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diff --git a/old/54996-0.txt b/old/54996-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6fabaf1..0000000 --- a/old/54996-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6923 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yale Cup, by Albertus True Dudley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Yale Cup - -Author: Albertus True Dudley - -Illustrator: Charles Copeland - -Release Date: June 28, 2017 [EBook #54996] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE CUP *** - - - - -Produced by Wayne Hammond and The Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -THE YALE CUP - - - - -BOOKS BY ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY - - -Phillips Exeter Series - -Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. - - FOLLOWING THE BALL. - MAKING THE NINE. - IN THE LINE. - WITH MASK AND MITT. - THE GREAT YEAR. - THE YALE CUP. - A FULL-BACK AFLOAT. - THE PECKS IN CAMP. - THE HALF-MILER. - - -Stories of the Triangular League - -Illustrated by CHARLES COPELAND. 12mo. Cloth. - - THE SCHOOL FOUR. - AT THE HOME-PLATE. - THE UNOFFICIAL PREFECT. - - * * * * * - - THE KING’S POWDER. - -LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON. - -[Illustration: SAM FORGED AHEAD, CLEARING EVERY OBSTACLE JUST IN FRONT -OF HIS RIVAL.--_Page 284._] - - - - - _PHILLIPS EXETER SERIES_ - - THE YALE CUP - - BY - ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY - - AUTHOR OF “FOLLOWING THE BALL,” “MAKING THE - NINE,” “IN THE LINE,” “WITH MASK AND - MITT,” “THE GREAT YEAR” - - _ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES COPELAND_ - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON - LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. - - COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. - - Published, March, 1908. - - _All Rights Reserved_. - - THE YALE CUP. - - Norwood Press - J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. - Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. - - TO THE MANY - PLEASANT YOUNG FRIENDS - WHO, CONSCIOUSLY OR UNCONSCIOUSLY, HAVE - ASSISTED IN THE MAKING OF - THIS BOOK - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER I - - PAGE - - AN EXPERT PACKER 1 - - - CHAPTER II - - ARCHER RECEIVES 9 - - - CHAPTER III - - FIRST IMPRESSIONS 21 - - - CHAPTER IV - - BRUCE GIVES ADVICE 29 - - - CHAPTER V - - SPORT FOR SPORT’S SAKE 38 - - - CHAPTER VI - - A BONE OF CONTENTION 47 - - - CHAPTER VII - - MR. WORLDLY WISEMAN 58 - - - CHAPTER VIII - - SLOW TO ANGER 68 - - - CHAPTER IX - - THE FURY OF A PATIENT MAN 76 - - - CHAPTER X - - DUNCAN’S DISGUST 86 - - - CHAPTER XI - - A REVELATION OF CHARACTER 95 - - - CHAPTER XII - - MR. ALSOP’S DIGNITY 105 - - - CHAPTER XIII - - THE CHALLENGE 115 - - - CHAPTER XIV - - AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 127 - - - CHAPTER XV - - SAM’S FIRST RACE 137 - - - CHAPTER XVI - - HE TRIES AGAIN 148 - - - CHAPTER XVII - - A FOOLHARDY ADVENTURE 162 - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - MR. ALSOP BARKS 174 - - - CHAPTER XIX - - UP THE WRONG TREE 188 - - - CHAPTER XX - - THE SOCIALIST 204 - - - CHAPTER XXI - - HONK! HONK! 216 - - - CHAPTER XXII - - HOW THE FISH WAS CAUGHT 226 - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - LESSONS IN HURDLING 237 - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - ROBERT OWEN, FRESHMAN 249 - - - CHAPTER XXV - - JUNE TO DECEMBER 263 - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - JANUARY TO MAY 273 - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - ARCHER _VERSUS_ KILHAM 282 - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - THE YALE CUP 291 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - Sam forged ahead, clearing every obstacle just in front - of his rival (p. 284) _Frontispiece_ - - FACING PAGE - - Donald caught the fastening at one end at the fourth attempt 4 - - “Referee! referee! they’re playing thirteen men!” 44 - - This spectacle of pitchers and streams of water and heads - greeted Mr. Alsop’s gaze 164 - - At the same moment Sam vaulted the barrier 228 - - “That’s Owen” 256 - - - - -THE YALE CUP - - - - -CHAPTER I - -AN EXPERT PACKER - - -“All packed?” inquired Robert Owen, inserting his head through the door -of Number 7 Hale and sweeping the scene of confusion with a curious -glance. Satisfied to accept the evidence of his eyes in lieu of a -definite reply, Owen was just closing the door again when one of the -Peck twins, who inhabited the room, sang out: “Hi there, Bobby! Come in -here a minute!” - -Owen let himself in and set his back against the door. - -“You call that packing, do you?” he asked, looking with a grin of -amusement at a big trunk which gaped at him with wide-distended jaws, -the whole front of the tray showing like a flaunting tongue. “Whose -trunk is that?” - -“Don’s,” replied Duncan. - -“Why don’t you take some of the things out and put them in yours?” - -“Because he’s going