It was Joe Gamp--poor, dear old Joe, who had never “cut any ice” in society life at Yale. Joe Gamp, the lad from New Hampshire, who would have given up any hope of inheriting his father’s farm for the glory of entering “Bones,” had seen in the face of the Southerner the unspeakable joy of the moment, and he whispered that he was glad.
Mason remembered it afterward, for he was not a fellow to forget. Mason, who had come to Yale with a feeling of prejudice for “Yanks,” would have fought to the death for one “Yank” after that. For more than one, as Merriwell was a Northerner, and he had long felt that he would do anything in his power for Frank.
The burden of disappointment had fallen heavily on many men that day, but to none had come greater joy than to Hock Mason. His heart was threatening to tear a hole in his bosom as he walked through that crowd, which parted for him to pass, knowing that Frank Merriwell was gravely following in his footsteps.
Frank’s face was unreadable as that of a stone image as he brushed past Defarge and followed Mason. And so they proceeded across the campus and disappeared into one of the arches.
Behind them they left a youth who felt that he must die of disappointment and shame. Defarge knew that it had been supposed he was sure to make “Bones” or “Keys,” and he had told himself that nothing less than the greater society would satisfy him. Now, however, he was weak and crumbling with the bitterness of it all upon him.
It must be that he had been chosen by “Keys.” That was the last hope, and the last “Keys” man was passing through the throng in search of the final candidate.
“He must be after me!” Defarge inwardly cried.
But the searcher had found his man. His hand rose and fell.
Defarge started to go somewhere. He did not know where he wanted to go, but he had a desire to get away. This was the day he had lived for during the past year; and this was what it had brought him!
“Merriwell is to blame for it all!” he cried mentally. “Oh, curse him! But for him this shame would not have fallen on me!”
He was wrong. He alone was to blame. His own treacherous nature, which he had so skilfully concealed at first, had led him on to his downfall. He had been very shrewd in his early days at Yale. It was only when he became ambitious to overthrow Frank Merriwell that his downfall began. With each failure he had dropped lower, but he did not realize how fast he was falling. Merriwell had shielded him by silence, but nothing could keep his rascality secret. He had plotted, and his plots, all of them failures, had reacted upon himself.