"But you don't believe in working for Yale," persisted Stover, for he was angry at what he perceived had been his discourtesy.
"Work for Yale! Work for Princeton! Work for Harvard! Bah! Sublime poppycock!" exclaimed Brockhurst, in a sort of fury. "Of all drivel preached to young Americans, that is the worst. I came to Yale for an education. I pay for it—good pay. I ask, first and last, what is Yale going to do for me? Work for Yale, go out and slave, give up my leisure and my independence—to do what for Yale? To keep turning the wheels of some purely inconsequential machine, or strive like a gladiator. Is that doing anything for Yale, a seat of learning? If I'm true to myself, make the most of myself, go out and be something, stand for something after college, then ask the question if you want. Ridiculous! Hocus-pocus and flap-doodle! Lord! I don't know anything that enrages me more. Good night; I'm going. Heaven knows what I'll say if I stay!"
He clapped his hat on his head and broke out of the door. The chorus of exclamations in the room died down. Ricketts, still shifting his victorious pile, began to whistle softly to himself. Regan, languidly stretched out, with a twinkle in his eyes kept watching Stover, staring red and concentrated into the fire.
"Well?" he said at last.
Stover turned.
"Well?" said Regan, smiling.
Dink rapped the ashes from his pipe, scratched his head, and said frankly:
"Of course I shouldn't have said what I did. I got well spanked for it, and I deserve it."
"What do you think of his ideas?" said Regan, nodding appreciatively at Stover's fair acknowledgment.
"I don't know," said Stover, puzzled. "I guess I haven't used my old thinker enough lately to be worth anything in a discussion. Still—"