The awards were read from a long list in the clerk's hand, and after each announcement there was a cheer from the members of the literary society to which the victor belonged. It delayed matters so. Sometimes they cheered several times. Then the clerk cleared his throat and went on slowly.
At last he came down toward the end of the list.
"Now, then," said Young, bracing himself. "I know I am going to lose." He did not dare look up. Just in front of him sat a good-looking girl. He saw her put her pretty orange-and-black-bordered programme to her lips and suppress a yawn while the loud, monotonous voice of the clerk said, "The Freshman First Honor prize awarded to J. Milton Barrows, of Pennsylvania."
Young stood perfectly still. He did not move a muscle. He heard the loud cheering. He heard a man behind him say, "Well! well!" He heard the band strike up a lively air. Still looking at the girl, he saw her begin to beat time to the music with her programme against her pursed lips.
Then he shut his eyes tight for a moment and asked himself: "What was it I was going to do? I cannot remember somehow. What was it? Shall—shall I telegraph——"
In a few minutes the valedictorian had finished his oration, then the benediction was pronounced, and the audience flocked out laughing and talking while the band played with all its might. Commencement was over, and the college year was a matter of history.
A few hours later Young was speeding across the country at the rate of ever so many miles an hour toward the old prairie farm, toward the home he had disgraced.
He did not know why he was going home, unless it was because the watch he pawned brought just the right amount of money. Instinct made him do it, perhaps.
As the train started off down the grade he stood on the rear platform, and looked back at the green campus and the dear old brown building.