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Title: Schooner Fairchild's Class: from "Tales Before Midnight"
Date of first publication: 1929
Author: Stephen Vincent Benét (1898-1943)
Date first posted: October 12 2012
Date last updated: October 12 2012
Faded Page eBook #20121024

This ebook was produced by: David Edwards, Barbara Watson, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




SCHOONER FAIRCHILD'S CLASS

by Stephen Vincent Benét


When he said good night to his son and Tom Drury and the rest of them,
Lane Parrington walked down the steps of the Leaf Club and stood, for a
moment, breathing in the night air. He had made the speech they'd asked
him to make, and taken pains with it, too--but now he was wondering
whether it wasn't the same old graduate's speech after all. He hadn't
meant it to be so, but you ran into a lingo, once you started putting
thoughts on paper--you began to view with alarm and talk about imperiled
bulwarks and the American way of life.

And yet he'd been genuinely pleased when the invitation came--and they'd
asked him three months ahead. That meant something, even to the Lane
Parrington of United Investments--it was curious how old bonds held. He
had been decorated by two foreign governments and had declined a
ministry--there was the place in Virginia, the place on Long Island, the
farm in Vermont and the big apartment on the river. There were the
statements issued when sailing for Europe and the photographs and
articles in news weeklies and magazines. And yet he had been pleased
when they asked him to speak at the annual dinner of an undergraduate
club in his own college. Of course, the Leaf was a little different, as
all Leaf members knew. When he had been a new member, as his son was
now, the speech had been made by a Secretary of State.

Well, he'd done well enough, he supposed--at least Ted had come up,
afterward, a little shyly, and said, "Well, Dad, you're quite an
orator." But, once or twice, in the course of the speech, he had caught
Ted fiddling with his coffee spoon. They were almost always too
long--those speeches by graduates--he had tried to remember that. But he
couldn't help running a little overtime--not after he'd got up and seen
them waiting there. They were only boys, of course, but boys who would
soon be men with men's responsibilities--he had even made a point of
that.

One of the things about the Leaf--you got a chance of hearing
what--well, what really important men thought of the state of the world
and the state of the nation. They could get a lot from professors but
hardly that. So, when a sensible fellow got up to explain what sensible
men really thought about this business at Washington--why, damn it,
nobody was going to ring a gong on him! And they'd clapped him well, at
the end, and Ted's face had looked relieved. They always clapped well,
at the end.

Afterward, he had rather hoped to meet Ted's friends and get in a little
closer touch with them than he did at the place in Virginia or the place
on Long Island or the apartment in New York. He saw them there, of
course--they got in cars and out of cars, they dressed and went to
dances, they played on the tennis courts and swam in the pool. They were
a good crowd--a typical Leaf crowd, well-exercised and well-mannered.
They were polite to Cora and polite to him. He offered them cigars now
and then; during the last two years he offered them whisky and soda.
They listened to what he had to say and, if he told a good story, they
usually laughed at it. They played tennis with him, occasionally, and
said, "Good shot, sir!"--afterward, they played harder tennis. One of
them was Ted, his son, well-mannered, well-exercised, a member of the
Leaf. He could talk to Ted about college athletics, the college
curriculum, his allowance, the weather, the virtues of capitalism and
whether to get a new beach wagon this summer. Now, to these subjects was
added the Leaf and the virtues of the Leaf. He could talk to Ted about
any number of things.

Nevertheless, sometimes when the annual dinner was over, there would be
a little group at the Leaf around this graduate or that. He remembered
one such group his senior year, around a sharp-tongued old man with
hooded eyes. The ex-senator was old and broken, but they'd stayed up
till two while his caustic voice made hay of accepted catchwords. Well,
he had met Ted's friends and remembered most of their names. They had
congratulated him on his speech and he had drunk a highball with them.
It had all been in accord with the best traditions of the Leaf but it
hadn't lasted very long.

For a moment, indeed, he had almost gotten into an argument with one of
them--the pink-faced, incredibly youthful one with the glasses who was
head of the Student Union--they hadn't had student unions in his time.
He had been answering a couple of questions quite informally, using
slang, and the pink-faced youth had broken in with, "But, look here,
sir--I mean, that was a good speech you made from the conservative point
of view and all that--but when you talk about labor's being made
responsible, just what do you mean and how far do you go? Do you mean
you want to scrap the Wagner Act or amend it or what?"