straight home, and I’m not,” retorted Duncan. - -“That lid will never go down,” said Owen, who had been examining the -overfed monster. “You’ll have to repack.” - -“Repack! Why, what’s the matter with that packing? That wasn’t done -the way Blossom does his--fill a pillowcase and hammer it down with a -baseball bat--that’s all hand work.” He came nearer and whispered in -Owen’s ear: “I don’t want it repacked. I put in a couple of old bottles -that I picked up down back of Porter’s. There’ll be something doing -when mother unpacks them.” - -Donald came out of his bedroom. “Do you think it will go?” he asked of -neither in particular, gazing doubtfully at the problem. - -“Of course it will,” said Duncan, promptly, “if you put weight enough -on it. Try it, Bob, and see what your hundred and eighty will do.” - -“Hundred sixty-eight,” corrected Owen, as he mounted the incline. The -lid sank to within four inches of its proper place. - -“I’m afraid we’ve got to take some things out,” sighed Donald. - -“If you take out anything, it will have to be that box of specimens,” -remarked Duncan, shrewdly. The box of specimens was the one thing which -Donald would not want to leave behind. - -Donald meditated. - -“Let’s try to snap it,” proposed Duncan. “Bob and I will get on one end -and jump it down. You try to catch the fastening when it comes right. -Then when we get one tight, we’ll down the other.” - -This method actually proved effective. Donald caught the fastening at -one end at the fourth attempt; the weight of all three brought the -second fastening into place. The lid fortunately was strongly made and -the hinges held. Donald locked the trunk and put the key in his pocket, -while Owen and Duncan pulled the strap to a hole beyond the power of -any porter to loosen. Then they drew long breaths and contemplated the -work of their hands. - -“It’s like a bale of hay,” said Duncan in triumph. Donald, however, -seemed not wholly satisfied. - -“I wish it had iron bands round it. If the thing bursts, I shall be all -to the bad.” - -“That strap’s as good as an iron band,” spoke his twin, reassuringly. -“Things go a great deal better when they’re packed tight; I’ve heard -mother say so often.” - -“Why don’t you go together?” asked Owen, marvelling that the twins, who -belonged together like the two halves of a walnut, should actually be -at the point of separation. - -“That’s a personal question, but I’ll condescend to answer it,” -returned Duncan, a little sheepishly. “Don, of course, has passed all -his exams. I only got recommended in three, and I believe I’ve flunked -’em all. So I’m going down to Uncle Will’s till after the Fourth, and -then I’m to tutor in Cambridge. If I get a decent number of points in -the fall, I’m coming back here. If I don’t, I’ve got to go to work.” - -[Illustration: DONALD CAUGHT THE FASTENING AT ONE END AT THE FOURTH -ATTEMPT.--_Page 3._] - -“Shall you keep your room?” - -Duncan nodded. “It doesn’t cost anything to do that. They’ve given me a -room-mate too, a tall, bony fellow, named Archer. Upper middler. Hails -from Portland.” - -“You’ve seen him, then?” - -“No. He’s related to the Sedgwicks, and he was there the other day. -That’s his description as I got it from Wally. When are you going?” - -“To-day. I may as well say good-by.” Owen held out a hand which Duncan -gripped. - -“I don’t suppose you’ll ever be seen here again,” said the Peck, -ruefully. “You’ll have to come with the freshman teams, though, won’t -you?” - -“If I can make any,” answered Owen, lightly. - -“Make any!” Duncan sniffed. “If you call that modesty, I don’t. It’s -pure affectation. You know you could make the Varsity nine, if they’d -let freshmen play.” - -“I shall come up anyway, whether I play with the freshmen or not,” -pursued Owen, disregarding Duncan’s flattering comment. “I shall want -to turn up here occasionally to see the old place and the profs and the -people I know.” - -“Gee! wouldn’t it be sport when you’re all through and aren’t afraid of -anybody!” exclaimed Duncan, his tongue hurrying after his imagination. -“I’d walk up to Doc Rounder and say, ‘How-de-do, Doctor Rounder! How’s -that fine dog of yours?’ Doc would smile all over and begin to crack -the mongrel up. Then I’d tell him that the pup looked pretty well for -such an old dog, and ask if the police really did shoot at him for -snapping at people. I’d see Hayes and thank him for all he taught -me--he was always telling me that I was the only fellow he’d ever had -whom he couldn’t teach anything to--and josh him about his chickens. -I’d call on old Moore and get him going about the school spirit. I’d--” - -“You’d better wait till you graduate before you plan to come back to -show yourself off,” interrupted Owen, laughing. - -“That’s a fact,” returned Duncan, suddenly reduced to humility. “Most -likely I shall be doing the errand-boy stunt in my father’s office. -Don’ll have to be the one to come back.” - -“I’m never coming