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

Talked. The Picture Was A Melodrama Of "Love And Hate," As The

Advertisement Said.

The Boys Told The Actors What To Do; They Revealed To Them The Secrets

Of The Plot. "She'S Hiding Behind The Door,  Harold. No,  No! Not That

Way. Hey,  Dumbbell--Behind The Door."... "Catch Him,  Gloria; He'S Only

Shy!"... "No,  That'S Not Him!"

The Climactic Fight Brought Shouts Of Encouragement--To The Villain.

"Kill Him!"... "Shoot One To His Kidneys!"... "Ahhhhh," As The Villain

Hit The Hero In The Stomach.... "Muss His Hair. Attaboy!"... "Kill The

Skunk!" And Finally Groans Of Despair When The Hero Won His Inevitable

Victory.

But It Was The Love Scenes That Aroused The Greatest Ardor And Joy. The

Hero Was Given Careful Instructions. "Some Neckin',  Harold!"... "Kiss

Her! Kiss Her! Ahhh!"... "Harold,  Harold,  You'Re Getting Rough!"...

"She'S Vamping You,  Harold!"... "Stop It; Gloria; He'S A Good Boy." And

So On Until The Picture Ended In The Usual Close-Up Of The Hero And

Heroine Silhouetted In a Tender Embrace Against The Setting Sun. The

Boys Breathed "Ahhhh" And "Ooooh" Ecstatically--And Laughed. The

Meretricious Melodrama Did Not Fool Them,  But They Delighted In Its

Absurdities.

The Lights Flashed On And The Crowd Filed Out,  "Wise-Cracking" About The

Picture And Commenting Favorably On The Heroine'S Figure. There Were

Shouts To This Fellow Or That Fellow To Come On Over And Play Bridge,

And Suggestions Here And There To Go To A Drug Store And Get A Drink.

Hugh And Carl Strolled Home Over The Dark Campus,  Both Of Them Radiant

With Excitement,  Hugh Frankly So.

"Golly,  I Did Enjoy That," He Exclaimed. "I Never Had A Better Time. It

Was Sure Hot Stuff. I Don'T Want To Go To The Room; Let'S Walk For A

While."

"Yeah,  It Was Pretty Good," Carl Admitted. "Nope,  I Can'T Go Walking;

Gotta Write A Letter."

"Who To? The Harem?"

Carl Hunched His Shoulders Until His Ears Touched His Coat Collar.

"Gettin' Cold. Fall'S Here. Nope,  Not The Harem. My Old Lady."

Hugh Looked At Him Bewildered. He Was Finding Carl More And More A

Conundrum. He Consistently Called His Mother His Old Lady,  Insisted That

She Was A Damned Nuisance--And Wrote To Her Every Night. Hugh Was

Writing To His Mother Only Twice A Week. It Was Very Confusing....

Capwell Chapel--It Bore The Pork Merchant'S Name As An Eternal Memorial

To Him--Was As Impressive Inside As Out. The Stained-Glass Windows Had

Been Made By A Famous New York Firm; The Altar Had Been Designed By An

Even More Famous Sculptor. The Walls,  Quite Improperly,  Were Adorned

With Paintings Of Former Presidents,  But The Largest Painting Of All--It

Was Fairly Gargantuan--Was Of The Pork Merchant,  A Large,  Ruddy

Gentleman,  Whom The Artist,  A Keen Observer,  Had Painted

Truly--Complacently Porcine,  Benevolently Smug.

The Seniors And Juniors Sat In The Nave,  The Sophomores On The Right

Side Of The Transept,  The Freshmen On The Left. Hugh Gazed Upward In awe

At The Dim Recesses Of The Vaulted Ceiling,  At The Ornately Carved Choir

Where Gowned Students Were Quietly Seating Themselves,  At The Colored

Light Streaming Through The Beautiful Windows,  At The Picture Of The

Pork Merchant. The Chapel Bells Ceased Tolling; Rich,  Solemn Tones

Swelled From The Organ.

President Culver In cap And Gown,  His Purple Hood Falling Over His

Shoulders,  Entered Followed By His Faculty,  Also Gowned And Hooded. The

Students Rose And Remained Standing Until The President And Faculty Were

Seated. The Organ Sounded A Final Chord,  And Then The College Chaplain

Rose And Prayed--Very Badly. He Implored The Lord To Look Kindly "On

These Young Men Who Have Come From Near And Far To Drink From This Great

Fount Of Learning,  This Well Of Wisdom."

The Prayer Over,  The President Addressed The Students. He Was A Large,

Erect Man With Iron-Gray Hair And A Rugged Intelligent Face. Although He

Was Sixty Years Old,  His Body Was Vigorous And Free From Extra Weight.

He Spoke Slowly And Impressively,  Choosing His Words With Care And

Enunciating Them With Great Distinctness. His Address Was For The

Freshmen: He Welcomed Them To Sanford College,  To Its Splendid

Traditions,  Its High Ideals,  Its Noble History. He Spoke Of The Famous

Men It Numbered Among Its Sons,  Of The Work They Had Done For America

And The World,  Of The Work He Hoped Future Sanford Men,  They,  The

Freshmen,  Would Some Day Do For America And The World. He Mentioned

Briefly The Boys From Sanford Who Had Died In The World War "To Make The

World Safe For Democracy," And He Prayed That Their Sacrifice Had Not

Been In Vain. Finally,  He Spoke Of The Chapel Service,  Which The

Students Were Required To Attend. He Hoped That They Would Find

Inspiration In It,  Knowledge And Strength. He Assured Them That The

Service Would Always Be Nonsectarian,  That There Would Never Be Anything

In It To Offend Any One Of Any Race,  Creed,  Or Religion. With A Last

Exhortation To The Freshmen To Make The Most Of Their Great

Opportunities,  He Ended With The Announcement That They Would Rise And

Sing The Sixty-Seventh Hymn.

