“For hockey, wasn’t it? I thought so. Proud of it, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gerald, uneasily.
“Of course you would be.” Mr. Collins picked up an ink-eraser and bent over the cap. Snip went a stitch and off came the white letter. He replaced the knife, dropped the letter into a drawer, and returned the cap to Gerald.
“You see, my boy,” he said, gently, “we’re proud of that Y, too, and we don’t like to see it worn where it isn’t deserved. That’s all, Pennimore.”
Gerald groped for the arm of his chair, and pulled himself up with averted face, hoping that Mr. Collins couldn’t see the tears that were leaking down his nose. Mr. Collins arose, too, and walked to the door ahead of him and opened it. As Gerald went through, the Assistant Principal laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Pennimore,” he said, kindly. “Good morning.”
Then the door closed behind him, and Gerald found himself in the darkened corridor. For a moment he stood there struggling with the tears that would come, it seemed, in spite of everything. Then, mechanically, he put his cap on his head, but only to pull it off the next instant and stuff it into his pocket. He hated it now.