Then he knew that he held in his arms one who had never given so much as her hand lightly, who came to him in unflinching loyalty, whose only interest would be his interest, who would know no other life but his life, whose joy would be the struggle that was his struggle.
Tap Day arrived at last, cloudy and misty. He had slept badly in fits and starts, nor had the others fared better, with the exception of Regan, who had rumbled peacefully through the night—but then Regan was one whom others sought. The morning was interminable, a horror. They did not even joke about the approaching ordeal. No one was so sure of election but that the possible rejection of some chum cast its gloom over the day.
Dink ran over a moment after lunch with Bob for a last word with Jean. She was going with her father and mother to see the tapping from a window in Durfee.
"I shall only see you," she said to him, with her hands in his, and her loyal eyes shining. "I shall be so proud of the way you take it."
"So you think I won't be tapped," he said slowly.
"It means so little now," she said. "That can't add a feather's weight to what you are."
They went back to their rooms, joining Hungerford and Regan, who were whiling away the time playing piquet.
"Here," said Tom in relief when they entered, "one of you fellows keep Joe entertained, the darn fool has suddenly made up his mind he's going to be passed over."
Regan, relinquishing his place, went back to his book.