The Plastic Age, Percy Marks [best motivational novels .txt] 📗

know there. Christmas Cove’s a nice place; not so high-hat as Bar Harbor, but still it’s a nice place.”

Hugh felt that Carl was leaving the main track, and he hastened to shunt him back. “Sure,” he said in cheerful agreement; “sure it is⁠—but what happened?”

“What happened? Oh⁠—oh, yes!” Carl brought himself back to the present with an obvious effort. “Sure, I’ll tell you what happened. Well, there was a girl there named Elaine Marston. She wasn’t staying with the folks I was, but they knew her, so I saw a lot of her. See?”

“Sure.” Hugh wished he would hurry up. Carl didn’t usually wander all over when telling a story. This must be something special.

“Well, I saw lots of her. Lots. Pretty girl, nice family and everything, but she liked her booze and she liked to pet. Awful hot kid. Well, one night we went to a dance, and between dances we had a lot of gin I had brought with me. Good stuff, too. I bought it off a guy who brought it down from Canada himself. Where was I? Oh, yes, at the dance. We both got pie-eyed; I was all liquored up, and I guess she was, too. After the dance was over, I dared her to walk over to South Bristol⁠—that’s just across the island, you know⁠—and then walk back again. Well, we hadn’t gone far when we decided to sit down. We were both kinda dizzy from the gin. You have to go through the woods, you know, and it’s dark as hell in there at night.⁠ ⁠… We sat down among some ferns and I began to pet her. Don’t know why⁠—just did.⁠ ⁠… Oh, hell! what’s the use of going into details? You can guess what happened.”

Hugh sat suddenly erect. “You didn’t⁠—”

Carl stood up and stretched. “Yeah,” he yawned, “I did it. Lots of times afterwards.”

Hugh was dazed. He didn’t know what to think. For an instant he was shocked, and then he was envious. “Wonder if Janet would have gone the whole way,” flitted across his mind. He instantly dismissed the question; he felt that it wasn’t fair to Janet. But Carl? Gosh!

Carl yawned again. “Great stuff,” he said nonchalantly. “Sleepy as hell. Guess I’ll hit the hay.” He eyed Hugh suspiciously. “You aren’t shocked, are you? You don’t think I’m a moral leper or anything like that?” He attempted to be light but wasn’t altogether successful.

“Of course not.” Hugh denied the suggestion vehemently, and yet down in his heart he felt a keen disappointment. He hardly knew why he was disappointed, but he was. “Going to bed?” he asked as casually as he could.

“Yeah. Good night.”

“Good night, old man.”

Each boy went to his own bedroom, Hugh to go to bed and think Carl’s story over. It thrilled him, and he envied Carl, and yet⁠—and yet he wished Carl hadn’t done it. It made him and Carl different⁠—sorta not the same; no that wasn’t it. He didn’t know just what the trouble was, but there was a sharp sting of disillusionment that hurt. He would have been more confused had he known what was happening in Carl’s room.

Carl had walked into his own bedroom, lighted the light, and closed the door. Then he walked to the dresser and stared at himself in the mirror, stared a long time as if the face were somehow new to him.

There was a picture of the “old lady” on the dresser. It caught his eye, and he flinched. It seemed to look at him reproachfully. He thought of his mother, and he thought of how he had bluffed Hugh. He had cried after his first experience with the girl.

He looked again into the mirror. “You goddamn hypocrite,” he said softly; “you goddamn hypocrite.” His lip curled in contempt at his image.

He began to undress rapidly. The eyes of the “old lady” in the picture seemed to follow him around the room. The thought of her haunted him. Desperately, he switched out the light.

Once in bed, he rolled over on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. “God!” he whispered. “God!”

XV

Sanford defeated Raleigh this year in football, and for a time the college was wild with excitement and delight. Most of the free lumber in Haydensville was burned in a triumphant bonfire, and many of the undergraduates celebrated so joyously with their winnings that they looked sadly bedraggled for several days afterward.

The victory was discussed until the boys were thoroughly sick of it, and then they settled down to a normal life, studying; playing pool, billiards, and cards; going to the movies, reading a little, and holding bull sessions.

Hugh attended many bull sessions. Some of them he found interesting, but many of them were merely orgies of filthy talk, the participants vying with one another in telling the dirtiest stories; and although Hugh was not a prig, he was offended by a dirty story that was told merely for the sake of its dirt. Pudge Jamieson’s stories were smutty, but they were funny, too, and he could send Hugh into paroxysms of laughter any time that he chose.

One night in late November Hugh was in Gordon Ross’s room in Surrey along with four others. Ross was a senior, a quiet man with gray eyes, rather heavy features, and soft brown hair. He was considerably older than the others, having worked for several years before he came to college. He listened to the stories that were being told, occasionally smiled, but more often studied the group curiously.

The talk became exceedingly nasty, and Hugh was about to leave in disgust when the discussion suddenly turned serious.

“Do you know,” said George Winsor abruptly, “I wonder why we hold these smut sessions. I sit here and laugh like a fool and am ashamed of myself half the time. And this isn’t the only smut session that’s going on right now. I bet there’s thirty at least going on around the campus. Why are we always