But then the rest of them had said, "Oh, don't mind Stu--he's our
communist. Skip it, Stu--how's dialectic materialism today?" and it had
passed off in kidding. Lane Parrington felt a little sorry about
that--he would have enjoyed a good argument with an intelligent
youngster--he was certainly broad-minded enough for that. But, instead,
he'd declined another highball and said, well, he supposed he ought to
be getting back to the inn. It had all been very well-mannered and in
accord with the best traditions of the Leaf. He wondered how the old
ex-senator had got them to talk.

Ted had offered to walk along with him, of course, and, equally, of
course, he had declined. Now he stood for a moment on the sidewalk,
wondering whether he ought to look in at class headquarters before going
back to the inn. He ought to, he supposed--after all, it was his
thirtieth reunion. It would be full of cigar smoke and voices and there
would be a drunk from another class--there was always, somehow or other,
a drunk from another class who insisted on leading cheers. And Schooner
Fairchild, the class funny man, would be telling stories--the one about
the Kickapoo chief, the one about President Dodge and the telephone. As
it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be. He didn't dislike
Schooner Fairchild any more--you couldn't dislike a man who had wasted
his life. But Schooner, somehow, had never seemed conscious of that.

Yes, he'd go to class headquarters--he'd go, if for no other reason than
to prove that he did not dislike Schooner Fairchild. He started walking
down Club Row. There were twelve of the clubhouses now--there had been
only eight in his time. They all looked very much alike, even the new
ones--it took an initiated eye to detect the slight enormous
differences--to know that Wampum, in spite of its pretentious lanterns,
was second-rate and would always be second-rate, while Abbey, small and
dingy, ranked with Momus and the Leaf. Parrington stood still, reliving
the moment of more than thirty years ago when he'd gotten the bid from
Wampum and thought he would have to accept it. It hadn't been
necessary--the Leaf messenger had knocked on his door at just three
minutes to nine. But whenever he passed the Wampum house he remembered.
For, for almost an hour, it had seemed as if the destined career of Lane
Parrington wasn't going to turn out right after all.

The small agonies of youth--they were unimportant, of course, but they
left a mark. And he'd had to succeed--he'd had to have the Leaf, just as
later on, he'd had to have money--he wasn't a Schooner Fairchild, to
take things as they came. You were geared like that or you weren't--if
you weren't, you might as well stay in Emmetsburg and end up as a
harried high school principal with sick headaches and a fine Spencerian
handwriting, as his father had. But he had wanted to get out of
Emmetsburg the moment he had realized there were other places to go.

He remembered a look through a microscope and a lashing, tailed thing
that swam. There were only two classes of people, the wigglers and the
ones who stood still--he should have made his speech on that--it would
have been a better speech. And the ones who stood still didn't like the
wigglers--that, too, he knew, from experience. If they saw a wiggler
coming, they closed ranks and opposed their large, well-mannered inertia
to the brusque, ill-mannered life. Later on, of course, they gave in
gracefully, but without real liking. He had made the Leaf on his
record--and a very good record it had had to be. He had even spent three
painful seasons with the track squad, just to demonstrate that desirable
all-aroundness that was one of the talking points. And even so, they had
smelled it--they had known, instinctively, that he wasn't quite their
kind. Tom Drury, for instance, had always been pleasant enough--but Tom
Drury had always made him feel that he was talking a little too much and
a little too loud. Tom Drury, who, even then, had looked like a
magnificent sheep. But he had also been class president, and the heir to
Drury and Son. And yet, they all liked Schooner Fairchild--they liked
him still.

And here was the end of Club Row, and the Momus House. He stopped and
took out a cigar. It was silly to fight old battles, especially when
they were won. If they asked the Drurys to dinner now, the Drurys
came--he'd been offered and declined a partnership in Drury and Son. But
he had helped Tom out with some of their affiliates and Tom had needed
help--Tom would always be impressive, of course, but it took more than
impressiveness to handle certain things. And now Ted was coming
along--and Ted was sound as a bell. So sound he might marry one of the
Drury daughters, if he wanted--though that was Ted's business. He
wondered if he wanted Ted to marry young. He had done so himself--on the
whole, it had been a mistake.

