Presbyterian Church, with his name on it--"

"Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?"

"I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers."

"I'm not."

"Sure you are. You've got a darn good head on you." But Amory knew that
nothing in the abstract, no theory or generality, ever moved Rahill until
he stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae of it.

"Haven't," insisted Rahill. "I let people impose on me here and don't
get anything out of it. I'm the prey of my friends, damn it--do their
lessons, get 'em out of trouble, pay 'em stupid summer visits, and always
entertain their kid sisters; keep my temper when they get selfish and
then they think they pay me back by voting for me and telling me I'm the
'big man' of St. Regis's. I want to get where everybody does their own
work and I can tell people where to go. I'm tired of being nice to every
poor fish in school."

"You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly.

"A what?"

"A slicker."

"What the devil's that?"

"Well, it's something that--that--there's a lot of them. You're not one,