The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader pc .TXT) 📕

had worked religiously at the library until it had closed at ten, and he had been in the mood to study. His lessons for the next day were all prepared, and prepared well. He had strolled across the moonlit campus, buoyant and happy. Someone was playing the organ in the dark chapel; he paused to listen. Two students passed him, humming softly,

“Sanford, Sanford, mother of men,
Love us, guard us, hold us true.⁠ ⁠…”

The dormitories were dim masses broken by rectangles of soft yellow light. Somewhere a banjo twanged. Another student passed.

“Hello, Carver,” he said pleasantly. “Nice night.”

“Oh, hello, Jones. It sure is.”

The simple greeting completed his happiness. He felt that he belonged, that Sanford, the “mother of men,” had taken him to her heart. The music in the chapel swelled, lyric, passionate⁠—up! up! almost a cry. The moonlight was golden between the heavy shadows of the elms. Tears came into the boy’s eyes; he was melancholy with joy.

He climbed the stairs of Surrey slowly, reluctant to reach his room and Carl’s flippancy. He passed an open door and glanced at the men inside the room.

“Hi, Hugh. Come in and bull a while.”

“Not tonight, thanks.” He moved on down the hall, feeling a vague resentment; his mood had been broken, shattered.

The door opposite his own room was slightly open. A freshman lived there, Herbert Morse, a queer chap with whom Carl and Hugh had succeeded in scraping up only the slightest acquaintance. He was a big fellow, fully six feet, husky and quick. The football coach said that he had the makings of a great halfback, but he had already been fired off the squad because of his irregularity in reporting for practice. Except for what the boys called his standoffishness⁠—some of them said that he was too damned high-hat⁠—he was extremely attractive. He had red, almost copper-colored, hair, and an exquisite skin, as delicate as a child’s. His features were well carved, his nose slightly aquiline⁠—a magnificent looking fellow, almost imperious; or as Hugh once said to Carl, “Morse looks kinda noble.”

As Hugh placed his hand on the doorknob of No 19, he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a sob from across the hall. He paused and listened. He was sure that he could hear someone crying.

“Wonder what’s wrong,” he thought, instantly disturbed and sympathetic.

He crossed the hall and tapped lightly on Morse’s door. There was no answer; nor was there any when he tapped a second time. For a moment he was abashed, and then he pushed open the door and entered Morse’s room.

In the far corner Morse was sitting at his, desk, his head buried in his arms, his shoulders shaking. He was crying fiercely, terribly; at times his whole body jerked in the violence of his sobbing.

Hugh stood by the door embarrassed and rather frightened. Morse’s grief brought a lump to his throat. He had never seen anyone cry like that before. Something had to be done. But what could he do? He had no right to intrude on Morse, but he couldn’t let the poor fellow go on suffering like that. As he stood there hesitant, shaken, Morse buried his head deeper in his arms, moaned convulsively, twisting and trembling after a series of sobs that seemed to tear themselves from him. That was too much for Hugh. He couldn’t stand it. Some force outside of him sent him across the room to Morse. He put his hand on a quivering shoulder and said gently:

“What is it, Morse? What’s the matter?”

Morse ran his hand despairingly through his red hair, shook his head, and made no answer.

“Come on, old man; buck up.” Hugh’s voice trembled; it was husky with sympathy. “Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”

Then Morse looked up, his face stained with tears, his eyes inflamed, almost desperate. He stared at Hugh wonderingly. For an instant he was angry at the intrusion, but his anger passed at once. He could not miss the tenderness and sympathy in Hugh’s face; and the boy’s hand was still pressing with friendly insistence on his shoulder. There was something so boyishly frank, so clean and honest about Hugh that his irritation melted into confidence; and he craved a confidant passionately.

“Shut the door,” he said dully, and reached into his trousers pocket for his handkerchief. He mopped his face and eyes vigorously while Hugh was closing the door, and then blew his nose as if he hated it. But the tears continued to come, and all during his talk with Hugh he had to pause occasionally to dry his eyes.

Hugh stood awkwardly in the middle of the rug, not knowing whether to sit down or not. Morse was clutching his handkerchief in his hand and staring at the floor. Finally he spoke up.

“Sit down,” he said in a dead voice, “there.”

Hugh sank into the chair Morse indicated and then gripped his hands together. He felt weak and frightened, and absolutely unable to say anything. But Morse saved him the trouble.

“I suppose you think I am an awful baby,” he began, his voice thick with tears, “but I just can’t help it. I⁠—I just can’t help it. I don’t want to cry, but I do.” And then he added defiantly, “Go ahead and think I’m a baby if you want to.”

“I don’t think you’re a baby,” Hugh said softly; “I’m just sorry; that’s all.⁠ ⁠… I hope I can help.” He smiled shyly, hopefully.

His smile conquered Morse. “You’re a good kid, Carver,” he cried impulsively. “A darn good kid. I like you, and I’m going to tell you all about it. And I⁠—I⁠—I won’t care if you laugh.”

“I won’t laugh,” Hugh promised, relieved to think that there was a possibility of laughing. The trouble couldn’t be so awfully bad.

Morse blew his nose, stuck his handkerchief into his pocket, pulled it out again and dabbed his eyes, returned it to his pocket, and suddenly stood up.

“I’m homesick!” he blurred out. “I’m⁠—I’m homesick, damned homesick. I’ve been homesick ever since I arrived.