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  The manager controlled his enthusiasm. He retained a lively recollection from the last holocaust of a white haired executive mounted on top of the bar with a bottle in either hand, merrily challenging all comers. But all he said was, “It doesn’t matter who’s assigned to our rooms. They all end up using our bar.”

  “There’s not much we can do about.” Todd let the velvet glove slip a little as he continued smoothly. “Even putting the Inn off limits wouldn’t affect the alumni.”

  The manager knew he was being reminded of their biggest revenue weekend of the year and so admitted the plan was impractical.

  The PR man was pained by the hint of the mailed fist. He rushed into the breach. “But our real reliance is on Ed, here. His campus police will be out in full force.”

  Ed Webster, a craggy New Englander now drawing a pension from the New Hampshire state police force took the floor.

  “I guess we all want the same thing,” he drawled. “There’s bound to be some high spirits, but if we nip them in the bud there’ll be need to call in outsiders. My people will be posted at all the likely trouble spots. Their orders are a little different from last time. If any party gets too rough, they’ll encourage it to break up. But if friendly talk doesn’t work, they’ll get the town cops to give them a hand.”

  Everyone nodded. An extended post mortem after the last even blamed failure to call in the local authorities early enough had let the riot mushroom beyond the control of anything less than military MPs.

  “I hope,” said the Inn manager, “that the town force isn’t going to be too much in evidence.” He had a vague picture of his bar lined with blue coated minions.

  Ed Webster’s easy speech did not falter. He was paid to deal with people who insisted that potential rioters be handled with car, whether 18 or 80. “They’re being as helpful as they can be. My people are sworn in as deputies and the town boys will stay out of sight as much as possible. Some of them have to be around though. They’ve got this alert for Patterson for one thing.”

  “Patterson again. We never seem to stay away from him very long. What do the town police have to do with him?” the president demanded.

  “The New York Department thinks there’s an outside chance he may turn up here. Seems he was talking about it. They’ve sent up a teletype and an official request for cooperation.”

  “They must be out of their minds,” Todd said with more frankness than he usually permitted himself. “Why there are at least 100 people who could recognize him. You take it from me, this is the last place he’d show his face.”

  An inexorable fate seemed determined that Todd’s day should center around the alumnus Dartmouth could best spare. His final visitor was Gabe.

  “I can’t tell you how distressed we are by this situation,” Gabe proclaimed piously as he took his seat. He was fresh from an interview with his lawyer, in which he learned that Target had absolutely no responsibility for the misdeeds of employees committed outside the scope of their employment. “Of course we have every confidence in Patterson.”

  “So do we.”

  Both men now formally recognized that they were committed to a public defense of Patterson.

  “But it would have made a much more comfortable situation if Patterson’s had covered his activities at Dartmouth.”

  “It certainly would have,” retorted Todd, still smarting from an interview with Mrs. Curtis. The return of the $50,000 no longer appealed to her; now she wanted blood.

  Gabe, bringing his ship into harbor nicely, leaned back expansively. He was holding his overcoat on his lap as a sign he did not intend to make extensive inroads on the presidential time. Nonetheless he seemed to be settling down for a leisurely, congenial conversation.

  “It is almost always awkward when fundraising activities are undertaken on an amateur basis. So many difficulties can be avoided when the situation is put into a professional context. Not that we don’t admire the dedication and energy of community groups.” He raised a large beautifully manicured hand to dispel the illusion. “Alumni groups and church workers have always been noted for their wholehearted generosity with time and effort. But in crude dollars and cents terms, the results can be frankly disappointing.”

  Todd stared at his visitor. It was being rapidly borne in upon him that Gabe, far from paying a courtesy visit to announce the bonding company’s position and proffer condolences, was actually touting for business. His first reaction was incredulity. In his opinion the Patterson employer should be hiding underground, not puffing his firm. His second and overriding reaction, however, was the pique of a gifted amateur patronized by a professional.

  In crude dollars and cents terms, Dartmouth has been doing remarkable well,” Todd said bluntly.

  “Yes, I saw that article in the Journal. Let me congratulate you on it. These are happy times in which we’re living. There’s nothing like an expanding economy, is there? And,” Gabe continued dreamily, “the big money institutions are at last realizing they have a stake in higher education. That realization, of course, should be reinforced. So much could be done by the full time efforts of a trained staff. It is difficult to see any limiting factors.”

  “I fail to see how any professional efforts could preserve us from our two major embarrassments. The first is the publicity attendant on Patterson’s disappearance. The second is the imbroglio caused by the disappearance of the New York SAT scores. “Todd was deeply affronted. Good Lord. What did the man mean by fulltime efforts? Did he realize he was talking to someone who put in 19 hour working days? Consciously he steadied himself and searched for a lighter note.

  “We’re even having some of the New York applicants up for our football weekend to make up for their inconvenience. No, I’m afraid I don’t think having this in the hands of professionals would help us one single bit. But I’m grateful that you dropped by to tell us about the bond. I hope you didn’t take such a long trip just for this.”

  Because you’re not getting anything else out of it was the underlined message. As he spoke, he rose, bringing the interview to a close.

