“The fools!” exclaimed the misanthropic Dickinson.
“Who?” cried Varrell, suddenly roused from revery.
“Why, those fellows out there wasting their time and strength on something that does not concern them at all.”
“Oh!” said Varrell, and sank back again into his chair.
Dickinson and Melvin exchanged a glance of surprise. They knew that at one time Varrell had had serious trouble with his ears, and was still a little deaf; but he got on so well, both in the class room and among the boys, that it seemed hardly possible that he was unable to hear these boisterous shouts outside.
They sat a few minutes longer in silence, listening to the cheers hurled back and forth across the yard. Soon throats grew weary, and the mood changed. The enthusiasts, beginning to be conscious, as they stamped their feet and dug their hands into their pockets, that the November night was really cold, bethought themselves of warm rooms and work still to be done, and scattered to shelter. The scamper of feet was heard on the stairs; good nights were exchanged in the entries and shouted from the windows. Then the natural quiet again prevailed.
“Dick,” said Dickinson at last, “you know that Saville has left school.”
“Yes, I have heard so,” replied Melvin. “He was your track manager, wasn’t he? Who will take his place?”
“You,” answered Dickinson, calmly.
Melvin laughed. “I see myself in that job.”