“I feel illegal and dissolute. As though Prohibition were still on.” She unscrewed the top, which had a little silver chain, and drank. She looked mischievous and boyish, with her head tilted back from the collar of her old fur coat and Archer thought vaguely and pleasantly of the time when he first met her. She took a long drink, and made a little satisfied pursing sound with her lips as she passed the flask back to Archer. “Some day,” she said, “I’m going to investigate whiskey more completely. Scandal on the campus. Faculty member’s wife found looping in chapel-tower every Saturday evening.”
Archer smiled at her, pleased that she was having such a good time. Then he turned and offered the flask to Nancy.
Nancy shook her head soberly. “Vic gave me explicit instructions not to,” she said.
“I won’t tell the man,” Archer said. “Mum as the grave.”
“No,” Nancy said. “He says I get silly on one drink and he’s right.”
“Does Vic drink much?” Archer asked curiously.
“Yes,” Nancy said, without criticism. “I’ve had to carry him into his fraternity house twice so far. He weighs a ton, too, and he’s dangerous when he’s drunk. He’ll do anything. The last time, he walked across the water pipe over the gully near the lake. In the middle of the night. Somebody dared him. It’s a twenty-foot drop and he wouldn’t listen to any of us when we tried to stop him. He knocked out Sully, that’s number 17, the center, because Sully stood in his way. And Sully’s his best friend.”
The history student, Archer thought dryly, does other things with his time, too, I see. And there’s more to little Nancy MacDonald than you can see with the naked eye across six rows of chairs in a classroom, too.
He lifted the flask and drank. It was Bourbon, very smooth and strong. Another thing about the quarterback, Archer thought appreciatively, he does not serve inferior spirits to his elders.
The game was about to begin and Samson, the coach, was hanging onto Herres’ arm and talking earnestly into his ear. Herres kept nodding again and again impatiently and trying to walk away from Samson, as though he had heard everything that the coach had to say and was bored by it. Archer watched through the binoculars as the players gathered into a pre-game huddle, exhorting each other, shaking hands and clapping one another on the back, their faces strained and tense. Archer noticed that Herres stood quietly on the edge of the group, his hands on his hips, taking no part in the fervent little ceremony, looking on almost tolerantly, like a grownup watching children playing. When a man whacked him encouragingly across the shoulders, Herres shrugged, as if he were annoyed. And when, just as the knot of players broke up, number 17, Sully, kneeled swiftly and crossed himself, Herres’ face, calm and soldierly looking under the golden helmet, showed amused disdain.
“He shouldn’t do that to Sully,” Nancy said. “Vic always makes fun of him when he crosses himself and he knows it hurts him. He keeps telling Sully that’s taking God too cheaply, pulling Him in on athletic events. He says if God spends His Saturdays watching football games, He must be neglecting more important work somewhere else.”
“Oh, that’s unfriendly,” Kitty said. Kitty came from a religious family and treated anyone’s observance of ritual with worried respect. “I should think it would make Mr. Sully hate him.”
“Oh, no,” Nancy said, seriously. “Sully loves Vic. He goes to Mass and prays for Vic’s safety every Saturday morning. It makes Vic furious.”
Watching Herres trot out onto the field to line up for the kickoff, Archer had the feeling that there was no necessity for praying for the boy’s safety at any time. He moved with calm assurance and didn’t jitter around the way the other boys did and his long powerful body seemed to be under easy control at every moment. Yet, when the game got under way,
Archer smiled at her, pleased that she was having such a good time. Then he turned and offered the flask to Nancy.
Nancy shook her head soberly. “Vic gave me explicit instructions not to,” she said.
“I won’t tell the man,” Archer said. “Mum as the grave.”
“No,” Nancy said. “He says I get silly on one drink and he’s right.”
“Does Vic drink much?” Archer asked curiously.
“Yes,” Nancy said, without criticism. “I’ve had to carry him into his fraternity house twice so far. He weighs a ton, too, and he’s dangerous when he’s drunk. He’ll do anything. The last time, he walked across the water pipe over the gully near the lake. In the middle of the night. Somebody dared him. It’s a twenty-foot drop and he wouldn’t listen to any of us when we tried to stop him. He knocked out Sully, that’s number 17, the center, because Sully stood in his way. And Sully’s his best friend.”
The history student, Archer thought dryly, does other things with his time, too, I see. And there’s more to little Nancy MacDonald than you can see with the naked eye across six rows of chairs in a classroom, too.
He lifted the flask and drank. It was Bourbon, very smooth and strong. Another thing about the quarterback, Archer thought appreciatively, he does not serve inferior spirits to his elders.
The game was about to begin and Samson, the coach, was hanging onto Herres’ arm and talking earnestly into his ear. Herres kept nodding again and again impatiently and trying to walk away from Samson, as though he had heard everything that the coach had to say and was bored by it. Archer watched through the binoculars as the players gathered into a pre-game huddle, exhorting each other, shaking hands and clapping one another on the back, their faces strained and tense. Archer noticed that Herres stood quietly on the edge of the group, his hands on his hips, taking no part in the fervent little ceremony, looking on almost tolerantly, like a grownup watching children playing. When a man whacked him encouragingly across the shoulders, Herres shrugged, as if he were annoyed. And when, just as the knot of players broke up, number 17, Sully, kneeled swiftly and crossed himself, Herres’ face, calm and soldierly looking under the golden helmet, showed amused disdain.
“He shouldn’t do that to Sully,” Nancy said. “Vic always makes fun of him when he crosses himself and he knows it hurts him. He keeps telling Sully that’s taking God too cheaply, pulling Him in on athletic events. He says if God spends His Saturdays watching football games, He must be neglecting more important work somewhere else.”
“Oh, that’s unfriendly,” Kitty said. Kitty came from a religious family and treated anyone’s observance of ritual with worried respect. “I should think it would make Mr. Sully hate him.”
“Oh, no,” Nancy said, seriously. “Sully loves Vic. He goes to Mass and prays for Vic’s safety every Saturday morning. It makes Vic furious.”
Watching Herres trot out onto the field to line up for the kickoff, Archer had the feeling that there was no necessity for praying for the boy’s safety at any time. He moved with calm assurance and didn’t jitter around the way the other boys did and his long powerful body seemed to be under easy control at every moment. Yet, when the game got under way,
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