“I’ve kept my promise to you, Jean,” he said a little unsteadily, “but don’t make it too hard.”
She rose and he followed. Together they stood in the shadows of the embrasure, half seeing each other. Only he knew that her large eyes were looking out at him with the look of the woman that he had first called forth when he had wounded the pride of the girl.
“I am glad you didn’t listen to me just now,” she said slowly.
“When?”
“When you went upstairs to Dad. You will never weaken, I know.” She came a little towards him, and understanding, he took her gently, wonderingly, in his arms. “It’s going to be very hard for you,” she said, “Tap Day—to stand there and know that you may be misjudged. I should be very proud to announce our engagement, then—that same day.”
Then he knew that he held in his arms one who had never given so much as her hand lightly, who came to him in unflinching loyalty, whose only interest would be his interest, who would know no other life but his life, whose joy would be the struggle that was his struggle.
Tap Day arrived at last, cloudy and misty. He had slept badly in fits and starts, nor had the others fared better, with the exception of Regan, who had rumbled peacefully through the night—but then Regan was one whom others sought. The morning was interminable, a horror. They did not even joke about the approaching ordeal. No one was so sure of election but that the possible rejection of some chum cast its gloom over the day.
Dink ran over a moment after lunch with Bob for a last word with Jean. She was going with her father and mother to see the tapping from a window in Durfee.
“I shall only see you,” she said to him, with her hands in his, and her loyal eyes shining. “I shall be so proud of the way you take it.”
“So you think I won’t be tapped,” he said slowly.
“It means so little now,” she said. “That can’t add a feather’s weight to what you are.”
They went back to their rooms, joining Hungerford and Regan, who were whiling away the time playing piquet.
“Here,” said Tom in relief when they entered, “one of you fellows keep Joe entertained, the darn fool has suddenly made up his mind he’s going to be passed over.”
Regan, relinquishing his place, went back to his book.
“Why, Joe, you fluffy ass,” said Story affectionately, “you’re the surest of the lot. Shut up—cheer us up instead.”
“Look at that mound of jelly,” said Hungerford peevishly, pointing to Regan. “Has he any nerves?”
“What’s the use of fidgeting?” said Regan.
An hour later Hungerford stretched his arm nervously, rose and consulted the clock.
“Four-fifteen; let’s hike over in about twenty minutes.”
“All right.”
“Say, I don’t mind saying that I feel as though I were going to be taken out, stuck full of holes, sawed up, drawn and quartered and boiled alive. I feel like jumping on an express and running away.”
Stover, remembering Joe’s keen suffering at the spectacle back in freshman year, said gravely:
“You’re sure, Joe. You’ll go among the first. Come back with smelling salts for me. I’ve got to stand through the whole thing and grin like a Cheshire cat—that’s de rigueur. Do you remember how bully Dudley was when he missed out? Funny—then I thought I had a cinch.”
“If it was left to our class, you would, Dink,” said Bob.
“Thanks.”
Stover smiled a little at this unconscious avowal of his own estimate, rose, picked out his favorite pipe, and said:
“I don’t care so much—there’s a reason. Well, let’s get into the mess.”
The four went together, over toward the junior fence, already swarming.
“Ten minutes of five,” said Hungerford, looking at the clock that each had seen.
“Yes.”
Someone stopped Stover to wish him good luck. He looked down on a diminutive figure in large spectacles, trying to recall, who was saying to him:
“I—I wanted to wish you the best.”
“Oh, it’s Wookey,” said Stover suddenly. He shook hands, rather troubled. “Well, boy, there’s not much chance for me.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
“Thanks just the same.”
“Hello, Dink, old fellow.”
“Put her there.”
“You know what we all want?”
He was in another group, patted on the back, his arm squeezed, listening to the welcome loyalty of those who knew him.
“Lord, if they’d only have sense enough.”
He smiled and made his way towards his three friends, exchanging salutations.
“Luck, Dink.”
“Same to you, Tommy Bain.”
“Here’s wishing.”
“Back to you, Dopey.”
“You’ve got my vote.”
“Thanks.”
He joined his roommates under the tree, looking over the heads to the windows of Durfee where he saw Jean Story with her father and mother. Presently, seeking everywhere, she saw him. Their eyes met, he lifted his cap, she nodded slightly. From that moment he knew she would see no one else.
“Let’s keep together,” said Regan. “Lock arms.”
The four stood close together, arms gripped, resisting the press that crushed them together, speaking no more, hearing about them the curious babble of the underclassmen.
“That’s Regan.”
“Story’ll go first.”
“Stand here.”
“This is the spot.”
“Lord, they look solemn enough.”
“Almost time.”
“Get your watch out.”
“Fifteen seconds more.”
“Five, four, three, two—”
“Boom!”
Above their heads the chapel bell broke over them with its five decisive strokes, swallowed up in the roar of the college.
“Yea!”
“Here he comes!”
“First man for Bones!”
“Reynolds!”
From where he stood Stover could see nothing. Only the travelling roar of the crowd told of the coming seniors. Then there was a stir in the crowd near him, and Reynolds, in black derby, came directly for them; pushed them aside, and suddenly slapped someone behind.
A roar went up again.
“Who was it?” said Story quickly.
“Hunter, Jim Hunter.”
The next moment Hunter, white as a sheet, bumped at his side and passed, followed by Reynolds; down the convulsive lane the crowd opened to him.
Roar followed roar, and reports came thick.
“Stone’s gone Keys.”
“Three Wolf’s-Head men in the crowd.”
“McNab gets Keys.”
“Hooray!”
“Dopey’s tapped!”
“Bully.”
“Wiggins fourth man for Bones.”
Still no one came their way. Then all at once a Bones man, wandering in the crowd, came up