Funny, how things mixed in your mind. As always, when he remembered
Dorothy, there was the sharp, sweet smell of her perfume; then the
stubborn, competent look of her hands on the wheel of a car. They had
been too much alike to have married--lucky they'd found it out in time.
She had let him keep the child--of course he would have fought for it
anyway--but it was considered very modern in those days. Then the war
had washed over and obliterated a great deal--afterward, he had married
Cora. And that had worked out as it should--Ted was fond of her and she
treated him with just the right shade of companionableness. Most things
worked out in the end. He wondered if Dorothy had gotten what she wanted
at last--he supposed she had, with her Texan. But she'd died in a
hospital at Galveston, ten years ago, trying to have the Texan's child,
so he couldn't ask her now. They had warned her about having more
children--but, as soon as you warned Dorothy about anything, that was
what she wanted to do. He could have told them. But the Texan was one of
those handsome, chivalrous men.

Strange, that out of their two warring ambitions should have come the
sound, reliable, healthy Ted. But, no, it wasn't strange--he had
planned it as carefully as one could, and Cora had helped a great deal.
Cora never got out of her depth and she had a fine social sense. And the
very best nurses and schools from the very first--and there you were!
You did it as you ran a business--picked the right people and gave them
authority. He had hardly ever had to interfere himself.

There would be a great deal of money--but that could be taken care
of--there were ways. There were trust funds and foundations and clever
secretaries. And Ted need never realize it. There was no reason he
should--no reason in the least. Ted could think he was doing it all.

He pulled hard on his cigar and started to walk away. For the door of
the Momus Club had suddenly swung open, emitting a gush of light and a
small, chubby, gray-haired figure with a turned-up nose and a
jack-o'-lantern grin. It stood on the steps for a moment, saying good
night a dozen times and laughing. Lane Parrington walked fast--but it
was no use. He heard pattering footsteps behind him--a voice cried,
"Ought-Eight!" with conviction, then, "Lane Parrington, b'gosh!" He
stopped and turned.

"Oh, hello, Schooner," he said, unenthusiastically. "Your dinner over,
too?"

"Oh, the boys'll keep it up till three," said Schooner Fairchild,
mopping his pink brow. "But, after an hour and a half, I told them it
was time they got some other poor devil at the piano. I'm not as young
as I was." He panted, comically, and linked arms with Lane Parrington.
"Class headquarters?" he said. "I shouldn't go--Minnie will scalp me.
But I will."

"Well," said Lane Parrington uncomfortably--he hated having his arm
held, "I suppose we ought to look in."

"Duty, Mr. Easy, always duty," said Schooner Fairchild and chuckled.
"Hey, don't walk so fast--an old man can't keep up with you." He stopped
and mopped his brow again. "By the way," he said, "that's a fine boy of
yours, Lane."

"Oh," said Lane Parrington awkwardly. "Thanks. But I didn't know--"

"Saw something of him last summer," said Schooner Fairchild cheerfully.
"Sylvia brought him around to the house. He could have a rather nice
baritone, if he wanted."

"Baritone?" said Lane Parrington. "Sylvia?"

"Eldest daughter and pride of the Fairchild château," said Schooner
Fairchild, slurring his words by a tiny fraction. "She collects 'em--not
always--always with Father's approval. But your boy's a nice boy.
Serious, of course." He chuckled again, it seemed to Lane Parrington
maddeningly. "Oh, the sailor said to the admiral, and the admiral said
he--" he chanted. "Remember that one, Lane?"

"No," said Lane Parrington.

"That's right," said Schooner Fairchild, amiably. "Stupid of me. I
thought for a minute, you'd been in the quartet. But that was dear old
Pozzy Banks. Poor Pozzy--he never could sing 'The Last Rose of Summer'
properly till he was as drunk as an owl. A man of great talents. I
hoped he'd be here this time but he couldn't make it. He wanted to
come," he hummed, "but he didn't have the fare . . ."

"That's too bad," said Lane Parrington, seriously. "And yet, with
business picking up . . ."

Schooner Fairchild looked at him queerly, for an instant. "Oh, bless
you!" he said. "Pozzy never had a nickel. But he was fun." He tugged at
Lane Parrington's arm, as they turned a corner and saw an electric
sign--1908--above the door. "Well, here we go!" he said.

An hour later, Lane Parrington decided that it was just as he had
expected. True, the drunk from the unidentified class had gone home. But
others, from other classes, had arrived. And Schooner Fairchild was
sitting at the piano.

