“Gee, what a crowd!” muttered Cowan.

The head of the procession passed through the gate and turned toward the house, and the band struck up ’Neath the Elms of Old Erskine.  Hundreds of voices joined in and the slow and stately song thundered up toward the star-sprinkled sky.

Paul’s arm was still around his room-mate; its clasp tightened a little.

“Say, chum.”

“Well?” muttered Neil.

“Thanks.”

“Oh, don’t bother me,” Neil grumbled.  “Let’s get out of this; they’re stopping.”

Sydney had stolen, as noiselessly as one may on crutches, to the chandelier, and suddenly the gas flared up, sending a path of light across the street and revealing the three at the window.  Neil, exclaiming and protesting, strove to draw back, but Paul held him fast.  From the crowd outside came the deep and long-drawn A-a-ay! and grew and spread up the line.

And then the cheering began.