A Princetonian/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HERO OF A TEA-FIGHT.
The afternoon before the "senior function," Ned Bliss, Jed Elliott, the football captain, and Minton, the half-back, were walking across the campus. They were dressed in their very best clothes. Two girls were walking in the midst of the little party, which also included Hollingsworth and a small bearded senior with eye-glasses and a pale ascetic countenance.
Hollingsworth was the only man who wore a silk hat. This of course was the prerogative of the junior, but he alone laid claim to it on this particular afternoon.
One of the girls was walking ahead; she was very tall and graceful. She had rather a small head, well set above a pair of splendid shoulders, and she stepped like one who enjoyed life.
Her features were very regular, and her eyes, that were deep-set, were an honest gray, although her hair (she had a wealth of it) was so dark as to be almost black. There was something in her face that resembled Hollingsworth, but in the resemblance a great deal of the pride and the look of rather sneering superiority had been eliminated. Little Miss Bliss, who was walking beside her, was a pretty girl, with that prettiness that is most attractive in the days of early womanhood, and that is prone to change as the spirits are dashed by years or trouble. Her hair curled in a roll above the prominent forehead. Her eyebrows were exquisitely drawn, and as delicate as the lines of a brush stroke.
"What is the matter with your brother to-day?" inquired Miss Bliss, looking up at the tall girl, whose shoulder was about even with the top of her head.
Miss Hollingsworth turned.
"He is awfully grumpy for some reason or other," she replied. " Probably sat up too late."
The truth was Mr. Kenmore Hollingsworth had been sitting up too late for a good many nights in succession, and to-day he was rather angry and disappointed. Not angry at himself that would have been quite impossible to his nature; but angry at luck, which meant lost money, and disappointed that his father had refused, in a letter received only half an hour ago to allow him to draw three months' allowance in advance.
As they walked past the old chapel that grateful and righteous sentiment had permitted to hold its innocuous existence under the shadow of Nassau Hall, Bliss leaned across his friend Minton, who was walking next to the tall young woman, and spoke in a low tone, interrupting the conversation.
"Here he comes now," he said.
The girls looked down the pathway. Two figures were approaching.
"Who is that chap with him?" inquired Elliott.
"Oh, he's a character," returned Bliss." You see characters get nicknamed very early. That's Patrick Corse Heaphy-' the young man with a purpose.' "
Hart and Mr. Heaphy by this time had approached so close that they had stepped off onto the grass to allow the others to go by. As he and his friend lifted their hats the salute was returned with a few words of greeting by all except Hollingsworth, who laughed rather sneeringly.
"That is the funniest-looking freshman I ever saw," he remarked to the senior with the beard.
The latter, who had not joined in the conversation, raised his eyebrows.
"He looks like a prehistoric Hibernian," he said, "a Stone Age Irishman,-get the idea?
Rather fancy there's good material in that chap, eh! I'll draw him out some day."
The little senior, whose name was Danforth, prided himself upon his deep perceptions. He exalted in individuality, and was the apostle of sensation. It was Danforth's one idea to be not eccentric but original. He laid claim to being a cynic, a pessimist, and an unbeliever. Gifted with a mind that grasped quickly and a power of ready expression, he could have gained honest laurels. His wit was ready, and he drank deeper of learning and liquor and showed it less in appearance than any man on the college roster.
Mr. Danforth played an extremely good hand at poker; wrote good verses that were too wicked for the college literary magazine; and, in his search for artistic sensations, had once smoked hashish behind the locked doors of his room in Witherspoon Hall.
Now, it was toward Witherspoon Hall that the group turned their steps. Ned Bliss was giving a little tea in his rooms, his mother was to join them, and as an evidence that something unusual was going on, a number of other girls, each accompanied by a few satellites, could be seen walking in the direction of Witherspoon along the college walks.
As Hart had passed by he had noticed the tall girl, and his eyes had happened to meet the frank glance of the gray eyes. It had affected him so much for the moment that he had paid little attention to what his companion was saying.
Patrick Corse Heaphy was certainly a character. He sat next to Hart in the class-room, and during the last three or four days the two had struck up quite a friendship.
As Golatly put it, Mr. Heaphy might "wear a French bonnet but he would never get the map of Ireland off his face." The heavy upper lip, the shock of coarse red hair, and the strong lines to the corners of the mouth would have betrayed him, even without the slight touch of the brogue that was more in the inflection of his sentences than in the pronunciation of his words.
Hart had been at first rather annoyed by Patrick's attentions, but his earnestness, and the bond of sympathy that comes from serious determinations, had rather awakened a desire for better acquaintance.
Heaphy's room was a small one not far from Hart's in Edwards Hall. In a rash moment when visited by a sophomoric press gang, Mr. Heaphy had forcibly stated that he had come to college "for a purpose." As he always walked in quick, short steps, as if the purpose was only a few feet in advance and rapidly receding, the sobriquet had stuck to him.
