"Exactly," Ehrhardt said. "No one has more sympathy than I for experimentation, for--but perhaps sometimes, out of the very best motives, we go too far." He laughed and shook his head. "I certainly know I do; I'd be the first to confess it. But I--or Professor Lomax--well, perhaps some sort of compromise, some partial return to the syllabus, a use of the assigned texts--you understand."
Stoner pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling; resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, he placed the tips of his fingers together and let his chin rest on his thumb-tips. Finally, but decisively, he said, "No, I don't believe the--experiment--has had a fair chance. Tell Lomax I intend to carry it through to the end of the semester. Would you do that for me?"
Ehrhardts face was red. He said tightly, "I will. But I imagine--I'm sure Professor Lomax will be most--disappointed. Most disappointed indeed."
Stoner said, "Oh, at first he may be. But he'll get over it. I'm sure Professor Lomax wouldn't want to interfere with the way a senior professor sees fit to teach one of his classes. He may disagree with the judgment of that professor, but it would be most unethical for him to attempt to impose his own judgment --and, incidentally, a little dangerous. Don't you agree?"
Ehrhardt picked up his pipe, gripped its bowl tightly, and contemplated it fiercely. "I'll--tell Professor Lomax of your decision."
"I'd be grateful if you would," Stoner said. He rose from his chair, walked to the door, paused as if reminded of something, and turned to Ehrhardt. He said casually, "Oh, another thing. I've been doing a little thinking about next semester. If my experiment works out, next semester I might try something else. I've been considering the possibility of getting at some of the problems of composition by examining the survival of the classical and medieval Latin tradition in some of Shakespeare's plays. It may sound a little specialized, but I think I can bring it down to a workable level. You might pass my little idea along to Lomax--ask him to turn it over in his mind. Maybe in a few weeks, you and I can--"
Ehrhardt slumped in his chair. He dropped his pipe on the table and said wearily, "All right, Bill. I'll tell him. I'll--thanks for dropping by."
Stoner nodded. He opened the door, went out, closed it carefully behind him, and walked across the long room. When one of the young instructors looked up at him inquiringly, he winked broadly, nodded, and--finally--let the smile come over his face.
He went to his office, sat at his desk, and waited, looking out the open doorway. After a few minutes he heard a door slam down the hall, heard the uneven sound of footsteps, and saw Lomax go past his office as swiftly as his limp would carry him.
Stoner did not move from his watch. Within half an hour he heard Lomax's slow, shuffling ascent of the stairway and saw him go once more past his office. He waited until he heard the door down the hall close; then he nodded to himself, got up, and went home.
It was some weeks later that Stoner learned from Finch himself what happened that afternoon when Lomax stormed into his office. Lomax complained bitterly about Stoner's behavior, described how he was teaching what amounted to his senior course in Middle English to his freshman class, and demanded that Finch take disciplinary measures. There was a moment of silence. Finch started to say something, and then he burst out laughing. He laughed for a long time, every now and then trying to say something that was pushed back by laughter. Finally he quieted, apologized to Lomax for his outburst, and said, "He's got you, Holly; don't you see that? He's not about to let go, and there's not a damn thing you can do. You want
Two weeks after that conversation Stoner received a memo from Lomax's office which informed him that his schedule for the next semester was changed, that he would teach his old graduate seminar on the Latin Tradition and Renaissance Literature, a senior and graduate course in Middle English language and literature, a sophomore literature survey, and one section of freshman composition.
It was a triumph in a way, but one of which he always remained amusedly contemptuous, as if it were a victory won by boredom and indifference.
And that was one of the legends that began to attach to his name, legends that grew more detailed and elaborate year by year, progressing like myth from personal fact to ritual truth.
