Almost immediately Regan received the eighth tap for Bones, and went for his room amidst the thundering cheers of a popular choice. "Well, here we are, Dink," said Hungerford. "You're next." About them the curious spectators pressed, staring up into their faces for any sign of emotion, struggling to reach them, with the dramatic instinct of the crowd. Four more elections were given out by Bones--only three places remained. "That settles me," said Stover between his teeth. "If they wanted me I'd gone among the first. Joe's going to get last place--bully for him. He's the best fellow in the class." He folded his arms and smiled with the consciousness of a decision accepted. He saw Hungerford's face, and the agony of suspense to his sensitive nerves. "Cheer up, Joe, it's last place for you." Then another shout. "Bones or Keys?" he asked of those around him. "Bones." "Charley Stacey." "Thirteenth man." "I was sure of it," he said calmly to himself. Then he glanced up at the window. Her eyes had never left him. He straightened up with a new defiance. "Lord, I'd like to have gotten it, just for Jean. Well, I knocked against too many heads. I don't wonder." Suddenly Hungerford caught his hand underneath the crowd, pressing it unseen. "Last man for Bones now, Dink," he said, looking in his eyes. "I hope to God it's you." "Why, you old chump," said Stover laughing, so all heard him. "Bless your heart, I don't mind. Here's to you." Above the broken, fitful cheers, suddenly came a last swelling roar. "Bones." "Last man." The crowd, as though divining the election, divided a path towards where the two friends waited, Hungerford staring blankly, Stover, arms still folded, waiting steadily with a smile of acceptation on his lips. It was Le Baron. He came like a black tornado, rushing over the ground straight toward the tree. Once some one stumbled into his path, and he caught him and flung him aside. Straight to the two he came, never deviating, straight past Dink Stover, and suddenly switching around almost knocked him to the ground with the crash of his blow. "Go to your room!" It was a shout of electrifying drama, the voice of his society speaking to the college. Some one caught Stover. He straightened up, trying to collect his wits, utterly unprepared for the shock. About him pandemonium broke loose. Still dazed, he felt Hungerford leap at him, crying in his ears: "God bless you, old man. It's great, great--they rose to it. It's the finest ever!" He began to move mechanically towards his room, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He started towards the library, and some one swung him around. He heard them cheering, then he saw hundreds of faces, wild-eyed, rushing past him; he stumbled and suddenly his eyes were blurred with tears, and he knew how much he cared, after the long months of rebellion, to be no longer an outsider, but back among his own with the stamp of approval on his record.