But, as Story had foreseen, Stover had the magnetism and the energy to carry through what no other leader would have accomplished. Once resolved on the accomplishment, upheld by a strong sentimental devotion, Stover went at his task with a blunt directness that disdains all objections.
Each Saturday night was given over to a rally of the class en masse at the Tontine. Certain groups held off at first, but soon came into the fold when Stover, who was no respecter of persons, would find occasion to say publicly:
"Hello there, what happened to you last night? Get out of that silk-lined atmosphere of yours! Wake up! You're not too good for us, are you?"
"Well, why weren't you there? It's no orgy—you can get lemonade or milk if you want. There are bad men present, but we keep 'em from biting."
"I say, forget your poker game for one night. We all know you're dead game sports. That's why we want you—to give us an atmosphere of real life."
The remarks were made half in jest, half in earnest, but they seldom failed of their object. At the Saturday night rallies it was the same. Stover was everywhere, saying with his good-humored, impudent smile what no one else dared to say, sometimes startling them with his boldness:
"Here now, fellows, no grouping around here. We want to see a sport and a gospel shark sitting arm in arm. Come on, Schley, your social position's all right—there's only one crowd here to-night. No one here is going to boost you into a senior society. Percolate, fellows, percolate. We've scrapped like Sam Hill, now we're tired of it. No more biting, scratching, or gouging. Don't forget this is a love feast, and they're going to be lovelier. Now let's try over that song for the Princeton game. Bob Story perpetrated it—pretty rotten, I think, but let's hit it up all the same."
The rallies jumped into popularity. The class gasped, then laughed at Stover's abrupt reference to the late unpleasantness, and with the laugh all constraint went. The class found itself, as a regiment returns to its pride again. It went to the games in a body, it healed its differences, and packed the long room at the Tontine each Saturday night, shouting out the chorus which Buck Waters, McNab, Stone, and the talent led.
Many, undoubtedly, marvelling at the ease with which Stover had inspired the gathering, admired him for what they believed was a clever bid for society honors. But the truth was that he succeeded because he had no underlying motive, because he had achieved in himself absolute independence and fearlessness of any outer criticism, and his strength with the crowd was just the consciousness of his own liberty.