Graduation Day dawned fair and only mildly hot and went, as many had gone before at Grafton and as many would later. There were the exercises in the hall at eleven, at which some thirty seniors received diplomas and some one hundred and eighty others applauded deafeningly. Several that we know were among the fortunate young gentlemen: Ted Trafford, captain of last fall’s football team; Roy Dresser, Guy Murtha, of present fame; Joe Leslie, class president; Gordon Parker, Nate Leddy, Ben Myatt, Neil Ayer, Jack Zanetti, of track and football renown, and some others doubtless. And—I had almost forgotten—Pop Driver! Yes, Pop actually received his diploma at last and bore up very modestly under the acclaim that almost swept the roof from the building!
And there was a royal luncheon in dining-hall at one-thirty, and after that “spreads,” as the fellows liked to call them, in various dormitory rooms, and still later, lemonade and sandwiches and cakes set out on a long table in front of Manning. In the evening Forum and Lit held their big debate of the year, and Lit won hands down, and the admiring fathers and mothers and sisters and aunts and—oh, all the rest of them, clapped and beamed and were extraordinarily proud. And then there were more refreshments and, at last, everyone went home—somewhere.
The exodus began the next morning, but less than half the students deserted. Most of them, accompanied by compliant parents, entrained for Greenbank at eleven-ten or twelve-twenty-five to see the ball game. At a few minutes after twelve Grafton was pretty well deserted. Mr. Crump, the worthy head janitor, remained, I think, and possibly a stray member of the faculty, but Doctor Duncan went and “J. P.” went and “Jimmy” Rumford and, oh, just about everyone! And so we might as well go too!
The team, fifteen strong exclusive of manager and assistant manager and Mr. Sargent and “Dinny” Crowley and “Davy” Richards, left on the later train. A five-minute wait at the junction, spent in working off a little extra enthusiasm, and then they boarded the main line train and were hustled away toward Greenbank and whatever fate awaited them.
Of course most everyone hoped for a second victory since it would leave them free to go home for the summer, but there were one or two enthusiasts who were willing to see the series go to three games. Among the latter was Dud, for Dud wanted very much indeed to pitch in one Mount Morris contest, and he saw no likelihood of doing it unless that third game was played. Most of the fellows proclaimed their belief that Grafton would again take the measure of her opponent this afternoon, but secretly they doubted it. Mount Morris had nearly always taken one game, and today, playing on her own field, surrounded by her graduation crowd, and smarting under the defeat of last week, she was certain to make a fine fight for victory.
Mr. Sargent, Murtha, Barnes and Mr. Crowley occupied seats together and spent most of the time between Needham Junction and Greenbank laying plans for the contest. Dud and Jimmy sat together further back in the coach, Jimmy doing his best to make Star Meyer uncomfortable by staring at the back of his head. There was a good deal of talk and laughter and some horse-play, for the fellows had the coach pretty much to themselves until Webster was reached. There was a delay at Webster, for a branch line train with which the express made connection had not arrived. Most of the fellows disembarked to stretch their legs and harry the station agent, and Jimmy and Dud were of the number. Jimmy insisted on taking his stand on the platform opposite the window at which Star sat and staring him out of countenance until Dud dragged him away by main force.
“I’ll bet,” chuckled Jimmy as, having promised to behave, he obtained his release from his chum’s grasp, “I’ll bet that Star will be glad when he hikes out for home! I never knew a fellow who disliked to be looked at as much as he does!”
“Looked at!” said Dud. “You’re enough to drive the fellow crazy! I wouldn’t be surprised if he dreams of you at night, you and your—er—bacillus stare!”
“I think the word is basilisk,” replied Jimmy sweetly. “Not that it matters, however. Not that anything matters except whether I beat that chump out for the position of center fielder today. Say, where are you taking me? Suppose the train starts up?”