This mood lasted through the early part of the exercises, the prayer read by the primus of the senior class, the hymn singing, the Rector’s speech, and so on.  Everything came to him as out of a mist, and he was not even sufficiently conscious of himself to look around for a glimpse of his parents.  When the distribution of exercises began, the whole atmosphere changed.  Until then it had been collective and impersonal.  Now it became intensely personal.  Every one wanted to hear.  Necks were craned, whispered questions asked.  It was as if a sudden breeze had stirred waters which until then had been still as the mirroring surface of a forest pool.  Keith’s mood changed with the rest, and he grew painfully conscious of himself and his surroundings.

Starting with the lowest grade, the Rector read out the names of the prize winners, the character of the prizes, and sometimes the reasons why they were bestowed.  At the mention of each name, a boy rose from his seat, squirmed past his closely packed comrades, marched up the centre aisle to the platform, bowed awkwardly to the Rector, grabbed the prize, bowed still more awkwardly if possible, and marched back to his seat with a face that burned or blanched, grinned or glowed, according to temperament.

The second grade was soon reached.  Most of the prizes consisted of books.  Davidson, primus, got two gilt-edged volumes of poetry.  Keith caught a glimpse of them and experienced a twinge of envy.  His heart was beating so that he thought he could hear it.  His eyes clung to the Rector’s mouth, and when the next name was read, he half rose.  Then he sank back, and around him an ominous stillness seemed to reign.

The name was that of Runge, tertius, who got some historical work.  Then quartus, Blomberg, who was a passionate botanist, received a valuable text book on his favourite subject.  Still the rector went on, and Keith felt sure that his name had been passed over by some mistake, and that now it would come.

“A German lexicon for special attention to the student of that language,” the Rector droned on.

Again Keith started to rise from his seat, but even as he did so, it flashed through his mind that he was given no more attention to German than to other studies.

“... to Otto Krass of the Second Grade,” the Rector completed his sentence, holding out a book.

As Keith sank back on the bench, Krass, quintus, rose with an expression on his face as if he had become personally involved in a particularly incredible miracle.

A whisper ran through the rest of the class.  Glances were cast at Keith, who felt them like so many lashes on bare skin although in every other respect he had once more become utterly unconscious of what happened about him.

By slow degrees he recovered so far that he could try to think, but the process was unendurable.  There could be no accident.  It was a deliberate slight aimed at him for some specific reason.  He tried to think of the past year and its happenings in and out of school, but this effort produced no solution to the riddle.