The Crimson Banner : $b A story of college baseballMoffat, William D. (William David)
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The Crimson Banner : $b A story of college baseball
Moffat, William D. (William David)
Baseball stories; College sports -- Juvenile fiction; College students -- Juvenile fiction
“Yes,” she said hesitatingly, “but no one else please. I see no harm
in letting them know, for father himself would have told them had he
seen them this evening; but I suppose it is not my place to give the
information.”
“It will be all the more appreciated,” I responded as I took my
leave, “and I promise that no one but Ray and Howard shall know of it
to-night.”
I lost no time in returning to the college to find Ray Wendell. From
the campus I could see that his room was lighted up; so, hurrying up
the stairs, I threw open his door without knocking, and had the news
upon my tongue’s end when I discovered that Ray was not alone. Two of
his classmates were with him; so, checking myself in time, I sat down
quietly near Ray, and when the opportunity afforded itself I said in a
low tone of voice,
“Come in the other room a moment. I have some good news for you.”
Ray looked at me quickly an instant, and then, excusing himself, rose
and followed me. His feelings may be imagined when, without a word of
preparation, I suddenly popped the news upon him.
For several seconds he could say nothing. He seemed to be almost afraid
to believe it. “Harry, are you sure――there can be no mistake?” he asked
in a whisper, his voice trembling with excitement.
I reassured him by telling him the source from which I had obtained the
information. I could only guess at the effect of my words, for the room
was dark and I could not see his face. He clasped my hand and pressed
it warmly.
“Thank you a thousand times for telling me, Harry,” he said fervently.
“Don’t thank me――thank Miss Nettie,” I answered with a laugh.
Ray said nothing, but his face, as we rejoined the others, betrayed
his struggle with his feelings, and it was some time before his voice
resumed its customary calmness of tone.
A number of visitors dropped in during the evening, and by nine o’clock
the room was well filled with students, and echoing with the sounds of
mingled conversation and laughter. In this gay group Ray’s exceptional
buoyancy of spirits passed unnoticed, and only I knew that his high
color and sparkling eyes spoke of a happiness too complete for words.
Among the last of these visitors Len Howard came in. I was somewhat
surprised at this, for he was seldom to be seen at Ray’s rooms; but a
short time sufficed to convince me that he had some particular purpose
in coming.
He took little share in the conversation, sitting quietly on the
sofa――on the same sofa and in the very spot where he had made his
terrible confession to us several weeks before. As the visitors one
after another departed Howard still sat there, seemingly determined
to be the last to go. By eleven o’clock all had left the room except
Howard, Ray, and myself. Almost before the door had closed upon the
last visitor, Howard rose up, and taking a thick envelope from his
pocket placed it upon the table in front of Ray.
“There, Ray,” he said in accents of genuine satisfaction, “I came in to
give you that.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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