“He’s all right, Jack; just stunned a bit from the fall.”
“Take him over to his room, Tidball,” said Professor White. “I’ll send the doctor when he comes.”
The throng made way for them. As they passed through, Anthony supporting Jack as carefully as though the latter were a basket of eggs, the crowd found its voice. Jack glanced into some of the faces and read therein a new respect and liking. He dropped his eyes, the color flooding into his cheeks, and hurried on. The throng grew momentarily. In front it broke and parted, and Joe Perkins and Tracy Gilberth confronted them.
“All right, Jack?” panted Joe.
“Of course I am,” Jack muttered sheepishly.
“All right, then. Up you go, old man!” Before he could resist he found himself on the shoulders of Anthony and Joe, with Tracy supporting him behind.
“Let me down, you idiots!” he pleaded.
But they paid no heed. The individual voicing of approval suddenly merged into a confused cheering that grew and grew in volume until Jack’s remonstrances were drowned beneath it. He clung to Anthony’s head, and tried to look as though he didn’t mind, and only succeeded in looking like a thief on the way to the stocks. Of late, he silently marveled, he seemed to be continually swaying about on fellows’ shoulders!
Near the museum the chaos of sound took form and substance, and Jack, still somewhat confused and dizzy, found that he was bobbing along in time to the loud, deep, and measured refrain of “Weatherby! Weatherby! Weatherby!”
THE END