Hock Mason, the youth from South Carolina, was looking at Frank Merriwell in a most bewildered way, as if he doubted the evidence of his own senses.
Merriwell had slapped Mason.
In all that gathering of students, no man had less expected such an honor. To Mason it seemed that the heavens had opened with a golden shower.
To Defarge it was like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky.
Plainly Mason could not yet believe he had been selected for “Bones.” He was on the verge of telling Frank that he must have made a mistake.
Defarge, also, felt like crying out to Merry: “You’re wrong, you chump! Here I am!”
Plainly, the selection of the fifteenth man had been a surprise to many, for there was a protracted hush. Then it broke, and there was a great cheer for Mason.
The blood rushed back to the face of the Southerner. It came so fast that he grew dizzy and everything seemed to swim round him. He put out his hands, as if to grasp something. Was he dreaming? Had this greatest honor that a Yale man can receive really come to him?
There was no mistake. The crowd had greeted the selection with a cheer, and he had heard his name at the end of it. He, who had expected nothing, had received the great reward.