Mr. Dean cried, in the midst of the bellowing, into Wallace’s ear, “What happened?” and Wallace shouted back:
“Double play—Adams to Starr to Dave.”
And then Mr. Dean stood up and waved his hat and shouted with the rest.
David sat with Mr. Dean in the train going home. Near by sat Wallace and Ruth Davenport, and David noticed that they talked together seriously and did not seem affected by the jubilation and jollity that prevailed throughout the car.
It was growing dusk when they reached St. Timothy’s, and lights were glowing in the windows of the buildings. The hungry swarm poured into the dining-room and rattled into their places at the tables; the clatter of knife and fork did not, however, subdue the clamor of tongues. Inexhaustibly they dwelt upon the afternoon’s triumph. David, receiving congratulations and compliments from every side, was fairly simmering with happiness. Then he caught sight of Wallace, sitting at a distant table, quiet and forgotten, and compassion for Wallace, who was missing all the pleasure and the satisfaction that might have been his, checked the laughter on David’s lips. After supper Wallace was not to be found. David walked down to the study; Ruth Davenport, waiting at the rectory gate, called him across the road to her.
“Lester told me the whole story in the train to-day, David,” she said. “You know, he’s awfully glad that you put him right. So am I.”
“Lester’s all right,” said David. “He was always all right.”
“He’ll be all right next year, anyway,” Ruth answered. “I always liked Lester, but he’s had the idea that nothing mattered much so long as he had his own way. You know, I like him better because he told me!” she added irrelevantly.
“Nobody could help liking him,” David answered.