“Yes,” said Quincy.
“Fine! Go in for track. Go in for the papers, whether you can write or not. Keep a cool head. You got the odds against you, of course, coming in alone. But if you can sprint or tear off funny stories better than the next fellow, you’ll make good, just the same.”
Quincy did not like this man—nor understand him. His words gave him a sense of faintness. He wished to be silent. But his consciousness of the new life made him feel that he must try to understand, even if it did mean a process so painful and disagreeable as the asking of questions. So he nerved himself and spoke:
“What exactly do you mean by ‘making good’?”
The upperclassman smiled with an air of amiable sufferance.
“Getting there, of course,” he said. “Doing something.... You’ll find out soon enough.”
This explanation was very vague to Quincy. He thought perhaps he might help him to explain.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “being elected to a fraternity?”
His neighbor turned upon him with a look of horror in his eyes. He seemed speechless with an inexplicable pain, much as Quincy thought he might be, if some stranger suddenly, gratuitously, should insult his sister. And then, after a pause, the wounded upperclassman spoke.
“Look here!” he said, in a solemn monotone that was suffused with deep emotion. “Do you want to get queered? Shut up about such things; do you understand? Shut up tight!”