back,” said Don, decidedly. “I’m down on the place. -They’re always looking for a chance to fire you, and they haven’t given -Dun a fair show. When he’s a great man, I hope he’ll be elected trustee -and cut down all their salaries.” - -“That’s just what I’d do,” declared Duncan. “And what I took off from -the salaries of the profs I don’t like I’d give to those who are on the -square.” - -“I can guess who’d get an increase,” Owen remarked. - -“Not very hard to do that. I wish you’d guess how I’m going to get -twelve points this summer.” - -“Buck up and work, you idiot!” cried Donald, impatiently. - -“That’s what I’m going to do, isn’t it?” Duncan retorted. “I know what -I’m up against without your rubbing it in.” - -At this juncture Owen, regardless of the fact that by staying five -minutes longer and using a little diplomacy he could involve the twins -in a first-class scrap, virtuously said good-by and returned, somewhat -depressed, to his packing. He liked Duncan Peck too well to hear of -his troubles with unconcern. He hoped sincerely that the boy would -get off a lot of points in September, and that the new room-mate would -prove to be of the right sort. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -ARCHER RECEIVES - - -The middle of September was past. The school authorities had survived -the worst of the confusion of registering, allotting rooms, smothering -complaints, turning away unpromising applicants, evading the tearful -entreaties of parents, arranging schedules, laying down rules. -The second-hand furniture dealers were sold out, having reaped a -cash harvest of a hundred per cent on goods bought of the mortally -impecunious three months before. The student dealers in fountain pens -and athletic supplies were making hay in dazzling sunshine. Football, -the great industry of autumn, clamored for devotees. The first notes of -the year-long wail over the food at Alumni Hall already floated in the -air. With screech of bearings and groan of ill-fitting machinery, the -Seaton mill had begun its one hundred and twenty-third manufacturing -season. Would the product be worth while? It depended quite as much -on the quality of the raw material provided as on the process of -manufacture. - -Sam Archer came to Seaton with vague but highly colored expectations, -due in no small measure to the entertaining reminiscences of adventure -and romance which his Uncle Fred delighted to tell. Uncle Fred had -preceded him in school by twenty-odd years. The school had been smaller -then, and the life simpler. The boys still boarded around the village -in private houses, the sports were general affairs requiring no -special training, the school itself formed a big fraternity with few -distinctions except such as come naturally to superior personality. -Uncle Fred, being a bright, friendly, whole-souled fellow, learning -easily and possessing a natural aptitude for games of all kinds, had -been a conspicuous figure in the school. He looked backward upon his -Seaton days as the happiest period of his life; Sam looked forward to -his with an eagerness born of long-fondled hopes. - -Sam moved into 7 Hale, to which he had been assigned, and waited to -see what kind of a comrade this appointed room-mate was to be. When -two days went by without sign of a Peck, he called at the office and -learned that the absentee was expected on the morrow; his coming, -however, depended on the results of the examinations which he was -taking in Cambridge; if he did not appear, another room-mate would be -provided. - -Ruminating dolefully on this uncertainty about a most important matter, -Sam reached home in time to catch a caller who was just turning -from the door. It was Bruce, a good-looking fellow of the ruling -oligarchy--likewise captain of the track team. He had been pointed out -to Sam on the first day of school. - -“Hello!” called Bruce. “Do you live in this entry?” - -“Yes,” responded Sam, “in Number 7. My name’s Archer.” - -“Then you’re the fellow I’m looking for. Where’s Duncan Peck?” - -Sam opened the door for his caller. “He hasn’t come yet. I’ve just been -to the office to see about it. They didn’t seem sure that he’d come at -all.” - -“I’m awfully afraid that he won’t, myself. He wrote me that he had -to make twelve points to get back. I don’t believe he can get twelve -points in twelve years.” - -“Won’t you sit down?” asked Archer, politely. - -“No, I thank you. I’ve got to get home.” The visitor gave a glance at -Sam’s lanky figure. “--Do anything in athletics?” - -“Not much,” replied Sam, modestly. “I played football and baseball in -the high school, but our teams wouldn’t be called anything here. I ran -the high hurdles too.” - -“Did you?” The track captain’s interest became keen immediately. “What -time have you made?” - -“Nothing very good. Eighteen seconds was my best.” - -Bruce’s eagerness languished. “You ought to do better than that. If you -don’t play football, get Collins to