He himself was wedged uncomfortably at the back of the room between Ed
Runner and a man whose name, he thought, was either Ferguson or
Whitelaw, but who, in any case, addressed him as "Lane, old boy." This
made conversation difficult, for it was hard to call his neighbor either
"Fergy" or "Whitey" without being sure of his name. On the other hand,
conversation with Ed Runner was equally difficult, for that gentleman
had embarked upon an interminable reminiscence whose point turned upon
the exact location of Bill Webley's room Sophomore year. As Lane
Parrington had never been in any of Bill Webley's rooms, he had very
little to add to the discussion. He was also drinking beer, which never
agreed with him, and the cigar smoke stung his eyes. And around the
singer and the piano boiled and seethed a motley crew of graduates of
all classes--the Roman togas of 1913, the convict stripes of 1935, the
shorts and explorers' helmets of 1928. For the news had somehow gone
around, through the various class headquarters, that Schooner Fairchild
was doing his stuff--and, here and there, among the crowd, were
undergraduates, who had heard from brothers and uncles about Schooner
Fairchild, but had never seen him before in the flesh.

He had told the story of the Kickapoo chief, he had given the imitation
of President Dodge and the telephone. Both these and other efforts, Lane
Parrington noted wonderingly, had been received with tumultuous cheers.
Now he played a few chords and swung around on the piano stool.

"I shall now," he said, with his cherubic face very solemn, "emit my
positively last and final number--an imitation of dear old Pozzy Banks,
attempting to sing 'The Last Rose of Summer' while under the influence
of wine. Not all of you have been privileged to know dear old Pozzy--a
man of the most varied and diverse talents--it is our great regret that
he is not with us tonight. But for those of you who were not privileged
to know Pozzy, may I state as an introduction that dear old Pozzy is
built something on the lines of a truck, and that, when under the
influence of wine, it was his custom to sing directly into his hat,
which he held out before him like a card tray. We will now begin." He
whirled round, struck a few lugubrious notes and began to sing.

It was, as even Lane Parrington had to admit, extremely funny. He heard
himself joining in the wild, deep roar of laughter that greeted the end
of the first verse--he was annoyed at himself but he could not help it.
By some magic, by some trick of gesture and voice, the chubby,
bald-headed figure had suddenly become a large and lugubrious young
man--a young man slightly under the influence of wine but still with the
very best intentions, singing sentimentally and lugubriously into his
hat. It was a trick and an act and a sleight of hand not worth
learning--but it did not fail in its effect. Lane Parrington found
himself laughing till he ached--beside him, the man named either
Ferguson or Whitelaw was whooping and gasping for breath.

"And now," said Schooner Fairchild, while they were still laughing, "let
somebody play who _can_ play!" And, magically crooking his finger, he
summoned a dark-haired undergraduate from the crowd, pushed him down on
the piano stool, and, somehow or other, slipped through the press and
vanished, while they were still calling his name.

Lane Parrington, a little later, found himself strolling up and down the
dejected back yard of class headquarters. They had put up a tent, some
iron tables and a number of paper lanterns, but, at this hour, the
effect was not particularly gay. It must be very late and he ought to go
to bed. But he did not look at his watch. He was trying to think about
certain things in his life and get them into a proportion. It should be
a simple thing to do, as simple as making money, but it was not.

Ted--Dorothy--the Leaf--Emmetsburg--Schooner Fairchild--Tom Drury--the
place in Virginia and the mean house at Emmetsburg--United Investments
and a sleight-of-hand trick at a tiny piano. He shuffled the factors of
the equation about; they should add up to a whole. And, if they did, he
would be willing to admit it; he told himself that. Yes, even if the
final sum proved him wrong for years--that had always been one of the
factors of his own success, his knowing just when to cut a loss.

A shaky voice hummed behind him:

    "Oh, the ship's cat said to the cabin boy,
     To the cabin boy said she . . ."

He turned--it was Schooner Fairchild and, he thought at first, Schooner
Fairchild was very drunk. Then he saw the man's lips were gray, caught
him and helped him into one of the iron chairs.

"Sorry," wheezed Schooner Fairchild. "Must have run too fast, getting
away from the gang. Damn' silly--left my medicine at the inn."

"Here--wait--" said Lane Parrington, remembering the flask of brandy in
his pocket. He uncorked it and held it to the other man's lips. "Can you
swallow?" he said solicitously.