  Professional fundraisers are used to rebuffs, and never more so than when selling their services. Gabe also rose.

  “Oh, no,” he said unruffled. “I thought I’d stay over and take in the Big Game. It should be a very interesting weekend.”

  Chapter 13

  Indoor and Outdoor Sports

  The only thing to be said for lunch at the Dartmouth Faculty Club immediately prior to the football game Thatcher decided was that it would have been a good deal worse without Lucy Lancer. He said as much when they emerged from the dining room into the maelstrom of Old Grads giving happy yelps of recognition and making plans for post-game festivities.

  “That’s why I came John, “Lucy answered placidly.

  When George had asked him to the Board of Trustees meeting, Thatcher had not been surprised to learn that Mrs. Lancer would be in their party. Lucy’s principle of providing support for her husband was not unique. But seldom is it carried into operation so successfully. Inevitably her husband’s colleagues benefited. Many a banking convention had been made endurable to member of the Sloan by her calm good nature and easy acceptance of social burdens. Now she put these gifts into practice once again.

  “There’s Neil Marsden bearing down on us. And I see he’s got that man who collects Manets in tow. You might want to slip away for a few minutes.”

  There was nothing Thatcher wanted more. Unobtrusively he allowed himself to be engulfed by some departing football players. When he came up for air he was safely on the other side of the room and could take stock of his surroundings.

  They had arrived that morning, and Lancer and Thatcher had gone straight to the Board meeting. There Thatcher, in his role of consultant, had counseled prompt restitution of Mrs. Curtis’s $50,000. She would be effectively neutralized by this maneuver, and the resultant publicity would be all to the good for Dartmouth.

  Thatcher and Lancer had expected opposi
tion. They were dismayed, however, to be met with indifference. As bankers they were undeniably biased towards financial solution of problems. More importantly, perhaps, as men with adult children, they had not fully appreciated the perils raised by the monkey wrench in Dartmouth’s admission procedures.

  Did they realize demanded an oil magnate with alarming eyebrows that by being late with acceptances Dartmouth was going to get the worst of this year’s crop? “My God,” he thundered, “I’m not going to stand by and see us take Amherst’s leavings!”

  And what about the agony to Dartmouth alumni? asked a small balding man. Could a Dartmouth father conscientiously advise his son to turn down Wesleyan? As so often happened these days, the conversation ultimately turned to the young people themselves. Could a boy enter Dartmouth with a positive attitude after these ghastly preliminaries? Would this entire first year be marred by unconscious hostility?

  On the whole Thatcher had been quite grateful when the next item on the trustees’ agenda had ended his usefulness and dismissed him to the society of Lucy. Now he was deprived even of that. He looked around with growing resentment. So far the local town could have been duplicated in any other New England college town with a reunion in the works. There were the peripheral motels taken over by the fifth, tenth, and fifteenth. There were the downtown inns bearing handmade banners such as “Welcome 25ers,” strung between pillars of the veranda. There were the dorms ruthlessly emptied of undergrads for the Fiftieth and its attendant medical personnel. There were station wagons from New Jersey driven by balding young men and filled with wives, children, picnic hampers, thermos bottles, blankets, and more banners. There were aged members of the faculty doing first rate Mr. Chips, managing by sheer virtuosity to show charm and humor over incidents they had long since forgottten, involving students names they had never known. There were junior members of the faculty making ironic comments of broad sociological content. There were underpaid custodial members of the staff, frequently Irish, who evinced no offense at being greeted as ‘Old Tom’ and simply worked harder, untroubled by the increase in a population forever and fundamentally alien to them.

  There were also those concerned with the Patterson problem.

  “Hello Thatcher. Did you know if the Board has come up with anything? Ralph was the speaker. Introduction revealed his companion as Gabe. Mildly Thatcher replied that the Board was going to concentrate its fire on the educational testing service and try for exam results early enough to meet the Ivy League deadline.

  “They don’t seem to be very interested in Patterson or his $50,000,” Thatcher said with forbearance.

  Armitage was amused. “Then they’re the only ones who aren’t. Everyone else here is buzzing about it.”

  “The Board’s quite right,” Gabe said unexpectedly. “This admission mess is a godsend in some ways. Everybody will forget about Patterson, given half a chance.”

  “Very convenient from your point of view,” Armitage retorted.

  Gabe’s composure was unshaken. “From everybody’s point of view,” he said firmly. Marian tells me you tried to get Sally up here for the weekend. That was a mistake. It would just stir things up.”

  “I didn’t want her to come. I was about to see her about the insurance. I’m Patterson’s broker you know. Then she started talking about how Elliot had been planning to come to the reunion and how he’d been taking more interest in his classmates recently. She was working herself up, saying other people knew more about his plans than she did. It sounded as if she was thinking of coming up herself. So what could I do?”

  “Tell her not to be silly,” Gabe retorted.

  “I’d like to see you putting that off. I told her if she was set on coming, I’d be happy to escort her. The minute I agreed with her, she lost interest and changed her mind. She wasn’t making sense. I know she’s got troubles but I don’t know what’s come over Sally,” Ralph concluded.

