A Master's Degree [26]
of American Beauties. "These go to Vic Burleigh when he gets behind the goal posts. Cost lots of my Uncle Lloyd's money, but we had to have them."
Small wonder that the very odor of roses was hateful to Burgess at that moment.
"May I speak to you a minute?" Vic said as the two men met in the rotunda.
Burgess halted in silence.
"The coach sent me after your statement of my standing. We've got a bunch of sticklers to fight today."
"I have turned in my report," Burgess responded coldly.
"So the coach said, all but mine. I'm late. May I have my report now?" Vic urged, trying to be composed.
"I have no further report for you." It was a cold-blooded thing to say, but Burgess, though filled with jealousy, was conscientious now in his belief that Burleigh was really a low grade fellow, deserving no leniency nor recognition.
"But you haven't given me any standing yet, the coach says." Vic's voice was dead calm.
"I have no standing to give you. You are below grade."
Vic's eyes blazed. "You dog!" was all he could say.
"Now, see here, Burleigh, there's no need to act any ruder than you can help." Burleigh did not move, nor did he take his yellow brown eyes from his instructor's face. "What have you to say further? I thought you were in a hurry." Burgess did not really mean a taunt in the last words.
"I have this to say." Victor Burleigh's voice had a menace in its depth and power. "You have done this infamous thing, not because I deserve it, but because you hate me on account of a girl--Elinor Wream."
"Stop!" Vincent Burgess commanded.
I forbid you to mention her name. You, who come in here from some barren, poverty-stricken prairie home, where good breeding is unknown. You, to presume to think of such a girl as Dr. Fenneben's beautiful niece, whose reputation was barely saved by old Bond Saxon on the stormy night after the holiday. You, who are forced for some reason to care for an unknown child. You, whose true character will soon be fully known here-- if this is what you have to say, you may go," he added with an imperious wave of the hand.
The meanness of anger is in its mastery. Burgess had meant only to discipline Burleigh, but it was too late for that now. The rotunda was very quiet. Everybody was down on the field waiting impatiently for the game to begin. Burgess was also impatient. There was a seat waiting for him beside Elinor Wream.
"I'm not quite ready to go"--Vic's fierce voice filled the rotunda--"because you are going to write my credentials for this game, and you'll do it quick, or beg for mercy."
"I refuse to consider a word you say." Burgess was furious now, and the white face and burning eyes of his opponent were unbearable. "I will not grant you any credentials, you low-born prize-fighter--"
A sudden grip of steel held him fast as Vic towered over him. The softened light of the dome of the rotunda, where the Kansas motto, "_Ad Astra per Aspera_." adorned the stained glass panes, had never fallen on such a scene as this.
"See here, Burleigh, you'll repent this unwarranted attack," Burgess cried, trying to free himself. "Brute force will win only among brutes."
"That's the only place I expect to use it," Vic retorted, tightening his grip. "No time for words now. The honor of Sunrise as well as my honor is at stake, and it's my right to play in this game, because I have broken no laws. I may have no culture except that of a prairie claim; and I may be poor, and, therefore, presumptuous in daring to mention Elinor Wream's name to you. But"--the brown eyes were a blazing fire--"nobody can tell me that any man must rescue a girl from me to save her reputation, nor that any dishonor belongs to me because of little Bug Buler. Uncultured, as I am, I have the culture of a courage that guards the helpless; and ill-bred, as I may be, I have a gentleman's honor wherever a woman's need calls for my protection."
Vic's face was ashy, for his anger matched his love, and both were parallel to his wonderful physique and endurance. In his fury,
Small wonder that the very odor of roses was hateful to Burgess at that moment.
"May I speak to you a minute?" Vic said as the two men met in the rotunda.
Burgess halted in silence.
"The coach sent me after your statement of my standing. We've got a bunch of sticklers to fight today."
"I have turned in my report," Burgess responded coldly.
"So the coach said, all but mine. I'm late. May I have my report now?" Vic urged, trying to be composed.
"I have no further report for you." It was a cold-blooded thing to say, but Burgess, though filled with jealousy, was conscientious now in his belief that Burleigh was really a low grade fellow, deserving no leniency nor recognition.
"But you haven't given me any standing yet, the coach says." Vic's voice was dead calm.
"I have no standing to give you. You are below grade."
Vic's eyes blazed. "You dog!" was all he could say.
"Now, see here, Burleigh, there's no need to act any ruder than you can help." Burleigh did not move, nor did he take his yellow brown eyes from his instructor's face. "What have you to say further? I thought you were in a hurry." Burgess did not really mean a taunt in the last words.
"I have this to say." Victor Burleigh's voice had a menace in its depth and power. "You have done this infamous thing, not because I deserve it, but because you hate me on account of a girl--Elinor Wream."
"Stop!" Vincent Burgess commanded.
I forbid you to mention her name. You, who come in here from some barren, poverty-stricken prairie home, where good breeding is unknown. You, to presume to think of such a girl as Dr. Fenneben's beautiful niece, whose reputation was barely saved by old Bond Saxon on the stormy night after the holiday. You, who are forced for some reason to care for an unknown child. You, whose true character will soon be fully known here-- if this is what you have to say, you may go," he added with an imperious wave of the hand.
The meanness of anger is in its mastery. Burgess had meant only to discipline Burleigh, but it was too late for that now. The rotunda was very quiet. Everybody was down on the field waiting impatiently for the game to begin. Burgess was also impatient. There was a seat waiting for him beside Elinor Wream.
"I'm not quite ready to go"--Vic's fierce voice filled the rotunda--"because you are going to write my credentials for this game, and you'll do it quick, or beg for mercy."
"I refuse to consider a word you say." Burgess was furious now, and the white face and burning eyes of his opponent were unbearable. "I will not grant you any credentials, you low-born prize-fighter--"
A sudden grip of steel held him fast as Vic towered over him. The softened light of the dome of the rotunda, where the Kansas motto, "_Ad Astra per Aspera_." adorned the stained glass panes, had never fallen on such a scene as this.
"See here, Burleigh, you'll repent this unwarranted attack," Burgess cried, trying to free himself. "Brute force will win only among brutes."
"That's the only place I expect to use it," Vic retorted, tightening his grip. "No time for words now. The honor of Sunrise as well as my honor is at stake, and it's my right to play in this game, because I have broken no laws. I may have no culture except that of a prairie claim; and I may be poor, and, therefore, presumptuous in daring to mention Elinor Wream's name to you. But"--the brown eyes were a blazing fire--"nobody can tell me that any man must rescue a girl from me to save her reputation, nor that any dishonor belongs to me because of little Bug Buler. Uncultured, as I am, I have the culture of a courage that guards the helpless; and ill-bred, as I may be, I have a gentleman's honor wherever a woman's need calls for my protection."
Vic's face was ashy, for his anger matched his love, and both were parallel to his wonderful physique and endurance. In his fury,