Page 63 - The Adventures of a Freshman

The worst of it was that he had no one to take him out of himself. Nearly all his classmates and all his
intimates were packing up and going home, as Freshmen usually do, without waiting for commencement.
Luckily they had not voted to celebrate their Sophomorehood! He wandered about all alone; and all alone he
went in to hear his fate decided on commencement morning.

Near the door he stood, squeezed in beside some graduates he had never seen before, who wondered why this
long, gaunt undergraduate started so when the clerk of the Board of Trustees arose and began to announce the
fellowships and prizes.

The awards were read from a long list in the clerk's hand, and after each announcement there was a cheer from
the members of the literary society to which the victor belonged. It delayed matters so. Sometimes they
cheered several times. Then the clerk cleared his throat and went on slowly.

At last he came down toward the end of the list.

"Now, then," said Young, bracing himself. "I know I am going to lose." He did not dare look up. Just in front
of him sat a good-looking girl. He saw her put her pretty orange-and-black-bordered programme to her lips
and suppress a yawn while the loud, monotonous voice of the clerk said, "The Freshman First Honor prize
awarded to J. Milton Barrows, of Pennsylvania."

Young stood perfectly still. He did not move a muscle. He heard the loud cheering. He heard a man behind
him say, "Well! well!" He heard the band strike up a lively air. Still looking at the girl, he saw her begin to
beat time to the music with her programme against her pursed lips.

Then he shut his eyes tight for a moment and asked himself: "What was it I was going to do? I cannot
remember somehow. What was it? Shall--shall I telegraph--- "

In a few minutes the valedictorian had finished his oration, then the benediction was pronounced, and the
audience flocked out laughing and talking while the band played with all its might. Commencement was over,
and the college year was a matter of history.

A few hours later Young was speeding across the country at the rate of ever so many miles an hour toward the
old prairie farm, toward the home he had disgraced.

He did not know why he was going home, unless it was because the watch he pawned brought just the right
amount of money. Instinct made him do it, perhaps.

As the train started off down the grade he stood on the rear platform, and looked back at the green campus and
the dear old brown building.

"Perhaps," he said to himself, "perhaps in time they'll forget that there ever was a fellow named 'Deacon'
Young."

Then the car turned the curve, and the college was hidden from view.