“Silence! you fellows! Have you forgotten yourselves?” A few hisses were mingled with the applause that greeted him, but the freshman was quick to say at his elbow:
“I didn’t mean it for her.”
“How could she know that?” He walked away saying: “I’ll wager there is something out of the ordinary in that girl.”
He was of the fiber that commanded the respect of men at a glance.
“Andrews always turns up at the right time, you may count on that,” said one of the students as he watched him sauntering in the direction of the wagon, his eyes following the child. She was perched like a white winged bird of good omen on a funeral pyre. Only a nature adventurous to audacity would do such a thing as that. But he loved daring personalities, strong motives and even a misadventure, if it were a brave one.
CHAPTER IV.
Glenn Andrews was, by every gift of nature, a man. His sensitive, expressive face, his brown eyes glowing with a light that seemed to come from within, his clear and resolute bearing, all gave evidence of his sterling qualities. All through his college years he was known among his fellows as a dreamer. His was one of those aloof—almost morbidly solitary natures, to whom contact with the world would seem jarring and out of key. The boys had nicknamed him “Solitaire.” He had a womanly delicacy in morals, his sense of honor was as clean and bright as a soldier’s sword.
Those who knew him well loved him, and all of his school fellows sought for his notice, the more, perhaps, because he gave it rarely.
Whenever he played with them, it was as one who unconsciously granted a favor. He was looked upon as a man who would be a sharer in the talents of his race. This was his ambition. He had strong literary tastes and was a serious worker.
Often he champed at the bit through the slow routine of college life—the genius within him thirsting for action like a spirited horse, just in sound of the chase.