There were two
hundred men behind the class banner, and each one was converting
what was convertible of his being into noise. Johnny McLean
turned to with a will and thundered into the volume of tone
which sounded over and over the two short syllables of a name
which to a Yale man's idea fits a cheer better than most.
The president stood quiet, under the heaped-up honors of a
brilliant career, smiling and steady under that delirious music
of his own name rising, winged with men's hearts, to the skies.
Then the band was playing again and they were marching off down the
street together, this wonderful class that knew how to turn earth
into heaven for a fellow who hadn't done much of a stunt anyhow,
this grand, glorious, big-hearted lot of chaps who would have done
much more in his place, every soul of them--so Johnny McLean's
thoughts leaped in time with his steps as they marched away.
And once or twice a terror seized him--for he was weak yet from
his illness--that he was going to make "a fool of himself."
He remembered how the girl had cried; he thought of the way the
boys had loaded him with honor and affection; he heard the
president's voice speaking those impossible words about him--
about him--and he would have given a large sum of money at one or two
junctures to bolt and get behind a locked door alone where he might
cry as the girl had.
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