"I congratulate you, sir," says the donor; "not so much for being at the head as for the hard work which has put you there,"—and Linton bows again, and goes back to his seat.
"Yes, he has done very well—ve—ry well," so his father in the crowd answers friendly words, trying hard to seem unconscious that his son has carried off first honours.
"Anson Dent!" and this time it is a broad shouldered Wisconsiner, followed by a Virginian, a fair haired Hoosier, and all the rest. But you notice other differences among the men. For while some smile and bow gratefully, others give the briefest sort of nod, and some none at all. Some flush, and some grow pale, and some hands almost grab the diploma as if a right had been long withheld. And one casts furtive glances towards a certain bewitching bonnet in the crowd, as he goes to his seat, and the next sends a deeper gaze across the gay lines, seeking a face and dress the plainest there, but the best beloved in all the world; while many see only the friends a thousand miles away. One man unrolls his diploma and studies it with all his eyes, his neighbour plays with his, as if it were the veriest trifle—a mere bagatelle.
"Charlemagne Kindred!"
And I am bound to own that this man went forward in a dream. With one swift glance at Mr. Wayne, he did catch the loving interest in that face, but the rest of the people might as well have been a fog bank. He was feeling so much that he seemed not to feel at all, until when they broke up, and Twinkle pressed through the crowd, crying:
"Where is my mother! I want my mother!"
And then Magnus could have shaken him, for daring to put his own heart-cry in words.
Indiscriminate cheering was not the fashion in those days. A specially popular man, or one who had done his work against special odds, might have some hearty plaudits. But generally the applause was kept for "the last man," who by brilliant carelessness or industrious breaking of regulations, footed "the immortals." Of course, they all cheered him. Had he not kept someone else from being "last man?"—even now and then (it is whispered) closing up the class end so that no one else could fall through. But after all, somebody must be last, so cheer him on. He may outrank you yet, in life.
The scene changes. Everyone rises to the "Star-Spangled Banner," there is the benediction, the cadets march away to the "Left Behind Girl" once more; and then girls present, who will not accept the situation, tear along to the front of barracks to hear the new orders.
The companies are drawn up in line, never again to stand together there, and the adjutant publishes the orders for the last time.