help you this fall.” - -When the next day passed and no Peck appeared, Sam quietly moved the -furniture of the stay-away to the other bedroom, and took up his -quarters in the corner room, which possessed obvious advantages -over its mate. The reasoning here was as straight as Euclid. This -unknown quantity, Peck, as original occupant, enjoyed a prior claim -to the desirable room. Against all later comers the Archer claim -took precedence. Any claim, however good, is strengthened by actual -occupancy. If Peck wasn’t coming, Sam might as well have the room as -give it to some one else. - -That evening Archer received a call from three inhabitants of his -“well.” They came in boldly, addressed him jauntily, and proceeded -to throw the sofa pillows at each other and his own surprised self. -Presently one grabbed a baseball bat and called for a game with the -pillows. Another seized a tennis racquet and began to whack a ball -with indefinite recklessness, but largely at Archer’s head. When one -of the missiles narrowly escaped the shade of his new lamp, Sam, whose -ire had been rising, waded into the chief offender, threw him down and -beat him hard with the pillow, was pulled off by another, on whom he -immediately turned with the same vigor, gave cuffs and received them, -and was finally, after a hard struggle, subdued by the combined efforts -of the three. After this the trio let him up, shook hands with him, -assured him that he was “all right,” and departed suddenly. They had -hardly time to escape into a room close at hand, and Sam to pick up his -cushions and the tennis ball, when an ominous knock was heard at the -door, and Mr. Alsop appeared. - -“What’s all this noise, Archer?” he began sharply. “Don’t you -understand that no rough-housing is tolerated in this building?” - -“Yes, sir,” panted Sam, non-committal. - -“What’s been going on here?” - -“I’ve had some visitors.” - -Mr. Alsop eyed him sternly. “Who were they?” - -Now this was a very wrong question for Mr. Alsop to put. If he had -possessed half as much common sense as energy and devotion to supposed -duty, he would never have asked it. He counted on the newcomer’s -inexperience, and hoped to get a grip on two or three unruly characters -in his well, which would help him in maintaining order in his -territory later on. He did not consider that in extorting evidence -from the new boy he would be exposing the thoughtless betrayer to -months of annoyance and contemptuous treatment at the hands of the -mischief-makers. Fortunately Archer’s instinct was truer than the -instructor’s. - -“I don’t know their names,” he said. - -“Describe them!” - -“I don’t think I can, sir.” - -Mr. Alsop threw at the incompetent a glance of scorn. “Well, you can -send them to me.” - -Archer’s look glanced from Mr. Alsop’s angry face to the door of his -bedroom, thence to the floor, thence squarely back again to the teacher. - -“I’d rather not, sir.” - -There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Alsop had shot his bolt; he was -not prepared to make an issue of the refusal of a boy to betray his -associates. “You can at least tell them that if this thing is repeated, -you are likely to get into serious trouble!--You can do that without -offending your sense of honor, I hope?” he added, with an accent of -sarcasm. - -“Yes, sir.” - -The teacher turned and retraced his way to his rooms downstairs. Two -doors were pushed quietly open as he reached a lower floor. From each -emerged a studious boy holding a finger between the leaves of a book. -The pair crept to the stair railing, heard the steps descend the last -flight, and a door close. Then they scurried for Archer’s room. - -“What did he say?” demanded the first eagerly as soon as the door was -shut behind him. - -Archer began an account of the conversation. - -“Did you give us away?” interrupted number two. - -“Wait till I am through, can’t you?” responded Sam. “No, of course I -didn’t.” - -“Shut up, Lordie, and let him tell it!” commanded the other. “We want -it all.” - -Archer finished his repetition, omitting nothing. - -“You’re the right stuff,” declared the one called Lordie. “Just like -the old sneak to try to get it out of you because you’re new. Last year -he got little Roberts fired for nothing at all. He thinks he’s the -whole institution--faculty, trustees, and all.” - -The door opened abruptly. Number three rushed in and closed the door -softly behind him. “Look out! he’s coming again!” - -Numbers one and two dived for the bedroom. Number three settled into a -chair and opened an Anabasis which lay on the top of a pile of books on -the table. There was a gentle tap at the door. - -“Come in!” called Archer. Mr. Alsop entered. - -“Visitors again so soon?” he asked, seeking to cover his suspicion with -an air of pleasantry. “You seem to have made friends early, Archer.” -He glanced at the book which lay open on the lap of number three. “I -didn’t know you took Greek, Taylor.” - -“I