Stover suddenly comprehended that Le Baron was exposing his own theory, that he, prospective captain of the crew, was imposing on himself. "Don't ticket yourself for drinking." "I won't." "Or get known for gambling--oh, I'm not preaching a moral lesson; only, what you do, do quietly." "I understand." "And another thing: no fooling around women; that isn't done here--that'll queer you absolutely." "Of course." "Now, you've got to do a certain amount of studying here. Better do it the first year and get in with the faculty." "I will." "There it is," said Le Baron, suddenly extending his hand toward the lighted college. "Isn't it worth working for--to win out in the end? And, Stover, it's easy enough when you know how. Play the game as others are playing it. It's a big game, and it'll follow you all through life. There it is; it's up to you. Keep your head clear and see straight." The gesture of Le Baron, half seen in the darkness, brought a strange trouble to Stover. It was as if, at the height of the eager confidence of his youth, some one had whispered in his ear and a shadowy hand had held before his eyes a gigantic temptation. "Are there any questions you want to ask me?" said Le Baron, with a new feeling of affection toward the unprotected freshman whom he had so generously advised. "No." They sat silently. And all at once, as Stover gazed, from the high, misty walls and the elm-tops confounded in the night, a monstrous hand seemed to stretch down, impending over him, and the care-free windows suddenly to be transformed into myriad eyes, set on him in inquisition--eyes that henceforth indefatigably, remorselessly would follow him. And with it something snapped, something fragile--the unconscious, simple democracy of boyhood. And, as it went, it went forever. This was the world rushing in, dividing the hosts. This was the parting of the ways. The standards of judgment were the world's. It was not what he had thought. It was no longer the simple struggle. It was complex, disturbing, incomprehensible. To win he would have to change. "It's been good of you to tell me all this," he said, giving his hand to Le Baron, and the words sounded hollow. "Think over what I've said to you." "I will." "A man is known by his friends; remember that, Stover, if you don't anything else!" "It's awfully good of you." "I like you, Dink," said Le Baron, shaking hands warmly; "now you know the game, go in and win." "It's awfully good of you," said Stover aimlessly. He stood watching Le Baron's strong, aristocratic figure go swinging across the dim campus in a straight, undeviating, well-calculated path. "It's awfully good of him," he said mechanically, "awfully good. What a wonder he is!" And yet, and yet, he could not define the new feeling--he was but barely conscious of it; was it rebellion or was it a lurking disappointment?