The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (best fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Examinations Were Ahead Of Them,  Less Than A Month Away; And Those

Examinations Hung Over Their Heads Like The Relentless,  Glittering Blade

Of A Guillotine. The Boys Studied. "College Life" Ceased; There Was A

Brief Period Of Education.

Of Course,  They Did Not Desert The Movies,  And The Snow And Ice Claimed

Them. Part Of Indian Lake Was Scraped Free Of Snow,  And Every Clear

Afternoon Hundreds Of Boys Skated Happily,  Explaining Afterward That

They Had To Have Some Exercise If They Were Going To Be Able To Study.

On Those Afternoons The Lake Was A Pretty Sight,  Zestful,  Alive With

Color. Many Of The Men Wore Blue Sweaters,  Some Of Them Brightly Colored

Mackinaws,  All Of Them Knitted Toques. As Soon As The Cold Weather

Arrived,  The Freshmen Had Been Permitted To Substitute Blue Toques With

Orange Tassels For Their "Baby Bonnets." The Blue And Orange Stood Out

Vividly Against The White Snow-Covered Hills,  And The Skates Rang

Sharply As They Cut The Glare Ice.

There Was Snow-Shoeing,  Skiing,  And Sliding "To Keep A Fellow Fit So

That He Could Do Good Work In His Exams," But Much As The Boys Enjoyed

The Winter Sports,  A Black Pall Hung Over The College As The Examination

Period Drew Nearer And Nearer. The Library,  Which Had Been Virtually

Deserted All Term,  Suddenly Became Crowded. Every Afternoon And Evening

Its Big Tables Were Filled With Serious-Faced Lads Earnestly Bending

Over Books,  Making Notes,  Running Their Fingers Through Their Hair,

Occasionally Looking Up With Dazed Eyes,  Or Twisting About Miserably.

The Tension Grew Greater And Greater. The Upper-Classmen Were Quiet And

Businesslike,  But Most Of The Freshmen Were Frankly Terrified. A Few Of

Them Packed Their Trunks And Slunk Away,  And A Few More Openly Scorned

The Examinations And Their Frightened Classmates; But They Were The

Exceptions. All The Buoyancy Seemed Gone Out Of The College; Nothing Was

Left But An Intense Strain. The Dormitories Were Strangely Quiet At

Night. There Was No Playing Of Golf In The Hallways,  No Rolling Of Bats

Down The Stairs,  No Shouting,  No Laughter; A Man Who Made Any Noise Was

In Danger Of A Serious Beating. Even The Greetings As The Men Passed

Each Other On The Campus Were Quiet And Abstracted. They Ceased To Cut

Classes. Everybody Attended,  And Everybody Paid Close Attention Even To

The Most Tiresome Instructors.

Studious Seniors Began To Reap A Harvest Out Of Tutoring Sections. The

Meetings Were A Dollar "A Throw," And For Another Dollar A Student Could

Get A Mimeographed Outline Of A Course. But The Tutoring Sections Were

Only For The "Plutes" Or The Athletes,  Many Of Whom Were Subsidized By

Fraternities Or Alumni. Most Of The Students Had To Learn Their Own

Lessons; So They Often Banded Together In Small Groups To Make The Task

Less Arduous,  Finding Some Relief In Sociability.

The Study Groups,  Quite Properly Called Seminars,  Would Have Shocked

Many A Worthy Professor Had He Been Able To Attend One; But They Were

Truly Educative,  And To Many Students Inspiring. The Professor Had

Planted The Seed Of Wisdom With Them; It Was At The Seminars That They

Tried Honestly,  If Somewhat Hysterically And Irreverently,  To Make It

Grow.

Hugh Did Most Of His Studying Alone,  Fearing That The Seminars Would

Degenerate Into Bull Sessions,  As Many Of Them Did; But Carl Insisted

That He Join One Group That Was Going "To Wipe Up That Goddamned

English Course To-Night."

There Were Only Five Men At The Seminar,  Which Met In Surrey 19,  Because

Pudge Jamieson,  Who Was "Rating" An A In The Course And Was Therefore An

Authority,  Said That He Wouldn'T Come If There Were Any More. Pudge,  As

His Nickname Suggests,  Was Plump. He Was A Round-Faced,  Jovial Youngster

Who Learned Everything With Consummate Ease,  Wrote With Great Fluency

And Sometimes Real Beauty,  Peered Through His Horn-Rimmed Spectacles

Amusedly At The World,  And Read Every "Smut" Book That He Could Lay His

Hands On. His Library Of Erotica Was Already Famous Throughout The

College,  His Volumes Of Balzac'S "Droll Stories," Rabelais Complete,

"Mlle. De Maupin," Burton'S "Arabian Nights," And The "Decameron" Being

In Constant Demand. He Could Tell Literally Hundreds Of Dirty Stories,

Always Having A New One On Tap,  Always Looking When He Told It Like A

Complacent Cherub.

There Were Two Other Men In The Seminar. Freddy Dickson,  An Earnest,

Anemic Youth,  Seemed To Be Always Striving For Greater Acceleration And

Never Gaining It; Or As Pudge Put It,  "The Trouble With Freddy Is That

He'S Always Shifting Gears." Larry Stillwell,  The Last Man,  Was A Dark,

Handsome Youth With Exceedingly Regular Features,  Pomaded Hair Parted In

The Center And Shining Sleekly,  Fine Teeth,  And Rich Coloring: A

"Smooth" Boy Who Prided Himself On His Conquests And The Fact That He

Never Got A Grade Above A C In His Courses. There Was No Man In The

Freshman Class With A Finer Mind,  But He Declined To Study,  Declaring

Firmly That He Could Not Waste His Time Acquiring Impractical Tastes For

Useless Arts.

