oes smash to-morrow and I can ever raise the money, I'm
going to send back for you, my beauty. You're getting too old to bring
much now, and you'll have to go sure if the Government wins."

Bonita lifted her head suddenly. A drop of cold rain had fallen against
her face. The clouds had drawn together sulkily above them. Across the
intervening turf hastened the mushroom gatherers, their baskets full of
the brown and white trophies. Craig picked up his pipe.

"Good-bye," he said, with a caress. "I'll come over to-morrow and tell
you the final news."

Bonita had never shown him how much she really cared, true to her
feminine reserve; but to-day, leaning her slender neck far over the
fence, she whinnied after him until he stopped at the corner of the
Power-house and waved back to her. Then she cropped grass slowly while
it began to sprinkle.

Next morning, when the second hour was about half through, a feeling of
excitement filled the Quad and penetrated the classrooms. Craig's
students were not paying very creditable attention to his lecture. He
himself was keeping his mind on the syllabus with considerable
difficulty. When someone passed the window and the eyes of the entire
class, including even the enthusiastic dig on the front seat, were
turned that way, Craig let his own wander and hesitated the least bit in
his talk.

All at once, like a thunderclap, a half-dozen voices somewhere in the
Quad gave the yell. Craig stopped speaking and looked at the class, who
gazed back at him. A man with his back to the windows stood up and
looked out. The seats creaked ominously. Then, like grass after a
breeze, the whole class rose and craned necks at the window.

The instructor, coming to himself, began feebly:

"If you please--"

Again the yell, not the desperate cry that is wrung out to cheer a
losing team, but the voice of victory, of joy and of great relief.

Professor Craig went out of his classroom like a shot, the class after
him.

There was a triumphal parade to the station, with flags and the entire
population of Roble beating time with dust-pans and brooms, to meet the
President who had sent the happy telegram. There were songs and speeches
and demonstrations in front of Xasmin House, with fellows hugging each
other or swinging round in side-line fashion, girls crying, and the
President's parrot incidentally learning the yell. Then, at night, the
alumni poured in on the trains from north and south, stirring th