“Well, I guess I will,” agreed Mr. Parsons. “I begin to feel like a boy again.”
Tom and his chums said farewell to their girl friends, promising to call on them later. Then, while still the cheers of Bean Perkins and his lads were ringing over the field, faint but full of spirit, the winning team started for Randall. Mr. Parsons went with them.
And such a night as it was that followed.
Proctor Zane threw up his hands early in the evening, and retired to his quarters. Dr. Churchill said it was the best thing to do under the circumstances. For the spirit of fun, of jollity, and of victory was abroad in the land, and Randall celebrated as she had never celebrated before.
Mr. Parsons was an honored guest, and he proved himself to be imbued with the immortal spirit of youth, for he was like a lad again, capering about.
Bonfires were built, spreads innumerable were held, professors were serenaded, and forced to make congratulatory speeches. Even “Pitchfork,” had to come out to speak to the team, though he did not show very good grace. But dear old Dr. Churchill struck the right note, and was roundly cheered as he gracefully spoke of the victory of the “track eleven and the baseball racers.”
But he meant well.
And so that night at Randall passed into honored and never-to-be-forgotten history.
They were in their room—the four inseparables. It was a few days after the great games, and the trophies indicating the championship of Randall had been placed in an honored place in the gymnasium. Also the tale of the victory had gone abroad to the world.
Tom’s father had returned home, to tell the details, the law case was a closed event. Now came talk—talk of what had been.