The romanticist considered a moment, and then shook his head.
"No, Turk."
"Dear old boy, you'll win out."
"I must. And you, Turk, does she care?"
A heavy sigh was the answer. They walked back arm in arm, each fully believing in the other's sorrow, and almost convinced of his own. At the esplanade of the Upper they stopped and listened to the thumping of the piano and the systematic beat from the dancers.
"I wish it were all over," said Turkey, gloomily. "This can mean nothing to me."
"Nor to me," said the Kid, staring at the melancholy moon.
On the fateful day the school arose, so to speak, as one boy, shaved, and put on a clean collar. Every boot was blacked, every pair of trousers creased to a cutting edge. The array of neckties that suddenly appeared in gigantic puffs or fluttering wings was like the turn of autumn in a single night.