IV
A month had passed by, bringing to Guy Landers a new Heaven and a new earth. Already the prosy old university town had begun to assume an atmosphere of home. The well-clipped campus, with its huge oaks and its limestone walks, had taken on the familiar possessive plural “our campus,” and the solitary red squirrel which sported fearlessly in its midst had likewise become “our squirrel.” The imposing, dignified college buildings had ceased to elicit open-mouthed observance, and among the student-body surnames had yielded precedence to Christian names––oftener, though, to some outlandish sobriquet which satirized an idiosyncrasy of temperament or outward aspect. 42
Meantime the farmer had learned many things. Prominent among these was a conception of the preponderant amount he had yet to learn. Another matter of illumination involved the relation of clothes to man. He had been reared in the delusion that the person who gave thought to that which he wore, must necessarily think of nothing else. Very confusing, therefore, was the experience of having representatives of this same class immeasurably outdistance him in the quiz room.
Again, on the athletic field he saw men of much lighter weight excel him in a way that made his face burn with a redness not of physical exertion. It was a wholesome lesson that he was learning––that there are everywhere scores of others, equally or better fitted by Nature for the struggle of life than oneself, and who can only be surpassed by the indomitable application and determination that wins all things.
Landers’ nature though was that of the born combatant. The class that laughed openly at his first tremblingly bashful, and ludicrously inapt answer at quiz, was indelibly photographed upon his memory. 43
“Before this session is complete––” he challenged softly to himself, and glared at those members nearest him in a way that made them suddenly forget the humor of the situation.
But youth is ever tractable, and even this short time had accomplished much. Already the warm, contagious, college comradeship possessed him. Violent attacks of homesickness that made gray the brightest fall days, like the callous spots on his palms, were becoming more rare. The old existence was already a dream, as yet a little sad, but none the less a thing without a substance. The new life was a warm, magnetic reality; the future glowed bright with limitless promise.
“The first day of the second month,” remarked Landers, meeting a fellow-classman on the way to college hall one morning.
“Yes, an auspicious time to quit––this,” completed the student with a suggestive shuffle of his feet. “We’ve furnished our share of amusement.”
Landers looked up questioningly.