“Is it an explosion?” asked Sid eagerly.
“Better be careful,” cautioned Phil.
Tom’s heart was thumping. He began to see the use to which the wire might be put, and he was afraid lest he had taken part in some dangerous prank. If Langridge had planned to explode a mine under the pavilion, some one might be injured.
“There’ll be no explosion, only an explosion of wrath pretty soon,” replied Langridge. “Go ahead, Kerr. Let ’em sing one song and they’ll think we’ve called it off. Then let it go.”
Kerr hurried off, keeping in the shadows. No sooner had he started than a movement was noticeable among the sophomores, groups of whom could easily be seen now, as the moon was well up.
Then, on the stillness of the night, there broke a song. It was an old melody, sacred to Randall, and, in spite of being rendered by hilarious students, it was well done.
“That’s not half bad,” commented Phil. “They’ve got some good members for the glee club there.”
“It’s punk!” sneered Langridge. “Wait until we have a song fest. We’ll make them feel sick!”
The melody continued, and coming as it did from the distance, while all about was the wondrous beauty of the moon, the effect produced on Tom Parsons was one of distinct pleasure. It was like being at some play.
“What a pity,” he thought, “to spoil it all! What brutes we college fellows are—sometimes. I like to listen to that.”