"That was a pretty young lady," said Hart, interrupting Heaphy's opinions on the morning's lecture in chemistry,—"the tall one I mean."
"I don't get on very well with ladies," returned Heaphy. "I never know what to say to them. Do you envy people?"
"I don't know," Hart answered; "I never thought about it."
"I do," answered Heaphy, with a bitterness that Hart failed to recognize. "I envy success. I envy strength. I envy lots of things."
He had started to walk faster and Hart lengthened his stride to keep up with him.
"I like to win," continued Heaphy. "There's a power-r-r," (Mr. Heaphy's rolling r-r was Irish and no mistake)—"a power in it."
"I suppose there is," said Hart, absent-mindedly.
"Power in success," went on Heaphy. "No matter what it is. A fool can be well liked if he chooses, but the other is different."
"Hold your horses," said Hart, "you're getting beyond me."
The "young man with a purpose" did not pursue the subject, but turned it at once.
"Will you come up into my room?" he asked suddenly. "We'll pole our Greek together. Will you come now?"
Hart thanked him and shook his head.
"I think I'll go over to the gym," he said, "and pull those weights."
"Which would you rather do?" inquired Heaphy, "play the best game of football or win the Baird prizes?"
"I don't know," said Hart, frowning a little, "I never thought about it much."
Without another word he took the cinder cross-path that led in the direction of the gymnasium. Just at the stone steps that led up to the dingy entrances of Witherspoon Hall he ran across the party that he had met on the front campus. Bliss stepped out to meet him.
"I say, old man, won't you come up to my room? We're going to have a little tea-fight up there. A lot of girls, and you will meet a good many you will see to-night at the dance."
Hart at first thought of backing out. He had almost forgotten about the dance.
"I am going over to the gymnasium," he said. "Besides—" he hesitated and Bliss broke in:
"Oh, never mind going over and dressing up; come just as you are. Tommy Wilson's up there in a pair of corduroy breeches."
He plucked Hart's sleeve, and the latter allowed himself to be led toward where the others were standing.
"I am going to present you to Miss Hollingsworth and my sister," said Bliss. "Miss Hollingsworth is a ripper, don't you think?"
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," said Hart to each of the young ladies.
Miss Hollingsworth had extended her hand and he had bowed over it not ungracefully. Her brother, whom Hart remembered as one of the heelers of the Glee Club whom he had seen in Omaha, hardly nodded, but Elliott and Minton greeted him in a familiar and friendly way. Danforth, to whom Hart was also introduced, used the latter's own phrase in recognition.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hart," he said, and he spoke tactfully of having desired for some time to meet him.
Despite all this Hart was not altogether at his ease as he followed the others up the worn, narrow stairway. On the second floor, Bliss threw open the doors and ushered the party into his room. It was a typical college interior. There were already some people there, and an odor of brewing tea. There were photographs in profusion, and orange and black bedecked every corner.
On a window seat sat Tommy Wilson in a very old pair of corduroys, and beside him a vivacious little girl, who was playing an almost inaudible accompaniment on a banjo she held across her knee to Tommy's conversation.
Mrs. Bliss, kindly faced, with gray hair and a young girlish figure, welcomed the newcomers, with a little reproach to her son for having been so late.
"I have heard about you, Mr. Hart," she said, extending her hand across the table.
"Oh! And Mr. Minton told us about your adventure with the proctor," put in Miss Hollingsworth.
Hart looked reproachfully at the half-back, but, failing to catch his eye, he answered, flushing:
"I am rather glad the faculty did not hear of it. I am afraid it was very foolish."
"Why, I think it was splendid," said Miss Bliss.
Hart did not know what to reply to this, and he took the cup of tea that Mrs. Bliss extended to him, wondering why she had slipped a slice of lemon in it.
An old colored man, with gray hair and a dignified family-servant countenance, came from the bedroom. The room was so crowded that he got no farther than the door, where he paused with a large plate of chicken croquettes in one hand and a bowl of salad in the other.
"Won't you pass the croquettes, Mr. Hart?" asked Mrs. Bliss, glancing up kindly.
Looking down rather hopelessly at the cup of tea that he had been blowing to cool a little, Hart stepped forward.
"Let me take your cup," said Miss Hollingsworth, readily, "then you can come back to me and get it, or here, put it on the corner of the mantelpiece, and I will save your seat for you."
Hart took the plate of croquettes in one hand and the bowl of salad in the other.
Hollingsworth had lifted himself into the window seat on the other side of the girl with the banjo. As Hart approached he said something that caused the girl to stop her playing and look up curiously.
"Won't you have some of this, Miss?" began Hart, politely, and then he saw for the first time that no plates had been handed around. Bliss at this moment came to his rescue.
"Hold on, old man," he said; "wait till I get the platters."
