There were a lot of other pieces to be spoken, most of them by the youngsters.  There were songs, also exercises in vocal gymnastics.  Pupils of the lower classes displayed their expertness at mental arithmetic.  Then, after more singing, the superintendent of schools, who had just arrived, mounted the platform and presented each graduating one with a diploma, showing that the recipients had faithfully and successfully completed their Grammar School course.

More music, after which Laura Bentley, a pretty little vision in white cloud effects, with yards of pink ribbon for the sunshine, stepped to the platform, made her bow and launched into the valedictory.

“And now,” called Old Dut from the audience, “the old eighth grade is no more.  The exercises are over.  I thank all who have contributed to make this occasion so pleasant.”

“Three cheers for Old—–­Mr. Jones, the principal!” yelled Dan Dalzell, as the scrambling to get out began.  Needless to say, the cheers were given.  Now that the ordeal was over, it was nothing to the discredit of fine Old Dut that the youngsters would have cheered a yellow dog had they been so requested.

Old Dut had slipped down to the egress.  There he shook hands with each graduate, wishing them all possible success in life.

“And be sure to come back to these exhibitions whenever you can in after years,” the principal called as the last members of the late class were going down the stairs.

“Dick,” chuckled Harry Hazelton, as they descended, “when Old Dut was calling on you to go forward and do your little stunt, did you notice the fly on the left side of his nose that he was trying to brush off without letting any one see the move?  Ha, ha, ho!”

“Shut up, Hazy,” growled Prescott almost savagely.  “Haven’t you any idea of reverence?  We’re going down these steps for the last time as Central Grammar boys.  I’d rather do it in silence, and thoughtfully.”

“Isn’t Dickins the queer old chap?” demanded Harry Hazelton, falling back by Reade’s side.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t be queer, just for once, and hold your tongue until we are outside the good old schoolyard,” grunted Tom.

“They’re a pair of cranks,” muttered Harry to Dave Darrin.

“Imitate ’em for once,” Darry advised dryly.  “Remember, it’s the cranks who make the world go around.”

For the most part, both boys and girls got their hats very quietly.  Then they passed out into the open, walked across the yard and gathered in little groups outside, each holding his beribboned diploma in his right hand.

“It’s all over,” sighed Tom Reade outside the gate.  “Somehow, I wish that I had another year to go—–­or else that I’d been a little more decent to Old Dut.”

“It was a good old school,” sighed Dick, looking back almost
regretfully.  “And, by the way-----”

“Speech, Dick!” cried a dozen of the boys, crowding around him.