The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader android .txt) 📖

And I Who Love It Say So. Sanford Is A Good Little College,

But It Isn't A Harvard,  A Yale,  Or A Princeton,  Or,  For That Matter,  A

Dartmouth Or Brown; And Those Colleges Still Have Perfection Ahead Of

Them. Sanford Has Made A Place For Itself In The Sun,  But It Will Never

Find A Bigger Place So Long As Its Sons Do Nothing But Chant Its Praises

And Condemn Any One As Disloyal Who Happens To Mention Its Very Numerous

Faults.

 

"Well,  I'm Going To Mention Some Of Those Faults,  Not All Of Them By Any

Means,  Just Those That Any Intelligent Undergraduate Ought To Be Able To

See For Himself.

 

"In The First Place,  This Is Supposed To Be An Educational Institution;

It Is Endowed For That Purpose And It Advertises Itself As Such. And You

Men Say That You Come Here To Get An Education. But What Do You Really

Do? You Resist Education With All Your Might And Main,  Digging Your

Heels Into The Gravel Of Your Own Ignorance And Fighting Any Attempt To

Teach You Anything Every Inch Of The Way. What's Worse,  You Aren't

Content With Your Own Ignorance; You Insist That Every One Else Be

Ignorant,  Too. Suppose A Man Attempts To Acquire Culture,  As Some Of

Them Do. What Happens? He Is Branded As Wet. He Is A Social Leper.

 

"Wet! What Currency That Bit Of Slang Has--And What Awful Power. It Took

Me A Long Time To Find Out What The Word Meant,  But After Long Research

I Think That I Know. A Man Is Wet If He Isn't A 'Regular Guy'; He Is Wet

If He Isn't 'Smooth'; He Is Wet If He Has Intellectual Interests And

Lets The Mob Discover Them; And,  Strangely Enough,  He Is Wet By The Same

Token If He Is Utterly Stupid. He Is Wet If He Doesn't Show At Least A

Tendency To Dissipate,  But He Isn't Wet If He Dissipates To Excess. A

Man Will Be Branded As Wet For Any Of These Reasons,  And Once He Is So

Branded,  He Might As Well Leave College; If He Doesn't,  He Will Have A

Lonely And Hard Row To Hoe. It Is A Rare Undergraduate Who Can Stand The

Open Contempt Of His Fellows."

 

He Paused,  Obviously Ordering His Thoughts Before Continuing. The Boys

Waited Expectantly. Some Of Them Were Angry,  Some Amused,  A Few In

Agreement,  And All Of Them Intensely Interested.

 

Henley Leaned Back In His Chair. "What Horrible Little Conformers You

Are," He Began Sarcastically,  "And How You Loathe Any One Who Doesn't

Conform! You Dress Both Your Bodies And Your Minds To Some Set Model.

Just At Present You Are Making Your Hair Foul With Some Sort Of Perfumed

Axle-Grease; Nine Tenths Of You Part It In The Middle. It Makes No

Difference Whether The Style Is Becoming To You Or Not; You Slick It

Down And Part It In The Middle. Last Year Nobody Did It; The Chances Are

That Next Year Nobody Will Do It,  But Anybody Who Doesn't Do It Right

Now Is In Danger Of Being Called Wet."

 

Hugh Had A Moment Of Satisfaction. He Did Not Pomade His Hair,  And He

Parted It On The Side As He Had When He Came To College. True,  He Had

Tried The New Fashion,  But After Scanning Himself Carefully In The

Mirror,  He Decided That He Looked Like A "Blond Wop"--And Washed His

Hair. He Was Guilty,  However,  Of The Next Crime Mentioned.

 

"The Same Thing Is True Of Clothes," Henley Was Saying. "Last Year Every

One Wore Four-Button Suits And Very Severe Trousers. This Year Every One

Is Wearing Norfolk Jackets And Bell-Bottomed Trousers,  Absurd Things

That Flop Around The Shoes,  And Some Of Them All But Trail On The

Ground. Now,  Any One Who Can't Afford The Latest Creation Or Who

Declines To Wear It Is Promptly Called Wet.

