“I may not be worthy of victory,” he said, sadly.
“You have never been unworthy. Don't be now.” She smiled bravely.
They turned from the west prairie and the sunset, and slowly they passed out of its passing radiance down to the darkening spaces of the old Kickapoo Corral.
And the day with its gladness and sorrow, whether for loss or gain, slipped into the shadowy beauty of an April twilight.
CHAPTER IX. GAIN, OR LOSS?
Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an' what that meant
to me—E'en take it for a sacrifice, acceptable to Thee.
—KIPLING
THE ball game on Friday, the thirteenth, was a great event this year.
The Sunrise football eleven had held the championship record with an
uncrossed goal line in the autumn. The basket-ball team had had no
defeat this year. Debating tests had given Sunrise the victory. That
came through Trench and the crippled student. And the state oratorical
struggle repeated the story, a conquest, all the greater because Victor
Burleigh, the athlete, wore also the laurels of oratory. And why should
he not, with that fine presence and magnificent voice? As Dr. Fenneben
listened to his forceful logic he saw clearly the line for the boy's
future, a line, he thought, that could end at last only in the pulpit.
One more battle to fight now and Lagonda Ledge and the whole Walnut Valley would go down in history as famous soil. It was a banner year for Sunrise, and enthusiasm was at fever pitch, which in college is the only healthy temperature. In this last battle Sunrise turned again to Victor Burleigh as its highest hope. Although this was his first game for the season, he had never failed to bring victory to the Sunrise banners, and in all his base-ball practice he was as unerring as he was speedy. And then success was his habit anyhow. So “Burleigh at the bat” was the slogan now from the summit of the college ridge to the farthest corners of Lagonda Ledge; and idol worship were insignificant compared to the adulation poured out on him. And Burleigh, being young and very human, had all the pleasure the adoration of a community can bring to its local hero. For truly, few triumphs in life's later years can be fraught with half the keen joy these school day victories bring. And the applause of listening senates means less than good old comrades' yells.
Vincent Burgess, A.B., Greek Professor from Boston, seemed to have forgotten entirely about types and geographical breadths and seclusion for profound research amid barren prairies. He was faculty member on the Athletic board now and enthusiastic about all college sports. Sunrise had done this much for him anyhow. In addition, the young educator was taking on a little roundness, suggestive of a stout form in middle life.
But Vincent Burgess had not forgotten all of the motives that had pulled him Kansas-ward, although unknown to Dr. Fenneben, he had already refused to consider a position higher up in an eastern college. He was not quite ready to leave the West yet. Of course, not. Elinor Wream was only half through school and growing more popular as she was growing more womanly and more beautiful each year. His salvation lay in keeping on the grounds if he would hold his claim undisturbed.