“You—you’re just saying it to—to make me feel better,” doubted Trevor.
“No, honestly, chum; we won. Mr. Kirk will tell you.”
“Yes, Nesbitt, we won finely; there’s no doubt about that. Listen.”
From below, through the open window, came the martial strains of a band; Trevor recognized the tune; it was “Hilltonians.” And then, faintly but distinctly, came a hoarse voice:
“Now, fellows! Once more! Three times three for Hillton!”
The music was blotted out by a mighty cheer that arose to the starlit sky in a roar of triumph. Trevor was glad of the darkness, for there were tears in his eyes that threatened every moment to overflow; but they were tears of happiness, and somehow those didn’t count.
“And—and they don’t mind that I—that I did what I did?” whispered Trevor. “They don’t hate me for it, Dick?”
“Hate you!” cried Dick. “Hark!”
Through the casement, a gray rectangle of twilight, the strained voice of the leader again floated:
“Now, fellows! Fellows! Once more for Nesbitt, and all together! One—two——”