 

"And,  As I Said Before,  You Insist On The Same Standardization Of Your

Minds. Just Now It Is Not _Au Fait_ To Like Poetry; A Man Who Does Is

Exceedingly Wet,  Indeed; He Is Effeminate,  A Sissy. As A Matter Of

Fact,  Most Of You Like Poetry Very Much. You Never Give Me Such Good

Attention As When I Read Poetry. What's More,  Some Of You Are Writing

The Disgraceful Stuff. But What Happens When A Man Does Submit A Poem As

A Theme? He Writes At The Bottom Of The Page,  'Please Do Not Read This

In Class.' Some Of You Write That Because You Don't Think That The Poem

Is Very Good,  But Most Of You Are Afraid Of The Contempt Of Your

Classmates. I Know Of Any Number Of Men In This College Who Read Vast

Quantities Of Poetry,  But Always On The Sly. Just Think Of That! Men Pay

Thousands Of Dollars And Give Four Years Of Their Lives Supposedly To

Acquire Culture And Then Have To Sneak Off Into A Corner To Read Poetry.

 

"Who Are Your College Gods? The Brilliant Men Who Are Thinking And

Learning,  The Men With Ideals And Aspirations? Not By A Long Shot. They

Are The Athletes. Some Of The Athletes Happen To Be As Intelligent And

As Eager To Learn As Anybody Else,  But A Fair Number Are Here Simply

Because They Are Paid To Come To Play Football Or Baseball Or What Not.

And They Are Worshiped,  Bowed Down To,  Cheered,  And Adored. The

Brilliant Men,  Unless They Happen To Be Very 'Smooth' In The Bargain,

Are Considered Wet And Are Ostracized.

 

"Such Is The College That You Write Themes About To Tell Me That It Is

Perfect. The College Is Made Up Of Men Who Worship Mediocrity; That Is

Their Ideal Except In Athletics. The Condition Of The Football Field Is

A Thousand Times More Important To The Undergraduates And The Alumni

Than The Number Of Books In The Library Or The Quality Of The Faculty.

The Fraternities Will Fight Each Other To Pledge An Athlete,  But I Have

Yet To See Them Raise Any Dust Over A Man Who Was Merely Intelligent.

 

"I Tell You That You Have False Standards,  False Ideals,  And That You

Have A False Loyalty To The College. The College Can Stand Criticism; It

Will Thrive And Grow On It--But It Won't Grow On Blind Adoration. I Tell

You Further That You Are As Standardized As Fords And About As

Ornamental. Fords Are Useful For Ordinary Work; So Are You--And Unless

Some Of You Wake Up And,  As You Would Say,  'Get Hep To Yourselves,' You

Are Never Going To Be Anything More Than Human Fords.

 

"You Pride Yourselves On Being The Cream Of The Earth,  The Noblest Work

Of God. You Are Told So Constantly. You Are The Intellectual Aristocracy

Of America,  The Men Who Are Going To Lead The Masses To A Brighter And

Broader Vision Of Life. Merciful Heavens Preserve Us! You Swagger Around

Utterly Contemptuous Of The Man Who Hasn't Gone To College. You Talk

Magnificently About Democracy,  But You Scorn The Non-College Man--And

You Try Pathetically To Imitate Yale And Princeton. And I Suppose Yale

And Princeton Are Trying To Imitate Fifth Avenue And Newport. Democracy!

Rot! This College Isn't Democratic. Certain Fraternities Condescend To

Other Fraternities,  And Those Fraternities Barely Deign Even To

Condescend To The Non-Fraternity Men. You Say Hello To Everybody On The

Campus And Think That You Are Democratic. Don't Fool Yourselves,  And

Don't Try To Fool Me. If You Want To Write Some Themes About Sanford

That Have Some Sense And Truth In Them,  Some Honest Observation,  Go

Ahead; But Don't Pass In Any More Chauvinistic Bunk. I'm Sick Of It."

 

He Put His Watch In His Pocket And Stood Up. "You May Belong To The

Intellectual Aristocracy Of The Country,  But I Doubt It; You May Lead

The Masses To A 'Bigger And Better' Life,  But I Doubt It; You May Be The

Cream Of The Earth,  But I Doubt It. All I've Got To Say Is This: If

You're The Cream Of The Earth,  God Help The Skimmed Milk." He Stepped

Down From The Rostrum And Briskly Left The Room.

