl.”
“Ah!” A sound that was half a groan came from them all in unison, and they leaned across each other’s shoulders and looked. “C. R.” and the year. There was a minute’s serious silence as the heads bent, crowded together.
“It’s a darned shame,” Dick Elliot said slowly, and then: “Well, let’s have some eats. Our table’s this way, Mr. Lord.”
Selden’s suggestions, though frowned upon, had been carried out rather closely. Pat O’Connor, indeed, turned up missing, but enormous chops and marvellous potatoes appeared, and Pearly Gates was on hand with the two gifts which made him a desired dinner guest. His father’s fortune having been won by Gates’s Pearly Capsules for Rheumatism, it was perhaps inevitable that the heir, Alexander, should be known in college as Pearly Gates. He was a Glee Club man with a remarkable voice, and, as Selden put it, a “peculiarly ready warbler,” and also he was born with a marvellous ineptness for athletics which amounted to an inverted genius. It had been discovered that his au naturel descriptions of a sporting event threw a light on the occasion which could not be found otherwise; also it was impossible to him, though healthy and well made, to jump, run, vault, swim, skate, play football, baseball, tennis, or any known game.
“The blame thing can walk,” Elliot assured Trefethen, patting the exhibit fondly as he inventoried his qualities. “Show the gentleman how pretty you walk, Pearly,” he urged, and Pearly beamed from behind his glasses and kicked out affectionately. “Trainer says he’s made up all right,” Elliot went on. “It’s just a sort of foolishness of the muscles. We’re proud of him, you know,” he explained. “He’s the only one. There isn’t such a fool in college. Pearly, which will you do first, sing or tell Mr. Lord about the football game?”
“I’ll do anything you want in about a minute,” responded the obliging gentleman, “but I do like to chew this chop. Let me alone just a minute. Talk about me, but just let me alone.”
“Now look here, Pearly,” Jimmy Selden spoke severely. “I didn’t get you here to eat—primarily, that is. You were asked here to sing and be foolish—now do your part like a man. You’re to amuse Mr. Lord. That’s what I got you for.”
“You got him—I like your nerve,” observed the host, outraged. “Am I giving this dinner, I’d like to know?”
And the songster stuffed food placidly as war went on over him.