don’t,” answered Taylor. “I just picked the book up. Looks hard, -doesn’t it?” - -“I don’t think it is really any harder than a modern language, if the -modern language is seriously studied. In fact, many teachers are of the -opinion that the college requirement in Greek is easier than that in -German.” - -Neither Archer nor Taylor disputed or commented on this opinion. “Won’t -you sit down, sir?” said Archer, suddenly recalling his obligation to -a guest. - -“No, I thank you,” replied Mr. Alsop. “I returned to speak of something -which I ought to have emphasized when I was here a few moments ago. -The responsibility for order in the dormitories is really laid upon -the students themselves. Every student is expected to see to it that -no unseemly disturbance is made, and that nothing is done to interfere -with the studies of others. The whole matter is left in your hands, and -you are put on your honor to do nothing unworthy of the dignity and -name of the school. It’s in the dormitory life that the spirit of the -school especially shows itself. We trust you to conduct yourselves like -gentlemen, without being watched, and put you on your honor to do so.” - -“Yes, sir,” replied Archer, conscious of a peculiar feeling, a mixture -of approval of the theory and suspicion as to the practice. - -“That is all that I wanted to say. Good night!” - -The boys echoed the salutation piously, and the room was left in -momentary quiet. Soon the two hidden worthies emerged from the bedroom, -and pranced across the floor, chuckling. - -“My eye!” cried Lord. “Did you ever hear such stuff? He puts you on -your honor, and then tries to make you tell who rough-housed you, and -comes sneaking up here to see if he can’t catch some one. That’s a good -one!” - -“Just go and tell him something in confidence and see what would -happen!” exclaimed Fowle (so his name proved to be; his mates called -him “Birdie”). “He’d bring it all up before the faculty, and you’d be -fired like a shot, as Murphy was last year. That’s _his_ kind of honor.” - -“Are they all like that?” asked Archer, in consternation. He had been -taught to respect his teachers. - -“No, only about half,” said Lord. “There are some I’d be willing -to tell anything to, and do ’most anything for. There are others -who aren’t worth wasting cusses on. Alsop thinks he’s the greatest -man since Washington--and what is he?” He snapped his fingers -contemptuously. - -“When’s Peck coming?” demanded Taylor, abruptly. - -“He was due yesterday, if he passed his exams.” - -“Too bad if he doesn’t come. He’s an awfully good fellow and lots of -sport. Know him?” - -Archer shook his head. Fowle took occasion, while his friends were -intent on this conversation, to make a good shot at Lord with a sofa -pillow. Lord seized the pillow, but made a wild return. Fowle jeered. -The fracas seemed in a fair way to begin again when Taylor interfered, -and with forceful prophecies of the fate that would befall them all -if they got to rough-housing again, persuaded the pair to “quit their -fooling” and take themselves off. - -That same afternoon Mr. Peck’s stenographer brought him a telegram, -which ran thus:-- - -“Got ten points what shall I do send money quick.” - -The father dictated immediately the following answer:-- - -“Go back to Seaton try again will send check there.” - -The next day Archer saw his room-mate. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -FIRST IMPRESSIONS - - -Archer came in from French next morning feeling depressed. Mr. Alsop -had caught him on an unmastered point in the lesson, and had then -made him the subject of pleasantries which, though they seemed to -the teacher merely casual examples of his innate cleverness, cut -the sensitive boy to the quick. Of course the boy was foolish to be -sensitive; one of the incidental advantages of the Seaton system is -that while it may develop in the pupil a precocious sharpness and -suspiciousness, it also accustoms him to hard knocks. Sam, however, -could not avoid the impression that he was paying the penalty for Mr. -Alsop’s defeat of the evening before. As he felt himself innocent of -wrong-doing, his pride and his sense of justice were both offended. - -He closed the door behind him and let the catch down; to keep the door -locked seemed the easiest way to avoid trouble. As he turned, he was -startled to see in the doorway of the second bedroom a coatless lad -gazing at him with critical chilliness. - -“Scared of burglars, or is some one after you?” asked the stranger, -scornfully. - -“Neither!” retorted Archer. “Who are you?” - -“Peck! I suppose you’re the fellow this wise faculty has seen fit to -tie me up with.” - -“I’m Archer,” said Sam, curtly, resenting the contempt latent in Duncan -Peck’s words. - -“That’s a pretty name. It’ll look well on a card on the door. What’s -your other name? Reginald?” - -“No--Sam.” - -“Sam! That’s a come-down after Archer. I’ll call you Archer; you call -me Peck. I’ll take one side of the room, you the other. You’ve turned -me out of my bedroom, I see.” - -“Yes. I thought you weren’t coming. You can change again if you want -to.” - -“It isn’t worth the trouble. What do you want to lock yourself in for?” - -“Some fellows came in here last night and raised a row. I wanted to be -let alone.” Sam gave a short account of the experiences of the evening -before. - -“They won’t try that again now that I’ve got here,” Peck made -complacent answer. “It’s foolish to get us into trouble with Alsop,” he -added, his tone hardening. “He’ll be down on the room the whole year. -It’ll take a lot of soft soap to make him feel right again.” - -Sam was silent, convicted of having brought the room into suspicion -by unwise conduct, yet puzzled to see wherein his error lay. He was -disappointed, too, by the coldness and unfriendliness of this room-mate -whom everybody had described as jolly and agreeable. - -Peck put on his coat and went to the door. “I guess we can get along -together if we let each other alone. Only don’t keep the door locked; -I may sometime want to come in.” - -Duncan went his way to the house which his fraternity made its -headquarters, a little ashamed of his ugliness, but firm in the opinion -that this new Archer was a “fresh guy” who would require repression -to make him endurable. If Duncan had been forced to give grounds for -this dislike, he could in honesty have advanced but two. With the -first, Archer was in no way concerned: Duncan did not want a dormitory -room-mate at all; he wanted to room with his friends of the Alpha Beta -Gamma at Knowles’s. His father, however, who saw in this scheme but an -additional incentive to waste time, had vetoed it at once, and written -privately to the office to make sure that his son should receive a -“good, quiet, studious room-mate” who might help him to become in his -turn good, quiet, and studious. By what method of induction the office -arrived at the conclusion that Samuel Wadsworth Archer was such a boy -is not worth investigation; the office has its whims, and they are not -always wrong. - -Duncan’s second objection was personal. In moving him out of the -bedroom which he had occupied for two years, calmly putting his -household goods on the sidewalk, as it were, and taking possession, -Archer had shown himself to be a fellow of a consummate and incurable -insolence. Duncan didn’t care for the bedroom,--at least, so he assured -himself,--but with a fellow of that stamp he wouldn’t even condescend -to quarrel. - -Duncan did not appear again until just before his afternoon recitation; -the evening also he spent elsewhere. During the next day he was at -home for hardly two of his waking hours, and during this time he was -either dressing or undressing in his bedroom, or talking with fellows -who came in, or working at his desk. He was not impolite, and he spoke -pleasantly enough when he found occasion to speak at all; but he -indulged in no unnecessary conversation and asked no favors, while his -general manner indicated clearly his purpose that community of room -should not involve community of life. - -Sam, though inexperienced, was not wholly dense. He understood that -his room-mate meant to have nothing to do with him, and at first felt -both humiliated and hurt. But pride soon came to the rescue. If he -was not good enough for Peck, neither was Peck good enough for him; -he had no reason to be ashamed either of himself or of his family. If -Peck did not want his society, he certainly could dispense with the -companionship of Peck. This appeal to pride gave him a certain peace of -mind and stayed him also against discouragements from another source. - -In his high school Archer had been considered athletic. He had played -on the eleven and on the nine, and still held the school record in the -high hurdles. At Seaton he found himself judged by different standards. -When he drifted out on the Seaton campus with twoscore football -candidates, he confessed to himself sadly that he belonged in the lower -third. He possessed too much length and too little breadth and weight -ever to be a factor in the Seaton games. The only advantage which -he could surely claim over the average impossible who enlivens the -playing fields during the first fortnight with brand-new trousers and -awkward zeal, was that, being long-legged, he could kick. The Seaton -coaches wanted men who could kick, but they didn’t want men who could -do nothing else. The best that could come within Archer’s reach was a -place on the second, or on his class eleven. - -The failure to make good in football had been in a measure anticipated. -In the hurdles, however, Archer had permitted himself certain -ambitions, which, though unexpressed, represented warmly cherished -hopes. Now Collins, the trainer, who had got him out to display his -paces, told him bluntly that he must learn to sprint before he could do -anything worth