“I––” he began weakly.
“Louder––” interrupted Landers.
“I––beg your pardon,” said the reluctant, trembling voice.
That instant the amphitheatre went wild. “Bravo!” yelled a hundred voices over the clamor of cheering hands.
“Three cheers for the freshman!” shrilled a voice over the tumult; and the “rah, rah, rah” that followed made the skylight rattle.
Landers stepped back and looked up bewildered; then a realization of the thing came to him and his face burned as no sun could make it burn, and his knees grew weak. He gladly would have given all his present earthly belongings, and all in prospect for the immediate future for a kindly earth to open suddenly and swallow him. Perspiration stood out on his face as he went slowly up the stairs, at every step a row of friendly hands grasping him in congratulation. 51
Slowly the room became quiet. The whole confusion had not taken up even the time of grace at the beginning of the hour; and a great burst of applause greeted the mild old dean as he came absently in, as was his wont, at the tap of the ten-minute bell. He looked up innocently at the unusual greeting, and the cheer was repeated with interest. As first in authority he was supposed to report all such inter-class offences; but in effect he invariably happened to be conveniently absent at such times––the times of the freshman rebellion. He began lecturing now without a word of comment, and on the instant the peaceful scratching of fountain pens on notebooks replaced the clamors of war.
The lecture was about half over when there was a tap on the entrance door; and the white-haired dean, answering, stepped out into the hall. In a second he returned carrying a thin, yellow envelope.
“A message for––,” he studied the writing with near-sighted eyes, “––for Guy Landers,” he announced slowly.
The message went up the incline, hand over 52 hand toward the top row, and the boy who waited felt the room growing gradually close and dark. To him a telegram could mean but one thing.