"Now Everybody Shut Up," Said Pudge,  Seating Himself In a Big Chair And

Laboriously Crossing One Leg Over The Other. "Put Some More Wood On The

Fire,  Hugh,  Will You?"

Hugh Stirred Up The Fire,  Piled On A Log Or So,  And Then Returned To His

Chair,  Hoping Against Belief That Something Really Would Be Accomplished

In The Seminar. All The Boys,  He Excepted,  Were Smoking,  And All Of Them

Were Lolling Back In dangerously Comfortable Attitudes.

"We'Ve Got To Get Going," Pudge Continued,  "And We Aren'T Going To Get

Anything Done If We Just Sit Around And Bull. I'M The Prof,  And I'M

Going To Ask Questions. Now,  Don'T Bull. If You Don'T Know,  Just Say,

'No Soap,' And If You Do Know,  Shoot Your Dope." He Grinned. "How'S That

For A Rime?"

"Atta Boy!" Carl Exclaimed Enthusiastically.

"Shut Up! Now,  The Stuff We Want To Get At To-Night Is The Poetry. No Use

Spending Any Time On The Composition. My Prof Said That We Would Have

To Write Themes In The Exam,  But We Can'T Do Anything About That Here.

You'Re All Getting By On Your Themes,  Anyway,  Aren'T You?"

"Yeah," The Listening Quartet Answered In Unison,  Larry Stillwell Adding

Dubiously,  "Well,  I'M Getting C'S."

"Larry," Said Carl In cold Contempt,  "You'Re A Goddamn Liar. I Saw A B

On One Of Your Themes The Other Day And An A On Another. What Are You

Always Pulling That Low-Brow Stuff For?"

Larry Had The Grace To Blush. "Aw," He Explained In Some Confusion,  "My

Prof'S Full Of Hooey. He Doesn'T Know A C Theme From An A One. He Makes

Me Sick. He--"

"Aw,  Shut Up!" Freddy Dickson Shouted. "Let'S Get Going; Let'S Get

Going. We Gotta Learn This Poetry. Damn! I Don'T Know Anything About It.

I Didn'T Crack The Book Till Two Days Ago."

Pudge Took Charge Again. "Close Your Gabs,  Everybody," He Commanded

Sternly. "There'S No Sense In Going Over The Prose Lit. You Can Do That

Better By Yourselves. God Knows I'M Not Going To Waste My Time Telling

You Bone-Heads What Carlyle Means By A Hero. If You Don'T Know Odin From

Mohammed By This Time,  You Can Roast In dante'S Hell For All Of Me. Now

Listen; The Prof Said That They Were Going To Make Us Place Lines,  And,

Of Course,  They'Ll Expect Us To Know What The Poems Are About. Hell!

How Some Of The Boys Are Going To Fox 'Em." He Paused To Laugh. "Jim

Hicks Told Me This Afternoon That 'Philomela' Was By Shakspere." The

Other Boys Did Not Understand The Joke,  But They All Laughed Heartily.

"Now," He Went On,  "I'Ll Give You The Name Of A Poem,  And Then You Tell

Me What It'S About And Who Wrote It."

He Leafed Rapidly Through An Anthology. "Carl,  Who Wrote 'Kubla Khan'?"

Carl Puffed His Pipe Meditatively. "I'M Going To Fox You,  Pudge," He

Said,  Frankly Triumphant; "I Know. Coleridge Wrote It. It Seems To Be

About A Jew Who Built A Swell Joint For A Wild Woman Or Something Like

That. I Can'T Make Much Out Of The Damn Thing."

"That'S Enough. Smack For Carl," Said Pudge Approvingly. "Smack" Meant

That The Answer Was Satisfactory. "Freddy,  Who Wrote 'La Belle Dame Sans

Merci'?"

Freddy Twisted In His Chair,  Thumped His Head With His Knuckles,  And

Finally Announced With A Groan Of Despair,  "No Soap."

"Hugh?"

"No Soap."

"Larry?"

"Well," Drawled Larry,  "I Think Jawn Keats Wrote It. It'S One Of Those

Bedtime Stories With A Kick. A Knight Gets Picked Up By A Jane. He Puts

Her On His Prancing Steed And Beats It For The Tall Timber. Keats Isn'T

Very Plain About What Happened There,  But I Suspect The Worst. Anyhow,

The Knight Woke Up The Next Morning With An Awful Rotten Taste In His

Mouth."

"Smack For Larry. Your Turn,  Carl. Who Wrote 'The West Wind'?"

"You Can'T Get Me On That Boy Masefield,  Pudge. I Know All His Stuff.

There Isn'T Any Story; It'S Just About The West Wind,  But It'S A Goddamn

Good Poem. It'S The Cat'S Pajamas."

"You Said It,  Carl," Hugh Chimed In,  "But I Like 'Sea Fever' Better.

                "I Must Go Down To The Seas Again,

                 To The Lonely Sea And The Sky....

Gosh! That'S Hot Stuff. 'August,  1914''S A Peach,  Too."

"Yeah," Agreed Larry Languidly; "I Got A Great Kick When The Prof Read

That In class. Masefield'S All Right. I Wish We Had More Of His Stuff

And Less Of Milton. Lord Almighty,  How I Hate Milton! What Th' Hell Do

They Have To Give Us That Tripe For?"

"Oh,  Let'S Get Going," Freddy Pleaded,  Running A Nervous Hand Through

His Mouse-Colored