An elfish, undefeated smile lit Schooner Fairchild's face. "Always
could, from a child," he gasped. "Never ask a Fairchild twice." He drank
and said, incredibly, it seemed to Lane Parrington, "Napoleon . . .
isn't it? Sir, you spoil me." His color began to come back. "Better," he
said.

"Just stay there," said Lane Parrington. He dashed back into club
headquarters--deserted now, he noticed, except for the gloomy caretaker
and the man called Ferguson or Whitelaw, who was ungracefully asleep on
a leather couch. Efficiently, he found glasses, ice, soda, plain water
and ginger ale, and returned, his hands full of these trophies, to find
Schooner Fairchild sitting up in his chair and attempting to get a
cigarette from the pocket of his coat.

His eyes twinkled as he saw Lane Parrington's collection of glassware.
"My!" he said. "We _are_ going to make a night of it. Great shock to
me--never thought it of you, Lane."

"Hadn't I better get a doctor?" said Lane Parrington. "There's a
telephone--"

"Not a chance," said Schooner Fairchild. "It would worry Minnie sick.
She made me promise before I came up to take care. It's just the old
pump--misses a little sometimes. But I'll be all right, now--right as a
trivet, whatever a trivet is. Just give me another shot of Napoleon."

"Of course," said Lane Parrington, "but--"

"Brandy on beer, never fear," said Schooner Fairchild. "Fairchild's
Medical Maxims, Number One. And a cigarette . . . thanks." He breathed
deeply. "And there we are," he said, with a smile. "Just catches you in
the short ribs, now and then. But, when it's over, it's over. You ought
to try a little yourself, Lane--damn' silly performance of mine and you
look tired."

"Thanks," said Lane Parrington, "I will." He made himself, neatly, an
efficient brandy and soda and raised the glass to his lips.
"Well--er--here's luck," he said, a little stiffly.

"Luck!" nodded Schooner Fairchild. They both drank. Lane Parrington
looked at the pleasant, undefeated face.

"Listen, Schooner," said Lane Parrington, suddenly and harshly, "if you
had the whole works to shoot over again--" He stopped.

"That's the hell of a question to ask a man at three o'clock in the
morning," said Schooner equably. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Lane Parrington. "But that stuff at the piano
you did--well, how did you do it?" His voice was oddly ingenious, for
Lane Parrington.

"Genius, my boy, sheer, untrammeled genius," said Schooner Fairchild. He
chuckled and sobered. "Well, somebody has to," he said reasonably. "And
you wouldn't expect Tom Drury to do it, would you?--poor old Tom!"

"No," said Lane Parrington, breathing. "I wouldn't expect Tom Drury to
do it."

"Oh, Tom's all right," said Schooner Fairchild. "He was just born with
an ingrowing Drury and never had it operated on. But he's a fine guy,
all the same. Lord," he said, "it must be a curse--to have to be a
Drury, whether you like it or not. I never could have stood it--I never
could have played the game. Of course," he added hastily, "I suppose
it's different, if you do it all yourself, the way you have. That must
be a lot of fun."

"I wouldn't exactly call it fun," said Lane Parrington earnestly. "You
see, after all, Schooner, there are quite a good many things that enter
into . . ." He paused, and laughed hopelessly. "Was I always a stuffed
shirt?" he said. "I suppose I was."

"Oh, I wouldn't call you a stuffed shirt," said Schooner, a little
quickly. "You just had to succeed--and you've done it. Gosh, we all knew
you were going to, right from the first--there couldn't be any mistake
about that. It must be a swell feeling." He looked at Lane Parrington
and his voice trailed off. He began again. "You see, it was different
with me," he said. "I couldn't help it. Why, just take a look at
me--I've even got a comedy face. Well, I never wanted anything very much
except--oh, to have a good time and know other people were having a good
time. Oh, I tried taking the other things seriously--I tried when I was
a broker, but I couldn't, it was just no go. I made money
enough--everybody was making money--but every now and then, in the
middle of a million-share day, I'd just think how damn silly it was for
everybody to be watching the board and getting all excited over things
called ATT and UGI. And that's no way for a broker to act--you've got to
believe those silly initials mean something, if you want to be a broker.

"Well, I've tried a good many things since. And now and then I've been
lucky, and we've gotten along. And I've spent most of Minnie's money,
but she says it was worth it--and we've got the five girls and they're
wonders--and I'll probably die playing the piano at some fool party, for
you can't keep it up forever, but I only hope it happens before somebody
says, 'There goes poor old Schooner. He used to be pretty amusing, in
his time!' But, you see, I couldn't help it," he ended diffidently.
"And, you know, I've tried. I've tried hard. But then I'd start
laughing, and it always got in the way."

