The Plastic Age Part 18

"So I've heard." Hugh was frankly sarcastic.

"Well, I am." Slade looked up defiantly. "I guess it's up to me to explain--and I don't know how to do it. I'm a dumbbell. I can't talk decently. I flunked English One three times, you know." He hesitated a moment and then blurted out, "I was looking for those bags myself."

"What?" Hugh leaned forward and stared at him, bewildered and dumfounded. "_You_ were looking for them?"

"Yeah... You see, I'm a bad egg--always been a bad one with women, ever since I was a kid. Gotta have one about every so often.... I--I'm not much."

"But what made you stop me?" Hugh pressed his hand to his temple. His head was aching, and he could make nothing out of Slade's talk.

"Because--because.... Oh, h.e.l.l, Carver, I don't know how to explain it.

I'm twenty-four and you're about nineteen and I know a lot that you don't. I was brought up in South Boston and I ran with a gang. There wasn't anything rotten that we didn't do.... I've been watching you.

You're different."

"How different?" Hugh demanded. "I want women just as much as you do."

"That isn't it." Slade ran his fingers through his thick black hair and scowled fiercely at the fireplace. "That isn't it at all. You're--you're awfully clean and decent. I've been watching you lots--oh, for a year.

You're--you're different," he finished lamely.

Hugh was beginning to understand. "Do you mean," he asked slowly, "that you want me to keep straight--that--that, well--that you like me that way better?" He was really asking Slade if he admired him, and Slade got his meaning perfectly. To Hugh the idea was preposterous. Why, Slade had made every society on the campus; he had been given every honor that the students could heap on him--and he envied Hugh, an almost unknown soph.o.m.ore. Why, it was ridiculous.

"Yes, that's what I mean; that's what I was trying to get at." For a minute Slade hesitated; he wasn't used to giving expression to his confused emotions, and he didn't know how to go about it. "I'd--I'd like to be like you; that's it. I--I didn't want you to be like me.... Those women are awful bags. Anything might happen."

"Why didn't you stop Carl Peters, too, then?"

"Peters knows his way about. He can take care of himself. You're different, though.... You've never been drunk before, have you?"

"No. No, I never have." Hugh's irritation was all gone. He was touched, deeply touched, by Slade's clumsy admiration, and he felt weak, emotionally exhausted after his little spree. "It's awfully good of you to--to think of me that way. I'm--I'm glad you stopped me."

Slade stood up. He felt that he had better be going. He couldn't tell Hugh how much he liked and admired him, how much he envied him. He was altogether sentimental about the boy, entirely devoted to him. He had wanted to talk to Hugh more than Hugh had wanted to talk to him, but he had never felt that he had anything to offer that could possibly interest Hugh. It was a strange situation; the hero had put the hero wors.h.i.+per on a high, white marble pedestal.

He moved toward the door. "So long," he said as casually as he could.

Hugh jumped up and rushed to him. "I'm awfully grateful to you, Harry,"

he said impulsively. "It was d.a.m.n white of you. I--I don't know how to thank you." He held out his hand.

Slade gripped it for a moment, and then, muttering another "So long,"

pa.s.sed out of the door.

Hugh was more confused than ever and grew steadily more confused as the days pa.s.sed. He couldn't understand why Slade, frankly unchaste himself, should consider his chast.i.ty so important. He was genuinely glad that Slade had rescued him, genuinely grateful, but his confusion about all things s.e.xual was more confounded. The strangest thing was that when he told Carl about Slade's talk, Carl seemed to understand perfectly, though he never offered a satisfactory explanation.

"I know how he feels," Carl said, "and I'm awfully glad he b.u.t.ted in and pulled you away. I'd hate to see you messing around with bags like that myself, and if I hadn't been drunk I wouldn't have let you. I'm more grateful to him than you are. Gee! I'd never have forgiven myself," he concluded fervently.

Just when the Incident was beginning to occupy less of Hugh's thoughts, it was suddenly brought back with a crash. He came home from the gymnasium one afternoon to find Carl seated at his desk writing. He looked up when Hugh came in, tore the paper into fragments, and tossed them info the waste-basket.

"Guess I'd better tell you," he said briefly. "I was just writing a note to you."

"To me? Why?"

Carl pointed to his suit-case standing by the center-table.

"That's why."

"Going away on a party?"

"My trunk left an hour ago. I'm going away for good." Carl's voice was husky, and he spoke with an obvious effort.

Hugh walked quickly to the desk. "Why, old man, what's the matter?

Anything wrong with your mother? You're not sick, are you?"

Carl laughed, briefly, bitterly. "Yes, I'm sick all right. I'm sick."

Hugh, worried, looked at him seriously. "Why, what's the matter? I didn't know that you weren't feeling well."

Carl looked at the rug and muttered, "You remember those rats we picked up in Hastings?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I know of seven fellows they've sent home."

"What!" Hugh cried, his eyes wide with horror. "You don't mean that you--that you--"

"I mean exactly that," Carl replied in a low, flat voice. He rose and moved to the other side of the room. "I mean exactly that; and Doc Conners agrees with me," he added sarcastically. Then more softly, "He's got to tell the dean. That's why I'm going home."

Hugh was swept simultaneously by revulsion and sympathy. "G.o.d, I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "Oh, Carl, I'm so d.a.m.n sorry."

Carl was standing by Hugh's desk, his hands clenched, his lips compressed. "Keep my junk," he said unevenly, "and sell anything you want to if you live in the house next year."

"But you'll be back?"

"No, I won't come back--I won't come back." He was having a hard time to keep back the tears and bit his trembling lip mercilessly. "Oh, Hugh," he suddenly cried, "what will my mother say?"

Hugh was deeply distressed, but he was startled by that "my mother." It was the first time he had ever heard Carl speak of his mother except as the "old lady."

"She will understand," he said soothingly.

"How can she? How can she? G.o.d, Hugh, G.o.d!" He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly. Hugh put his arm around his shoulder and tried to comfort him, and in a few minutes Carl was in control of himself again. He dried his eyes with his handkerchief.

"What a fish I am!" he said, trying to grin. "A G.o.dd.a.m.n fish." He looked at his watch. "h.e.l.l, I've got to be going if I'm going to make the five fifteen," He picked up his suit-case and held out his free hand.

"There's something I want to say to you, Hugh, but I guess I'll write it. Please don't come to the train with me." He gripped Hugh's hand hard for an instant and then was out of the door and down the hall before Hugh had time to say anything.

Two days afterward the letter came. The customary "Dear brother" and "Fraternally yours" were omitted.

Dear Hugh:

I've thought of letters yards long but I'm not going to write them. I just want to say that you are the finest thing that ever happened to me outside of my mother, and I respect you more than any fellow I've ever known. I'm ashamed because I started you drinking and I hope you'll stop it. I feel toward you the way Harry Slade does, only more I guess. You've done an awful lot for me.