Edward punched him affectionately in the ribs. From the quadrangle beyond the corner of the dormitory came the shouts of St. Timothy’s and the music of the band, revelling joyously on St. John’s sacred ground.
“I suppose I ought n’t to keep you here with me,” said Charles reluctantly. “You’d like to be out there with your crowd, heading the procession.”
“I don’t care anything about that; I like to be with you.”
“They’re cheering you,” said Charles. “Listen.”
Yes, they were shouting, “Crashaw! Crashaw! Crashaw! We—want—Crashaw!”
“You’d better go to them,” said Charles.
Edward hung back. “Not yet.”
He looked down toward the athletic field, veiled now by the long shadows from the encircling trees. From the athletic house the barge decorated with red and white bunting was just starting out.
“Here come the nine,” said Edward. “There will be cheering enough without me. I wish,”