Lane Parrington looked at the man who had spent his wife's money and his
own for a sleight-of-hand trick, five daughters, and the sound of
friendly laughter. He looked at him without understanding, and yet with
a curious longing.

"But, Schooner--" he said, "with all you can do--you ought to--"

"Oh," said Schooner, a trifle wearily, "one has one's dreams. Sure, I'd
like to be Victor Boucher--he's a beautiful comedian. Or Bill Fields,
for instance. Who wouldn't? But I don't kid myself. It's a parlor
talent--it doesn't go over the footlights. But, Lord, what fun I've had
with it! And the funny things people keep doing, forever and ever, amen.
And the decent--the very decent things they keep doing, too. Well, I
always thought it would be a good life, while you had it." He paused,
and Lane Parrington saw the fatigue on his face. "Well, it's been a good
party," he said. "I wish old Pozzy could have been here. But I guess we
ought to go to bed."

"I'll phone for a cab," said Lane Parrington. "Nope--you're riding."

Lane Parrington shut the door of Schooner Fairchild's room behind him
and stood, for a moment, with his hand on the knob. He had seen Schooner
safely to bed--he had even insisted on the latter's taking his medicine,
though Schooner had been a little petulant about it. Now, however, he
still wondered about calling a doctor--if Schooner should be worse in
the morning, he would have Anstey come up by plane. It was nothing to
do, though not everybody could do it, and Anstey was much the best man.
In any case, he would insist on Schooner's seeing Anstey this week. Then
he wondered just how he was going to insist.

The old elevator just across the corridor came to a wheezing stop. Its
door opened and a dark-haired girl in evening dress came out. Lane
Parrington dropped his hand from the doorknob and turned away. But the
girl took three quick steps after him.

"I'm sorry," she said, a little breathlessly, "but I'm Sylvia Fairchild.
Is Father ill? The elevator boy said something--and I saw you coming out
of his room."

"He's all right," said Lane Parrington. "It was just the slightest sort
of--"

"Oh!" said the girl, "do you mind coming back for a minute? You're Ted's
father, aren't you? My room's next door, but I've got a key for his,
too--Mother told me to be sure--" She seemed very self-possessed. Lane
Parrington waited uncomfortably in the corridor for what seemed to him a
long time, while she went into her father's room. When she came out
again, she seemed relieved.

"It's all right," she said, in a low voice. "He's asleep, and his
color's good. And he's . . ." She paused. "Oh, damn!" she said. "We
can't talk out here. Come into my room for a minute--we can leave the
door open--after all, you _are_ Ted's father. I'll have to tell Mother,
you see--and Father will just say it wasn't anything."

She opened the door and led the way into the room. "Here," she said.
"Just throw those stockings off the chair--I'll sit on the bed. Well?"

"Well, I asked him if he wanted a doctor . . ." said Lane Parrington
humbly.

When he had finished a concise, efficient report, the girl nodded, and
he saw for the first time that she was pretty, with her dark, neat head
and her clever, stubborn chin.

"Thank you," she said. "I mean, really. Father's a perfect lamb--but he
doesn't like to worry Mother, and it worries her a lot more not to know.
And sometimes it's rather difficult, getting the truth out of Father's
friends. Not you," she was pleased to add. "You've been perfectly
truthful. And the brandy was quite all right."

"I'm glad," said Lane Parrington. "I wish your father would see Anstey,"
he added, a trifle awkwardly. "I could--er--make arrangements."

"He has," said the girl. Her mouth twitched. "Oh," she said. "I
shouldn't have gone to the dance. I couldn't help the Momus Club, but he
might have come back afterward, if I'd been here. Only, I don't know."

"I wouldn't reproach myself," said Lane Parrington. "After all--"

"Oh, I know," said the girl. "After all! If you don't all manage to kill
him, between you! Friends!" she sniffed. Then, suddenly, her face broke
into lines of amusement. "I sound just like Aunt Emma," she said. "And
that's pretty silly of me. Aunt Emma's almost pure poison. Of course it
isn't your fault and I really do thank you. Very much. Do you know, I
never expected you'd be a friend of Father's."

"After all," said Lane Parrington stiffly, "we were in the same class."

