What were the boys doing? Had they checked the charge of the enemy? Perhaps they had the ball! Possibly some one of them had carried it over the enemy’s line for a touchdown, and so, in the excitement of victory, their injured captain had been forgotten.
“Rah! rah! rah! Fardale!”
He tried to cheer. It was the duty of a true son of old Fardale to cheer as long as the breath of life remained in his body.
Once more that sound of mocking laughter reached him. Again he opened his eyes.
He saw no comrades in red and black. He saw no stand packed with cheering cadets. Again he beheld the gray buildings of the dirty street. Again he saw those leering faces and grinning mouths all around him.
“It’s a nightmare!” he whispered. “I must break the spell! I must move!”
He made a mighty effort, and, in spite of the pain, rolled over on his side.
The old man came up and kicked him back into his former position.
“Wait!” thought the boy—“wait till I get up, you dirty wretch! You’ll not wipe your feet on me after that!”
One of the crowd spat at him and called him a filthy infidel.