His clothes
were soiled and torn, his hair was on end, there was dust in his eyes,
and dirt in his mouth.
The fickle audience went wild. The dark horse had won, and public favor
immediately swung in his direction. But it was not the favor of the
public that Percival sought; it was the homage of a certain rebellious
maiden, who must be taught that he was the master of any situation in
which he found himself.
Bobby was not slow to proffer her congratulations. She gave them with
both hands, to say nothing of her eyes and her dimple.
"I pulled for you!" she whispered eagerly. "I almost prayed for you. I
wouldn't have seen you beaten for the world."
As Percival, elated by her enthusiasm, stood shaking hands right and
left, he felt a curious and unfamiliar warmth stealing over him. All
these people whom he had looked upon until to-day as so many figureheads
stalking about suddenly became human beings. He found, to his surprise,
that he knew their names and they knew his. He sat on a table, swinging
his feet in unison with a lot of other young feet, while he sipped
lemonade from the same glass as Bobby Boynton.
[Illustration: He sat on a table swinging his feet in unison with a lot
of other young feet, while he sipped lemonade from the same glass as
Bobby Boynton.]
As a matter of fact, the Honorable Percival Hascombe was experiencing a
novel sensation. He was enjoying a sense of fellowship, to which all his
life he had been a stranger.
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