Hill stopped laughing. He grinned instead. His feelings were not hurt. He had none.
Again the cheering was hushed. It was so still that those on the balcony might have heard the hard breathing or the whimpering of the freshman on the bed. The farmer heard it and went inside.
The liquor and exercise had made Ramsay warm. He had thrown off the blankets and lay half naked with his hands clasped across his eyes. Drops of sweat were running off his palpitating chest. Hill looked at his prettily developed arms and at the slender, well-turned wrist and at the tough little hands, which, Hill decided, had never done much farm work. Then because he liked what he saw, he laughed.
The light weight uncovered one eye and then covered it again.
"There, there," said the farmer, patting the black curly hair, which looked "pretty" against the white pillow. "I wouldn't take on so, little one, we'll get some of those canes yet."
Brandy and defeat had made Ramsay cross. He said: "Oh, go to the devil, won't you please?"
"All right," replied the big fellow. "Only you'll catch cold that way. Let me fix them." He carefully tucked the blankets around his classmate, who said, "That's so. Much obliged." Hill smiled at his uncomfortable tone.
When, after seven hard-fought rounds, Murray, the middle weight, was brought up breathless and caneless, there was great discouragement in the freshman camp. The middle weight was the one above all others upon whom they had relied to defend the honor of the class. Murray, the long-winded, himself had felt confident of winning; and probably he would have by sheer endurance had not the sophomore taken him unawares by a very easy finger trick as they lay together on the ground resting.
But it was all over now, and the middle weight was stretched out on the bed beside Ramsay. He had not, however, fainted, and he was sullenly chewing a piece of gum he had had in his mouth during the struggle. He looked unconcerned. He made no excuses to those who told what a nervy fight he had made.
All the week previous the betting on the heavy weight had been two to one on the sophomore. But now three seniors from the enemy's camp swaggered into the room shouting, "Here's four to one on Parker. Who wants it? Why don't you back your man?" They smiled at the junior coachers. "Drake don't want any of it," said another, in a dry tone; "he knows Parker too well."