But Mr. Horton raised his hand, and silence instantly succeeded, for the boys were longing to know what was written on that paper which he held, and now he unfolded it, and read the result of the examinations.
Number 1. Stanley Clark.
Number 2. Hugh Gordon, and Everett St. John.
Number 3. David Hamlin.
Number 4. Alec Graham, and so on.
Each name was greeted with a round of cheers, and as soon as the list was ended, the boys crowded around the prize-winners with congratulations. Only St. John sat apart, and spoke to nobody. To stand second was nothing to him. If he could not stand first, he said to himself that he might as well be at the bottom of the list; and besides, deep in his heart, he knew that he had not gained honestly even the second rank. So he answered coldly, even rudely, the congratulations of Clark and Hamlin, and intimated so plainly that he wanted to be let alone, that no one else ventured to approach him.
In the midst of the hubbub of talk, Mr. Horton called Reed to the desk.
“You are wanted in the professor’s office,” he said.
Wondering “what was up,” Reed hurried down to the office. When, half an hour later, he returned, his face was fairly radiant. A tall, fine-looking gentleman followed him, and the whisper went around that that was Charlie Reed’s father.
Reed did not go to his own seat, but slipped into one beside Clark, and, as he did so, he seized Clark’s hand and wrung it till the latter fairly winced, as he whispered:—
“Whatever is the matter, Reed?”
But Reed, with that same happy smile, answered only:—
“Father’s going to make a speech. You just listen.”