more onerous than yawning, and the yawn which came from Perry Bush,
didn't sound as though it cost much of an effort. It was, rather, a
comfortable, sleepy yawn, one that expressed contentment and relief, a
sort of "Glad-that's-over-and-I'm-still-alive" yawn.

There was a window-seat under each casement in Number 17, and each was
occupied by a recumbent figure. Perry was on the right-hand seat, his
hands under his head and one foot sprawled on the floor, and Joe
Ingersoll was in the other, his slim, white-trousered legs jack-knifed
against the darker square of the open window. Near Joe, his feet tucked
sociably against Joe's ribs, Steve Chapman, the third of the trio,
reclined in a Morris chair. I use the word reclined advisedly, for Steve
had lowered the back of the chair to its last notch, and to say that he
was sitting would require a stretch of the imagination almost as long as
Steve himself! Through the windows Steve could see the dark masses of
the campus elms, an occasional star between the branches, and, by
raising his head the fraction of an inch, the lights in the upper story
of Hawthorne, across the yard. Somewhere under the trees outside a group
of fellows were singing to the accompaniment of a wailing ukelele. They
sang softly, so that the words floated gently up to the open casements
just distinguishable:

"_Years may come and years may go,
Seasons ebb and seasons flow,
Autumn lie 'neath Winters' snow,
Spring bring Summer verdancy.
Life may line our brow with care,
Time to silver turn our hair,
Still, to us betide whate'er,
Dexter, we'll remember thee!_