and Walter had hardly done patting him on the back, and congratulating him, when Dr Lane had read—
“Third, Manners;
“Second, Carlton;
“First”—the Doctor always read the word “first” with peculiar emphasis, and then brought out the name of the boy who had attained that distinction with great empressement—“First, Evson.”
Whereupon it was Henderson’s turn to pat him on the back, which he did very vigorously; and not only so, but in his enthusiasm began to clap—a demonstration which ran like wildfire through all the ranks of the boys, and before Dr Lane could raise his voice to secure silence—for approbation on those occasions in the great schoolroom was not at all selon règle—our young hero had received a regular ovation. For since the day on Appenfell, Walter had been the favourite of the school, and they were only too glad to follow Henderson in his irregular applause. There was an intoxicating sweetness in this popularity. Could Walter help keenly enjoying the general regard which thus, defiant of rules, broke out in his honour into spontaneous acclamations?
Dr Lane’s stern “Silence!” heard above the uproar, soon reduced the boys to order, and he proceeded with the list. Kenrick was read out first in his form, and Power, as a matter of course, again first in the second fifth, although in that form he was the youngest boy. Somers came out head of the school, by examination as well as by seniority of standing; and in his case, too, the impulse to cheer was too strong to be resisted. The head of the school was, however, tacitly excepted from the general rule, and Dr Lane only smiled while he listened to the clapping, which showed that Somers was regarded with esteem and honour by the boys, in spite of his cold manners and stern regime.
“Hurrah for the Sociable Grosbeaks!” said Henderson, as the boys streamed out of the room. “Why, we carry all before us! And only fancy me fourth! Why, I’m a magnificent swell, without ever having known it. You look out, Master Walter, or I shall have a scrimmage with you for laurels.”
“Good,” said Walter. “Meanwhile, come and help me to pack up my laurels in my box. And then for home! Hurrah!”
And he began to sing the exquisite air of:
“Domum, domum, dulce domum,
Dulce, dulce, dulce domum;”