In the Line

by Albertus T. Dudley

So, illumined by crimson light and the flash of explosives which drowned, in continuous and hideous din, their own cheering and songs and the music of the band they had hired, the celebrants took their way by the houses of certain favored teachers to the hill where the bonfire was to be. At the houses the leaders throttled the disorderly racket, the crowd cheered, the teachers appeared, made their facetious speeches, and retired, the mob yelled applause, the hubbub broke forth again, the procession moved on. Many a wretched pun and poor, undignified joke was bitterly repented that night when Dr. X and Professor Z at last laid their weary heads to rest, longing to amend their remarks as the regretful congressman amends his faulty speech in the Record by striking out everything he has said and substituting something wholly different.

But the pith and marrow of the celebration was about the big bonfire on Jady hill, where proceedings might vary between the war dance of an Indian tribe and an open-air meeting of the Peace Society. The proper mean lay between these extremes of the extravagant and the tame, and Mr. Graham, by throwing responsibility on the older boys, by insisting that the festivity be public, and by taking a share in it himself, kept the merriment in bounds. To-night, after the individual members of the team had been cheered, the Principal set the pitch for the evening’s song of triumph in a brief, sensible speech; and Freund, captain of the team, followed with a disclaimer of personal desert and an eulogy on “the work of all the fellows,” delivered with proper modesty and the usual schoolboy lack of finish and superabundance of vigor. After Freund, Collins the trainer had his turn; but after expressing surprise and delight that the boys should have done so well, and declaring that he had known all along that they could do it, he struck hard on the irreconcilability of these statements, and went down in a burst of cordial applause. Then a friendly townsman of a humorous vein took a hand, and after the humorist, Mr. Lovering was demanded. The teacher had the advantage that jokes were not expected of him, so when he declared that “this is indeed a day on which the battle has been to the strong and the race to the swift,” the audience laughed in pleased surprise, and gave sympathetic hearing. The speaker then expressed the pleasure he had felt in seeing Strong win his two hard races, and passing from this naturally to the ban of probation and the fine way in which the runner had removed it, preached a neat little sermon of half-a-dozen sentences on the value of persistence and grit.

“Strong! Strong!” yelled the crowd. “Speech! speech!”

And then a queer thing happened that was down on nobody’s programme. Instead of hanging back in confusion or disappearing altogether, as his friends expected, Strong came promptly forward. There was a look of seriousness on his face, and he confronted the crowd boldly, as if he really had something to say.

“For all that has been said about my two races, and all the help I’ve had from Collins and a lot of others, I’m much obliged. I did the best I could, and certainly ran in great luck. But there’s one fellow here who isn’t getting his share of the glory. We should have lost the meet to-day if any one had missed on his points. Howes and Joslin would have won my events if I hadn’t got off probation; and I never should have got off probation in this world if Sally Salter hadn’t spent days and weeks in driving things into my head. So with all respect to Mr. Lovering, you see I can’t honestly stand for that probation.”

At this point Strong, suddenly becoming conscious that he was making a speech, broke abruptly off. Some one in the inner circle sprang forward and swung his hat. And Salter, Sally Salter, Marm Salter, to his own intense surprise, was actually cheered.

The celebration was over. Turning reluctantly from the fast-dwindling fire, the participants in motley company trooped back to rooms and beds. The band straggled home by twos in silence; the multitude, which with unfailing enthusiasm had tugged the heavily loaded barge up the long hill, was now scattered; and only a conscientious few aided by certain faithful members of the team had a thought for the borrowed state carriage and the credit of the school. Wolcott was among the forgetters. In the confusion of the break-up he missed his companions and floated away with the crowd.

On a side street a dozen yards from the lamp post a knot of students were watching the figures pass beneath the light.

“There’s Lindsay,” said Whitely. “He’s big enough to hold a man on his shoulders as steady as a church. Let’s not try to find Bert. O Lindsay!” he called.

“He’s no use, you chump!” exclaimed Marchmont, sharply; but Wolcott was already turning back. “What is it?” he asked, straining his eyes to distinguish the faces.