It was seldom that Stover talked. He learned more by listening, by careful weighing of others' opinions, than in the attempt to classify his own thoughts through the medium of debate. At times when the discussion wandered from vital sources, he would ask a question, and these sharp, direct remarks had a pertinency and a searching trenchancy that sometimes upset an elaborate argument. Regan brought him to the romance of commonplace things, to a genuine interest and study of political conditions; Brockhurst irritated and dissatisfied him, and so stimulated him to reading and self-analysis; Story, with his seriousness and fairness, recalled him always to a judicial point of view and an understanding of others; Hungerford, with his big, effusive nature, always dissatisfied and eager for realities, was akin to his own nature, and they grew into a confidential intimacy. In a community of splendid barbarians, their circle was exceptional, due to the pronounced individuality of their several rebellious minds. Despite the abolition of the sophomore societies, other groups still maintained their exclusiveness, and kept alive the old antagonism, as the approach of Tap Day intensified the struggle for election and the natural campaigning of friend for friend. As Brockhurst had prophesied, the chairmanship of the _Lit_ Board went to Wiggin, a conscientious, thorough little plodder, who had never failed to hand in to each number his numerically correct quota of essays, two stories, a hammered-out poem and two painful portfolios. On the night of the election, Stover heard from his room in Lyceum the familiar: "Oh, you Dink Stover--stick out your head." "Hello there, Brocky; come up," he said anxiously. "Who got it?" "Wiggin, of course. Come on down, I want a ramble." It was the first time that Brockhurst had shown a longing for companionship. Stover returned into the room, announcing: "Poor old chap. Wiggin got it. Isn't it the devil?" "Wiggin--oh, Lord!" said Regan. "Why, he's not fit to tie Brocky's shoe-strings," said Hungerford, who fired a volley of soul-relieving oaths. "I'm going down to bum around a bit with him," said Stover, slipping on his coat, "cheer the old boy up." "Well, he knew it." "Lots of difference that makes!" Below Brocky, muffled to the ears, brim down, was whistling in unmusical enthusiasm. "_'Tis a jolly life we lead,_ _Care and sorrow we defy--_" "Hello, that you, Dink?" he said, breaking off. "Come on for a tramp." At that age, being inexperienced, the undergraduate in questions of sympathy wisely returns to the instincts of the canine. Stover, without speaking, fell into his stride, and they swung off towards West Rock.