while. It wasn’t enough to pace his distance properly -and clear the barriers; he must mount in better form and get speed into -his three strides between the hurdles. Archer, being strongly of the -opinion that sprinters are born, not made, took this exhortation as an -adverse judgment,--especially as it was coupled with the information -that Fairmount’s regular racing time was a second under his record, -while Kilham of Hillbury was good for at least one-fifth better. - -Sam thought the whole subject over as he sat alone in his room after -dinner on the day of the experiment with the hurdles. It was clear -that he must accustom himself to an entirely new point of view. The -sooner he was reconciled to being classed with the mediocrities, the -better it would be for him. Duncan Peck’s conduct indicated that his -personality was not especially taking; his recitation work was not -brilliant, and he suspected that his conversation gave no assurance of -great mental gifts; his only hope in athletics was to plod along the -trail after the leaders and pick up what they might leave. The outlook -for distinction was not promising--but why must he win distinction? Was -it not better to acknowledge in all humility the commonplace character -of his endowment, and go cheerfully forward doing his best all round, -and letting results take care of themselves? He might play football for -fun on the class team; he might take hurdle practice for exercise and -amusement, without hope of silver cups and gold medals and the sight of -his portrait in the Boston papers. He could certainly meet Duncan Peck -like a polite and self-respecting fellow who courted nobody’s patronage -and understood a sentiment expressed in manner quite as well as one -voiced in rough words. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -BRUCE GIVES ADVICE - - -The autumn weeks that slipped by had little effect on the relations of -the two boys in 7 Hale. Duncan thought less ill of Archer after longer -experience with him: he was not especially fresh after all; he minded -his own business, and did not presume, or pretend, or brag, or fish for -Duncan’s friends. On the other hand, he was not as particular in the -matter of clothes as Duncan liked his friends to be. Archer’s coat was -not always fresh from the tailor’s goose, the turn-up of his trousers -was usually imperfect, his neckties were carelessly chosen, and did not -match his socks. His tastes, moreover, were too democratic; he showed a -disposition to like everybody; rich or poor, clodhopper or aristocrat, -athlete or grind--he accepted them all as parts of the same world with -equal rights to favor and friendship. Archer nodded at every fellow -he met; so did Duncan, but Duncan’s nods were carefully graduated -to the person. On one fellow he bestowed a short formal jerk of the -head, which, accurately translated, read, “This is my duty greeting, -even you receive it.” To another the nod was a conscious expression of -friendliness; a smile that lighted up the face went with this salute, -and a jolly word that had a personal ring. Archer drew the line at -meanness and a dirty shirt; Duncan’s line was farther up, separating -the few who were supposed to be of the right sort from the many who -were not. - -When once the principle was established that their ways lay apart, it -was easier to follow the diverging paths than to bring them together. -At first Peck thought Archer fresh and ordinary, and did not care for -him. At first Archer was offended at Peck’s foolish snobbishness, and -proudly disregarded him. The attitudes thus taken both maintained -through obstinacy, after each had discovered that he was at least -partially wrong. Archer waited for Peck, who had established the -precedent, to change it. With Peck the loss of the favorite room still -rankled, and he held that advances toward reconciliation should come -from the aggressor. So they tacitly agreed that they must always -disagree. - -Bruce came to the door one day demanding Peck, or information as to -where he could be found. Archer replied in emphatic terms that he knew -nothing about Peck’s affairs. - -“Isn’t he ever here?” asked the track captain, in a tone of vexation. - -“Come at midnight and you’ll find him. He’s here to sleep.” - -Bruce looked thoughtfully at Archer. “He ought to stay at home more,” -he said, after a slight pause. “He won’t do any work, knocking about -from room to room.” - -Archer gave an impatient jerk of his shoulders. “It’s none of my -business what he does. I think he goes away to avoid me.” - -“Why should he?” - -“I don’t know. He doesn’t like me, I suppose.” - -“He and Don used to fight like cat and dog, but they always stuck to -the nest,” Bruce mused. “What have you done to him?” - -“Nothing. He just doesn’t like me. You can’t blame him for that.” - -Bruce had been talking with Collins that morning, and the trainer had -spoken a good word for the long-legged recruit to