 

For An Instant The Boys Sat Silent,  And Then Suddenly There Was A Rustle

Of Excitement. Some Of Them Laughed,  Some Of Them Swore Softly,  And Most

Of Them Began To Talk. They Pulled On Their Baa-Baa Coats And Left The

Room Chattering.

 

"He Certainly Has The Dope," Said Pudge Jamieson. "We're A Lot Of

Low-Brows Pretending To Be Intellectual High-Hats. We're Intellectual

Hypocrites; That's What We Are."

 

"How Do You Get That Way?" Ferdy Hillman,  Who Was Walking With Hugh And

Pudge,  Demanded Angrily. "We May Not Be So Hot,  But We're A Damn Sight

Better Than These Guys That Work In Offices And Mills. Jimmie Henley

Gives Me A Pain. He Shoots Off His Gab As If He Knew Everything. He's

Got To Show Me Where Other Colleges Have Anything On Sanford. He's A

Hell Of A Sanford Man,  He Is."

 

They Were Walking Slowly Down The Stairs. George Winsor Caught Up With

Them.

 

"What Did You Think Of It,  George?" Hugh Asked.

 

Winsor Grinned. "He Gave Me Some Awful Body Blows," He Said,  Chuckling.

"Cripes,  I Felt Most Of The Time That He Was Talking Only To Me. I'm

Sore All Over. What Did You Think Of It? Jimmie's A Live Wire,  All

Right."

 

"I Don't Know What To Think," Hugh Replied Soberly. "He's Knocked All

The Props From Under Me. I've Got To Think It Over."

 

He Did Think It Over,  And The More He Thought The More He Was Inclined

To Believe That Henley Was Right. Boy-Like,  He Carried Henley's

Statements To Their Final Conclusion And Decided That The College Was A

Colossal Failure. He Wrote A Theme And Said So.

 

"You're Wrong,  Hugh," Henley Said When He Read The Theme. "Sanford Has

Real Virtues,  A Bushel Of Them. You'll Discover Them All Right Before

You Graduate."

 

 

Chapter 16

Sanford's Virtues Were Hard For Hugh To Find,  And They Grew More

Inconspicuous As The Term Advanced. For The Time Being Nothing Seemed

Worth While: He Was Disgusted With Himself,  The Undergraduates,  And The

Fraternity; He Felt That The College Had Bilked Him. Often He Thought Of

The Talk He Had Had With His Father Before He Left For College.

Sometimes That Talk Seemed Funny,  Entirely Idiotic,  But Sometimes It

Infuriated Him. What Right Had His Father To Send Him Off To College

With Such Fool Ideas In His Head? Nu Delta,  The Perfect Brotherhood!

Bull! How Did His Father Get That Way,  Anyhow? Hugh Had Yet To Learn

That Nearly Every Chapter Changes Character At Least Once A Decade And

That Nu Delta Thirty Years Earlier Had Been An Entirely Different

Organization From What It Was At Present. At Times He Felt That His

Father Had Deliberately Deceived Him,  But In Quieter Moments He Knew

Better; Then He Realized That His Father Was A Dreamer And An Innocent,

A Delicately Minded Man Who Had Never Really Known Anything About

Sanford College Or The World Either. Hugh Often Felt Older And Wiser

Than His Father; And In Many Ways He Was.

 

In March He Angered His Fraternity Brothers Again By Refusing A Part In

The Annual Musical Comedy,  Which Was Staged By The Dramatic Society

During Prom Week. Hugh's Tenor Singing Voice And Rather Small Features

Made Him An Excellent Possibility For A Woman's Part. But He Was Not A

Good Actor,  And He Knew It. His Attempts At Acting In A High-School Play

Had Resulted In A Flat Failure,  And He Had No Intention Of Publicly

Making A Fool Of Himself Again. Besides,  He Did Not Like The Idea Of

Appearing On The Stage As A Girl; The Mere Idea Was Offensive To Him.

Therefore,  When The Society Offered Him A Part He Declined It.

 

Bob Tucker Took Him Severely To Task. "What Do You Mean,  Hugh," He

Demanded,  "By Turning Down The Dramat? Here You've Got A Chance For A

Lead,  And You Turn Up Your Nose At It As If You Were God Almighty. It

Seems To Me That You Are Getting Gosh-Awful High-Hat Lately. You Run

Around With A Bunch Of Thoroughly