Hart stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do, while Bliss passed around and distributed the plates from the table. Hart had just perceived that something in his method of procedure was wrong, when there came the sound of singing from outside. Hollingsworth turned suddenly in response to an interrogation of the girl at his side, and his elbow struck the bottom of the bowl of salad. How it occurred Hart could never tell, but the bowl slipped from his fingers and landed bottom uppermost on the top of Mr. Hollingsworth's silk hat, which received the contents without spilling even so much as a drop of the dressing. Hollingsworth observed the accident with an exclamation of anger.
"The clumsy chump!" he said, looking up at poor Hart, who in his effort to secure the lost balance of the salad bowl had distributed two or three of the croquettes on the floor. "What are you doing?"
"I am very sorry, sir," Hart began. Hollingsworth was in an irritable mood.
"Oh, get out," he said, "before you do more damage!"
Hart had now grown to be a little angry himself.
"It is your own fault; you did it," he answered, a snap coming to his eyes. "You struck it with your elbow."
Bliss had now for the first time observed the catastrophe. He broke out into a roar of laughter, in which the others joined.
"Who ever heard of handing things around like that anyhow!" went on the owner of the silk hat; and he said something about being "brought up in a saw-mill," beneath his breath.
At this moment the girl in the corner spoke up.
"Oh, never mind that little thing, Mr. Hart," she said. "Your tea is getting cold."
Bliss had relieved his guest of the plate of croquettes, saying in an undertone:
"That's all right, old man; the cleverest thing you ever did."
Poor Hart could not see anything clever in it, and only stumbled through an inaudible reply as he managed to reach the corner where Miss Hollingsworth was seated. She made room for him on the little sofa and reached down the cup of tea. Hart looked at her. Her eyes were full of laughter.
"I am awfully glad you did that," she said; "it was simply lovely. Now he will have to give up wearing that horrible thing for the rest of the evening at any rate."
Tommy Wilson took up the hat and the bowl just as it was.
"Will any lady in the audience please lend me a gold watch?" he said; "or a wedding ring; or a lace handkerchief would make a good substitute. You have observed, ladies and gentlemen, what my assistant has carefully deposited within this ornamental head gear. Sir," he remarked, turning to Hollingsworth with a mock bow, "pray don't be worried."
"I am sorry I was so awkward," began Hart, in a low voice.
"Don't say a word," interrupted Miss Hollingsworth. "It was most successful, and his getting angry was the funniest thing of all."
In fact the ridicule that Hart had at first felt would have been heaped on him seemed now to cover Hollingsworth, and seeing there was nothing for it, he accepted the situation as gracefully as he could.
The old colored man removed the debris, and things went on much as if nothing had happened. The feeling of embarrassment had left Hart's mind. The girl at his side had not asked him any questions, but had begun a little story of a similar accident she had once seen at a dinner.
"But it was not half so good as this," she added, at which Hart's spirits rose. "You're coming to the dance to-night?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am," Hart answered, "I am."
"Miss Bliss told me you had a dance with her," went on Miss Hollingsworth. "I have just one vacant place."
Something prompted Hart to do the proper thing.
"Won't you give it to me?" he asked.
"Why, certainly," said the girl. "It's the fourth,—now, don't forget, will you?"
The party broke up, and it being too late to go over to the gymnasium, Hart went to his room. Suddenly a peculiar thought came to his mind. He remembered that the young men of the Glee Club troupe had all worn what are termed "swallow-tails" in Oakland. The idea that it should ever be necessary for him to possess such a thing had seemed preposterous. What if it were necessary to appear in one at the sophomore dance. He would have given a great deal to have gotten out of the whole affair, and yet he felt a thrill of disappointment at the idea of missing the fourth figure, as he termed it. It plunged him into despair.
"Hull-l-l-o, Hart!" sounded beneath his window.
It was Franklin.
"May I come up?"
In another moment he had entered the room. Without beating about the bush Hart explained his predicament.
"Yes," said Franklin. "Of course, you have got to wear evening dress. But here's the idea,—take mine. I'm not going. It will just about fit you. Here's the scheme,—come over to my room and dress."
As they went out into the corridor, Patrick Corse Heaphy came up the stairs.
"What are you going to do to-night?" he inquired.
"Going to the dance," answered Hart.
"That's a good idea," Heaphy suddenly responded. "Guess I'll go too."
To tell the truth, Mr. Heaphy had surprised himself in making this statement more than he 
UNDER THE ELMS.
had surprised the others. He hesitated a moment, plunged up the stairs, two steps at a time, and slammed the door of his room behind him.
Hart and Franklin stopped and joined one of the groups sitting under the elms on the front campus.
"Queer duck, that friend of yours," observed Franklin. "I wonder what he's going to make out of this place."
"I wonder what I'm going to make out of it," said Hart slowly; "that sort of puzzles me."