About this time something happened that jolted Steve out of his routine and hurled him back into the throes of chaos.
“What do you know about that blond chick, Cecilia Endsrud?” Tom asked casually as he swept up the four discards in a game of pinochle. The four men were sitting around a table in the dormitory lounge at the end of the hall.
“Never heard of her,” Lute responded quickly, sizing up his chances of making three-seventy this hand.
“Me neither,” drawled Ted. “How come?”
“Oh, just curious. How ‘bout you, partner?” he inquired of Steve across the table.
“Seems nice,” Steve managed to choke out, recovering his breath.
“‘Nice,’ the man says! Would you listen to him? He calls her ‘nice’!”
“Well, what do you call her?” demanded Lute.
“Une merveille!” Tom lingered on each syllable, enunciating even the mute e’s.
“All right, Johnny boy. So you were in France. Now say that in plain English.”
“A miracle! A wonder!” Tom translated unperturbed.
“Well then, how come I haven’t seen her?”
“You’re too busy eyeing the broads to notice her. This one’s got class.”
“Now that you’re an old man of twenty-four who’s played the field and is ready to settle down and domesticate, you’re looking for class, eh?”
“No. Now listen, seriously. She’s about five foot six or seven. She’s got wavy golden hair like you’ve never seen before and smooth tan skin that makes you drool. She’s got soft brown eyes that make you wilt, pretty crescent lips, and a neat slender body with just the right amount of curves. That’s my idea of a real woman!”
“Listen to the poet!” cried Lute.
“Yeah,” chimed in Ted, closing his eyes to get a better picture of this woman.
“And he,” exclaimed Tom pointing at Steve, “he calls her ‘nice’!”
“Well, what did you expect from Pearson? Some sort of dreamy rhapsody like yours?” Lute demanded.
“Of course not. But ‘nice’ doesn’t cut it. Not in any way.”
“So what do you plan to do about her, a big handsome brute like you?” Ted teased.
“That’s just what I’ve been wondering. This place is dying a slow death. And there she is, and here I am. It doesn’t make sense not to do something about that. Another thing—I’ll bet a fellow would have to be kind of careful. They say she’s a preacher’s daughter.”
“So that’s the one you mean, is it?” The light suddenly dawned on Lute. “I’ll admit she’s got a real pretty face, but that’s about all she’s got.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter for a change, would you?” Tom was visibly annoyed. “You don’t have to be a cow to be a woman.”
“Well, I didn’t know you went in for that type, that’s all. Another thing you’d have to watch out for”—Lute lowered his voice—”she’s Mork’s cousin. Haven’t you noticed them hanging out together a lot?”
“Now don’t you say nothing against Paul,” Tom declared defiantly. “He checks over my French assignments, you know. I’ll bet he’d be glad to see me dating his cousin.”
“All right! All right! No offense intended, big fellow. But a word to the wise…,” he concluded guardedly.
“Don’t worry about me…. Well, Steve buddy, looks like we got them that time. They’ll never make three-seventy now.”
Nobody had noticed that Steve’s face had gone feverish and that he was struggling to control the tremors in his hands.
“Yeah. Looks like we got ‘em,” Steve concurred.
Five minutes later all the fellows except Steve had sauntered back to their rooms. It was 11:00 p.m. Steve slouched down low in the davenport. His eyes were vacant, glazed, staring a hole through the wall in front of him.
All at once he jumped to his feet and tore down the stairs. There was a loud roar in the parking lot. A lone motorcycle wheeled out the driveway and ripped off down the hill. The ear-shattering racket hung in the breathless air for many minutes before fading into the stillness of the night.