Hugh Was Deeply Impressed By The Speech But Disturbed By The Students.

From Where He Sat He Got An Excellent View Of The Juniors And Seniors.

The Seniors,  Who Sat In The Front Of The Nave,  Seemed To Be Paying

Fairly Good Attention; But The Juniors--Many Of Them,  At Least--Paid No

Attention At All. Some Of Them Were Munching Apples,  Some Doughnuts,  And

Many Of Them Were Reading "The Sanford News," The College'S Daily Paper.

Some Of The Juniors Talked During The President'S Address,  And Once He

Noticed Four Of Them Doubled Up As If Overcome By Laughter. To Him The

Service Was A Beautiful And Impressive Occasion. He Could Not Understand

The Conduct Of The Upper-Classmen. It Seemed,  To Put It Mildly,

Irreverent.

Every One,  However,  Sang The Doxology With Great Vigor,  Some Of The Boys

Lifting Up A "Whisky" Tenor That Made The Chapel Ring,  And To Which Hugh

Happily Added His Own Clear Tenor. The Benediction Was Pronounced By The

Chaplain,  The Seniors Marched Out Slowly In Twos,  While The Other

Students And The Faculty Stood In Their Places; Then The President,

Followed By The Faculty,  Passed Out Of The Great Doors. When The Back Of

The Last Faculty Gown Had Disappeared,  The Under-Classmen Broke For The

Door,  Pushing Each Other Aside,  Swearing When A Toe Was Stepped On,

Yelling To Each Other,  Some Of Them Joyously Chanting The Doxology. Hugh

Was Caught In The Rush And Carried Along With The Mob,  Feeling Ashamed

And Distressed; This Was No Way To Leave A Church.

Once Outside,  However,  He Had No Time To Think Of The Chapel Service; He

Had Five Minutes In Which To Get To His First Class,  And The Building

Was Across The Campus,  A Good Two Minutes' Walk. He Patted His Cap To Be

Sure That It Was Firmly On The Back Of His Head,  Clutched His Note-Book,

And Ran As Hard As He Could Go,  The Strolling Upper-Classmen,  Whom He

Passed At Top Speed,  Grinning After Him In Tolerant Amusement.

Hugh Was The First One In The Class-Room And Wondered In a Moment Of

Panic If He Was In The Right Place. He Sat Down Dubiously And Looked At

His Watch. Four Minutes Left. He Would Wait Two,  And Then If Nobody Came

He Would--He Gasped; He Couldn'T Imagine What He Would Do. How Could He

Find The Right Class-Room? Maybe His Class Didn'T Come At This Hour At

All. Suppose He And Carl Had Made A Mistake. If They Had,  His Whole

Schedule Was Probably Wrong. "Oh,  Golly," He Thought,  Feeling Pitifully

Weak,  "Won'T That Be Hell? What Can I Do?"

At That Moment A Countrified-Looking Youth Entered,  Looking As Scared As

Hugh Felt. His Face Was Pale,  And His Voice Trembled As He Asked

Timidly,  "Do You Know If This Is Section Three Of Math One?"

Hugh Was Immediately Strengthened. "I Think So," He Replied. "Anyhow,

Let'S Wait And Find Out."

The Freshman Sighed In Huge Relief,  Took Out A Not Too Clean

Handkerchief,  And Mopped His Face. "Criminy!" He Exclaimed As He

Wriggled Down The Aisle To A Seat By Hugh,  "I Was Sure Worried. I

Thought I Was In The Wrong Building,  Though I Was Sure That My Adviser

Had Told Me Positively That Math Was In Matthew Six."

"I Guess We'Re All Right," Hugh Comforted Him As Two Other Freshmen,

Also Looking Dubious,  Entered. They Were Followed By Four More,  And Then

By A Stampeding Group,  All Of Them Pop-Eyed,  All Of Them In a Rush. In

The Next Minute Five Freshmen Dashed In and Then Dashed Out Again,

Utterly Bewildered,  Obviously Terrified,  And Not Knowing Where To Go Or

What To Do. "Is This Math One,  Section Three?" Every Man Demanded Of The

Room As He Entered; And Every One Yelled,  "Yes," Or,  "I Think So."

Just As The Bell Rang At Ten Minutes After The Hour,  The Instructor

Entered. It Was Professor Kane.

"This Is Mathematics One,  Section Three," Kane Announced In a Dry Voice.

"If There Is Any One Here Who Does Not Belong Here,  He Will Please

Leave." Nobody Moved; So He Shuffled Some Cards In His Hand And Asked

The Men To Answer To The Roll-Call.

"Adams,  J.H."

"Present,  Sir."

Kane Looked Up And Frowned. "Say 'Here,'" He Said Severely. "This Is Not

A Grammar-School."

"Yes,  Sir," Stuttered Adams,  His Face First White Then Purple. "Here,

Sir."

"'Here' Will Do; There Is No Need Of The 'Sir.' Allsop,  K.E."

"Here"--In A Very Faint Voice.

"Speak Up!"

"Here." This Time A Little Louder.

And So It Went,  Hardly A Man Escaping Without Some Admonishment. Hugh'S

Throat Went Dry; His Tongue Literally Stuck To The Roof