Stoner

"I approached my subject indirectly, sir," Walker said. "I thought we were allowed a certain latitude in developing our concepts."

Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said wearily, "Mr. Walker, I dislike having to flunk a graduate student. Especially I dislike having to flunk one who simply has got in over his head."

"Sir!" Walker said indignantly.

"But you're making it very difficult for me not to. Now, it seems to me that there are only a few alternatives. I can give you an incomplete in the course, with the understanding that you will do a satisfactory paper on the assigned topic within the next three weeks." "But, sir," Walker said. "I have already done my paper. If I agree to do another one I will be admitting--I will admit--"

"All right," Stoner said. "Then if you will give me the manuscript from which you--deviated this afternoon, I shall see if something can be salvaged."

"Sir," Walker cried. "I would hesitate to let it out of my possession just now. The draft is very rough."

With a grim and restless shame, Stoner continued, "That's all right. I shall be able to find out what I want to know."

Walker looked at him craftily. "Tell me, sir, have you asked anyone else to hand his manuscript in to you?"

"I have not," Stoner said.

"Then," Walker said triumphantly, almost happily, "I must refuse also to hand my manuscript in to you on principle. Unless you require everyone else to hand theirs in."

Stoner looked at him steadily for a moment. "Very well, Mr. Walker. You have made your decision. That will be all."

Walker said, "What am I to understand then, sir? What may I expect from this course?"

Stoner laughed shortly. "Mr. Walker, you amaze me. You will, of course, receive an F."

Walker tried to make his round face long. With the patient bitterness of a martyr he said, "I see. Very well, sir. One must be prepared to suffer for one's beliefs."

"And for one's laziness and dishonesty and ignorance," Stoner said. "Mr. Walker, it seems almost superfluous to say this, but I would most strongly advise you to re-examine your position here. I seriously question whether you have a place in a graduate program."

For the first time Walker's emotion appeared genuine; his anger gave him something that was close to dignity. "Mr. Stoner, you're going too far! You can't mean that."

"I most certainly mean it," Stoner said.

For a moment Walker was quiet; he looked thoughtfully at Stoner. Then he said, "I was willing to accept the grade you gave me. But you must realize that I cannot accept this. You are questioning my competence!"

"Yes, Mr. Walker," Stoner said wearily. He raised himself from the chair. "Now, if you will excuse me . . ." He started for the door.

But the sound of his shouted name halted him. He turned. Walker's face was a deep red; the skin was puffed so that the eyes behind their thick glasses were like tiny dots. "Mr. Stoner!" he shouted again. "You have not heard the last of this. Believe me, you have not heard the last of this!"

Stoner looked at him dully, incuriously. He nodded distractedly, turned, and went out into the hall. His feet were heavy, and they dragged on the bare cement floor. He was drained of feeling, and he felt very old and tired.

X

And he had not heard the last of it.

He turned his grades in on the Monday following the Friday closing of the semester. It was the part of teaching he most disliked, and he always got it out of the way as soon as he could. He gave Walker his F and thought no more about the matter. He spent most of the week between semesters reading the first drafts of two theses due for final presentation in the spring. They were awkwardly done, and they needed much of his attention. The Walker incident was crowded from his mind.

But two weeks after the second semester started he was again reminded of it. He found one morning in his mailbox a note from Gordon Finch asking him to drop by the office at his convenience for a chat.

The friendship between Gordon Finch and William Stoner had reached a point that all such relationships, carried on long enough, come to; it was casual, deep, and so guardedly intimate that it was almost impersonal. They seldom saw each other socially, although occasionally Caroline Finch made a perfunctory call on Edith. While they talked they remembered the years of their youth, and each thought of the other as he had been at another time.

In his early middle age Finch had the erect soft bearing of one who tries vigorously to keep his weight under control; his face was heavy and as yet unlined, though his jowls were beginning to sag and the flesh was gathering in rolls on the back of his neck. His hair was very thin, and he had begun to comb it so that the baldness would not be readily apparent.