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

angry because his liberty had been interfered with, and confused because Slade had never paid more than passing attention to him⁠—and for a year and a half Slade had been his god.

Slade was one of those superb natural athletes who make history for many colleges. He was big, powerfully built, and moved as easily as a dancer. His features were good enough, but his brown eyes were dull and his jaw heavy rather than strong. Hugh had often heard that Slade dissipated violently, but he did not believe the rumors; he was positive that Slade could not be the athlete he was if he dissipated. He had been thrilled every time Slade had spoken to him⁠—the big man of the college, the one Sanford man who had ever made All American, as Slade had this year.

When he returned to his room from the bathroom, Slade was sitting in a big chair smoking a cigarette. Hugh walked into his bedroom, combed his dripping hair, and then came into the study, still angry but feeling a little sheepish and very curious.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded, sitting down.

“Do you know who those women were?”

“No. Who are they?”

“They’re Bessie Haines and Emma Gleeson; at least, that’s what they call themselves, and they’re rotten bags.”

Hugh had a little quiver of fright, but he felt that he ought to defend himself.

“Well, what of it?” he asked sullenly. “I don’t see as you had any right to pull me away. You never paid any attention before to me. Why this sudden interest? How come you’re so anxious to guard my purity?”

Slade was embarrassed. He threw his cigarette into the fireplace and immediately lighted another one. Then he looked at his shoes and muttered, “I’m a pretty bad egg myself.”

“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 dumbfounded. “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, hell, 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 sophomore. 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 worshiper 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 damn 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,” passed out of the door.

Hugh was more confused than ever and grew steadily more confused as the days passed. He couldn’t understand why Slade, frankly unchaste himself, should consider his chastity so important. He was genuinely glad that Slade had rescued him, genuinely grateful, but his confusion about all things sexual 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 butted 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.