Free The Troubled Air by Irwin Shaw Page B

pride, Vic, and maybe that’s the worst of the lot.”
    Vic grinned. “I didn’t know they had compulsory chapel on this campus any more,” he said.
    Archer restrained his anger. “I’m not talking as a preacher,” he said. “I’m speaking as a teacher and friend. There’s a certain minimum of decency you owe whatever society you find yourself in. When you do something that seems strange or harmful or unfriendly to the people you’ve been working with and who depend on you for one thing or another, it seems to me you owe them some kind of explanation. You have to live with them and they have to live with you, and they have a right to be able to locate you in a general sort of way.”
    “The band will now play the college anthem,” Herres said. “I don’t owe anybody anything. If I find anybody locating me, I’ll move. If I’m suffering from the sin of pride—” He lifted his eyebrows mockingly. “I’m delighted. Thanks for your interest, Professor. Want to see the game with me tomorrow?”
    When he left, Archer sat staring into the empty fireplace, troubled, obscurely oppressed. Ah, he thought, I’m taking this too seriously. I mustn’t forget he’s only twenty-one years old.
    The parade in front of the stands the next day with Herres and the slow climb up the aisle to their seats was one of the most embarrassing experiences Archer had ever lived through. People fell silent in groups as they approached and others, farther off, stood up and stared, all faces cold and full of suspicion. Archer, who wanted people to like him at all times, felt rejected and lonely at Herres’ side, but Herres seemed oblivious of what was going on. He talked easily, nodded to acquaintances who barely acknowledged the greeting, chuckled at a joke of his own making, and as soon as they were seated, not in the last row this time, took out his flask and offered it to Archer. Archer, conscious of a thousand eyes upon them, refused to drink, feeling cowardly and exposed. This is going to make me real popular all over the campus, he thought glumly this afternoon. Herres drank, not very much, and without ostentation, and put the flask away.
    All through the game, especially when the team failed to move the ball, or was scored against, their neighbors would stare accusingly at Herres, but he still paid no attention. He explained plays to Archer, pointed out where men were missing assignments, predicted where plays were going, and drank from the silver flask, not too heavily. Either this boy is completely encased in armor plate, Archer thought, admiringly, or he is one of the great actors of our time. In a reckless gesture, during the fourth quarter, Archer took a drink himself, staring coldly, mimicking Herres, at the disapproving faces around him.
    “The silver flask award,” Herres whispered, grinning, after Archer had drunk, “for Mr. Clement Archer, for extraordinary courage in face of heavily concentrated disapproval.”
    It was a joke, but Archer knew Herres well enough to see that Herres was very pleased with him. I must watch that boy carefully, Archer thought, I can learn a lot from him.
    After the game was over (the college lost by two touchdowns) Herres and Archer walked through the crowd, little hushed, resentful eddies marking their progress, and without hurrying, made their way toward Archer’s home. Suddenly, Herres began to chuckle. Archer, who was feeling spent by this time, looked at him curiously. “What’re you laughing at?” he demanded.
    “The big moment,” Herres said. “The moment of decision. When you finally took the drink and stared everybody down. Caesar watching the gladiators in the arena on a slow afternoon. You came through, Professor. I was testing you all day, and you came through like a lion. You’re solid, Professor, rock-solid, and I admire you.”
    He’s too perceptive, Archer thought, he knows too much for a boy his age. But mixed with this was a feeling of warm accomplishment and