  “Mortification that’s what,” a new voice announced patly. Marsden was being actively malicious. Unmarried, he had not yet acquired proper respect for female temperament. His eyes were brightly interested as he blandly expanded upon his remarks.

  “The self-satisfaction of a lifetime has been shattered. That’s what’s wrong with her. She’s so used to being a great white other, deciding what’s best for everyone, she doesn’t have any defenses.”

  Ralph grunted annoyance while Gabe looked openly censorious. The party line was that Sally was a victim, to be sympathized with and avoided whenever possible. Even if they had agreed with Marsden, they would have condemned his frankness. As a matter of fact they did not. Neither of them pretended to have his analytic interest, but they had a lot more field experience.

  “I hear that we’re supposed to help out with the New York applicants,” Ralph said with an abrupt change of subject. “Does anyone know who’s with them now?”

  “Dunlop and his wife are doing their turn. And I helped settle them in,” Marsden replied.

  Thatcher could think of nothing more uncomfortable for a high school boy than being settled in by Marsden. Then remembering Sprague, he decided his ideas were old fashioned.

  “So it’s up to me. I’ll take over for the game. Anyone else going down to the stadium?” Ralph turned to pick up his hat and coat lying ready on the chair.

  “Not me,” said Marsden with a distinct snap. “They couldn’t make me go when they had me here and they’re not going to now.”

  Gabe muttered something evasive and joining another party and Thatcher, about to disclaim any interest in football, found that other plans had been made for him.

  Lucy was reclaiming him, her serenity unruffled by her grim tidings. “George is here. It seems that we’re expected to sit with the trustees in the president’s box.”

  Lucy might be unruffled but her husband, emerging from the throng was not. The walk to the stadium was enlivened by his indignation. “Football games,” he sputtered. “We come 200 miles for serious business and this is what they have in mind.”

  “Perhaps it’s what they had in mind when they made you a trustee,” Lucy said.

  “They made me a trustee because of my money,” her disgruntled husband said crushingly. “And in three years this has been the first mention of football.”

  Thatcher wasn’t feeling any too cheerful himself. “Patterson has much to answer for,” John stated. “I’m beginning to want 30 minutes with that young man.”

  Instead Thatcher was going to get three cold hours in a stadium. From ahead muted roars could be heard: Dartmouth, Dartmouth, Rah, Rah, Rah! the band struck up:

  Bold bad men of Dartmouth.

  Rolling down the field.

  Honor to her banners.

  Big Green never yields.

  From even farther away a small Harvard contingent took up the challenge and hurled it back:

  Ten thousand men of Harvard

  Want victory today!

  Thatcher followed Lancer and Lucy down to their choice seats amid a fusillade of greetings from middle aged men who seemed to enjoy the opportunity to shout. Fortunately the fuller throated students were somewhat removed.

  “George, hey George.”

  “Say look over there. There is Bill Cotton. Bill, oh Bill.”

  “No, no, plenty of room. Hey squeeze down everyone.”

  “Roll Big Green roll.”

  The Homecoming Game commenced. It continued interminably and finally ended. It featured three fumbles by Harvard but four by Dartmouth. At half time the band presented a concern, its vigor almost compensating for its lack of precision. Throughout the temperature dropped steadily. There was a good deal of flask movement along the long grey lines of the alumni, and reprehensibly among the young gentlemen of the student body. Hundreds of men, women, and children simultaneously discovered the need for hot dogs and fell on the student vendors like a ravenous horde.

  “Roll Big Green roll.”

  “Good kick.”

  “Pawlak’s got the ball.” />
  “Ohhhh. Pawlak had dropped the ball.

  “Dartmouth, Dartmouth, Rah, Rah, Rah!”

  Final score: Harvard 28, Dartmouth 7.

  The chilly sun had disappeared by the time a stiff and cold Thatcher clambered to his feet and let the vast throng propel him slowly to the exit. It was 20 minutes before he could make himself heard, but this did not matter. His mind was deliberately blank and it would require some time to restore operational conditions.

  “And now George?” John asked, trying unsuccessfully to sound receptive to the delights in store.

  Lancer stepped out of the way of a phalanx of upper classmen. “Now we look for some information about Patterson. Everybody’s giving parties tonight. I’ve got a list of the ones that might be useful.”

  “And do you really think we’re going to find anything out?” John inquired politely.

  “Of course I don’t,” George said indignantly. “But it is that or a ceremonial banquet with the trustees after a major football defeat.” He peered over at his companions, ready to quell mutiny. “We’ll try to drop in on the Deke House. Patterson was a Deke, and they always have open house. Then we’ll stop by Franklin House. He roomed there …”

  “Doesn’t that sound nice?” Lucy said to no one in particular.

  They mounted narrow stairs to a party given by an Associate Astronomy Professor who had once roomed with Patterson. Straight Scotch in none too clean glasses and water was hard to come by. Rising voices, more smoke, and distant sounds of convulsive frenzy from a student gathering down the hall.

  “Elliot? We see each other every year or so. We don’t have much in common any more. I guess I saw him when he was checking out some people in Alumni Records.”