"There are fellows in your class," said Le Baron, "who've been working all summer, so as to get ahead in the competition for the Lit or the Record, or to make the leader of the glee club—fellows, of course, who know."
"But that's three years off."
"Yes, it's three years off," said Le Baron quietly. "Then there are the junior fraternities; but they're large, and at present don't count much, except you have to make them. Then there are what are called sophomore societies." He hesitated a moment. "They are very important."
"Do you belong?" asked Stover innocently.
"Yes," said Le Baron, after another hesitation. "Of course, we don't discuss our societies here. Others will tell you about them. But here's where your first test will come in."
Then came another lull. Stover, troubled, frowning, sat staring at the brilliant windows across which passed, from time to time, a sudden shadow. The groups at the fence were singing a football song, with a marching swing to it, that had so often caught up his loyal soul as he had sat shivering in the grand-stand for the game to begin. It was not all so simple—no, not at all simple. It wasn't as he had thought. It was complex, a little disturbing.
"This college is made up of all sorts of elements," said Le Baron, at last. "And it is not easy to run it. Now, in every class there are just a small number of fellows who are able to do it and who will do it. They form the real crowd. All the rest don't count. Now, Stover, you're going to have a chance at something big on the football side; but that is not all. You might make captain of the eleven and miss out on a senior election. You're going to be judged by your friends, and it is just as easy to know the right crowd as the wrong."
"What do you mean by the right crowd?" said Stover, conscious of just a little antagonism.
"The right crowd?" said Le Baron, a little perplexed to define so simple a thing. "Why, the crowd that is doing things, working for Yale; the crowd—"