On Saturday morning the list containing the names of the fortunate six was posted on the bulletin board near the chapel entrance. Parmenter’s name was upon it.
Lee caught sight of it first, and looking no further in the list, started at a full run across the campus to deliver the news to his friend.
“Fred, it’s there!” he cried, bursting into Parmenter’s room like a whirlwind.
“What’s where?” asked Parmenter, gruffly.
“Your name—on the bulletin—prize speaking—no right arm—great victory—whoop! Give us your hand!”
Lee made a dash for his friend’s right hand, and in another second would have given it a vigorous shake.
“Oh, hold! halt! fire! murder! Hang it, man, that’s my cracked shoulder!” exclaimed Parmenter, backing away.
“Fred, forgive me! Did I hurt you? No? In the joyful exuberance of my emotion the swelling tide of feeling overran its bounds and came—”
“Oh, bother the swelling tide! I’m obliged to you for the news, though. Here, take the other hand; that’s it! I thought I could convince ’em that a man can speak sometimes with his right arm strapped fast to his ribs. You’re sure there’s no mistake about it, Charley?”