"Oh, I know," said the girl. "Father's talked about you, of course." Her
mouth twitched again, but this time, it seemed to Lane Parrington, with
a secret merriment. "And so has Ted, naturally," she added politely.

"I'm glad he happened to mention me," said Lane Parrington, and she
grinned, frankly.

"I deserved that," she said, while Lane Parrington averted his eyes from
what seemed to be a remarkably flimsy garment hung over the bottom of
the bed. "But Ted has, really. He admires you quite a lot, you know,
though, of course, you're different generations."

"Tell me--" said Lane Parrington. "No, I won't ask you."

"Oh, you know Ted," said the girl, rather impatiently. "It's awfully
hard to get him to say things--and he will spend such a lot of time
thinking he ought to be noble, poor lamb. But he's losing just a little
of that, thank goodness--when he first came to Widgeon Point, he was
trying so hard to be exactly like that terrible Drury boy. You see--"
she said, suddenly and gravely, "he could lose quite a lot of it and
still have more than most people."

Lane Parrington cleared his throat. There seemed nothing for him to say.
Then he thought of something.

"His mother was--er--a remarkable person," he said. "We were not at all
happy together. But she had remarkable qualities."

"Yes," said the girl. "Ted's told me. He remembers her." They looked at
each other for a moment--he noted the stubborn chin, the swift and
admirable hands. Then a clock on the mantel struck and the girl jumped.

"Good heavens!" she said. "It's four o'clock! Well--good night. And I do
thank you, Mr. Parrington."

"It wasn't anything," said Lane Parrington. "But remember me to your
father. But I'll see you in the morning, of course."

The following afternoon, Lane Parrington found himself waiting for his
car in the lobby of the inn. There had been a little trouble with the
garage and it was late. But he did not care, particularly, though he
felt glad to be going back to New York. He had said good-by to Ted an
hour before--Ted was going on to a house party at the Chiltons'--they'd
eventually meet on Long Island, he supposed. Meanwhile, he had had a
pleasant morning, attended the commencement exercises, and had lunch
with Ted and the Fairchilds at the inn. Schooner had been a little
subdued and both Ted and the girl frankly sleepy, but he had enjoyed the
occasion nevertheless. And somehow the fact that the president's
baccalaureate address had also viewed with alarm and talked about
imperiled bulwarks and the American way of life--had, in fact, repeated
with solemn precision a good many of the points in his own speech--did
not irk Lane Parrington as it might have the day before. After all, the
boys were young and could stand it. They had stood a good deal of
nonsense, even in his own time.

Now he thought once more of the equation he had tried too earnestly to
solve, in the back yard of commencement headquarters--and, for a moment,
almost grinned. It was, of course, insoluble--life was not as neat as
that. You did what you could, as it was given you to do--very often you
did the wrong things. And if you did the wrong things, you could hardly
remedy them by a sudden repentance--or, at least, he could not. There
were still the wigglers and the ones who stood still--and each had his
own virtues. And because he was a wiggler, he had thoughtfully and
zealously done his best to make his son into the image of one of the
magnificent sheep--the image of Tom Drury, who was neither hungry nor
gay. He could not remedy that, but he thought he knew somebody who could
remedy it, remembering the Fairchild girl's stubborn chin. And, in that
case at least, the grandchildren ought to be worth watching.

"Your car, Mr. Parrington," said a bellboy. He moved toward the door. It
was hard to keep from being a stuffed shirt, if you had the instinct in
you, but one could try. A good deal might be done, with trying.

As he stepped out upon the steps of the inn, he noticed a figure,
saluting--old Negro Mose, the campus character who remembered
everybody's name.

"Hello, Mose!" said Lane Parrington. "Remember me?"

"Remember you--sho', Mr. Parrington," said Mose. He regarded Lane
Parrington with beady eyes. "Let's see--you was 1906."

"Nineteen hundred and eight," said Lane Parrington, but without rancor.


Mose gave a professional chuckle. "Sho'!" he said. "I was forgettin'!
Let's see--you hasn't been back fo' years, Mister Parrington--but you
was in Tom Drury's class--an' Schooner Fairchild's class--"

"No," said Lane Parrington and gave the expected dollar, "not Tom
Drury's class, Schooner Fairchild's class."




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Other than the addition of a missing period, minor variations in
spelling and punctuation have been preserved.


[The end of _Schooner Fairchild's Class_ by Stephen Vincent Bénet]