the hurdling force, -not on account of what he could do, but because of the spirit he -showed. Bruce was fond of whimsical Duncan. He was well disposed, also, -to the recruit. - -“Didn’t you throw him out of his room?” - -Sam flushed uneasily. “Yes, and I offered to give it back to him. He -said it wasn’t worth the trouble of changing.” - -“Duncan is a little queer. He takes things hard sometimes. The more he -feels a thing, the less he likes to talk about it.” - -The visitor departed, leaving Sam to puzzle over this new light on -the actions of his incomprehensible room-mate. On first impulse he -vowed that if Peck was such a fool that he wouldn’t say plainly what -he wanted, his wants didn’t deserve consideration. Sam himself, in -Peck’s circumstances, would not have hesitated an instant; he might -have been annoyed, but he would have declared his annoyance frankly; -he wouldn’t have played the sorehead. But was there really any ground -for annoyance? Sam imagined himself in Peck’s place, and answered -immediately “yes.” In fact, the more he considered it, the more serious -the offence became. A fourth-year boy unceremoniously bundled out -of his old quarters by a newcomer because of a few days’ delay in -arriving, and then calmly told he might move himself back if he wished! -It was a fresh thing to do; Sam squirmed in his chair under the lash -of his own conscience; however silly on the part of Peck to pout like -a foolish school-girl, there was no defence for that act. - -The recitation bell gave forth its dreary clang; Peck rushed in, took -some books from his desk and started for the door. - -“Bruce has been here,” said Archer. - -“I saw him,” replied Peck, as he crossed the threshold. - -This exchange of chilly brevities jarred on Sam’s perturbed feelings. -No one but a lobster or a sorehead would sulk that way! It would be of -no use to offer apologies to such a fellow. The only course was to say -nothing and replace the furniture. - -Glad to do something to make amends for his error, Sam dug out Birdie -Fowle from the room opposite, led him into Number 7, and set forth his -demands. By concentration of will power, he at length succeeded in -giving Birdie’s good-natured inclination to do anything anybody asked -of him, the victory over his disinclination to do anything at all. -Together they hustled Sam’s bedroom furniture and general movables -into the study, placed Peck’s bed in the corner room, moved his bureau -without disturbing the articles on top, and hung his wall ornaments -in corresponding positions in the new quarters. The contents of his -own closet Sam cleared out, but Peck’s he left unprofaned for the -owner himself to change. After that, the pair dumped Sam’s possessions -miscellaneously in the inferior room, and adjourned to Porter’s drug -store for consolatory fudges at Archer’s expense. - -When Sam returned he found Peck standing on the threshold of his old -room, looking unpleasantly surprised. - -“What have you been doing now?” he demanded, as Sam entered the study. - -“Birdie and I have just put your things back in your old room,” -answered Archer. “We did it carefully. I don’t think anything is hurt. -You’ll have to shift your clothes yourself.” - -“You take a lot of liberties with other people’s property!” commented -Peck, savagely. “You seem used to moving. Your family must be in the -habit of changing tenements whenever rent-day comes round.” - -At this slash Sam laughed outright. His family had inhabited the same -house for four generations. It was one of the recognized ornaments of -the city, pointed out to every stranger. “The last time we moved was in -1790,” he said quietly. - -“What!” - -“And I naturally don’t remember much about it. My great-grandfather did -the moving.” - -Peck stared for a few silent seconds. “Well, you’re certainly making up -for your ancestors’ omissions. Perhaps they hadn’t anything to move. -I hope you aren’t going to keep this thing up all through the year.” - -“You needn’t worry. I shan’t touch your things again. I’ve just put you -back where I found you. We’re square now.” - -“I didn’t ask you to do it,” persisted Peck, ill-humoredly. - -“I know you didn’t, but I came to the conclusion that I oughtn’t to -have moved you in the beginning, so I tried to make it good. I’m sorry -if you don’t like it.” - -“Oh, I don’t care,” replied Peck, with indifference, going to transfer -his clothes to the empty closet. - -Archer strode over to Alumni to luncheon, disappointed in the outcome -of his efforts to make amends for his act of thoughtlessness. He felt -that he had come as near an apology as he could, without actually -falling on his knees and demanding forgiveness with tears. If Peck was -still sore, he might go hang! His favor wasn’t worth having. - -That evening Peck inquired what kind of a house it was that Archer’s -family had lived in for four generations, and for the first time in -six weeks of co-residence, there occurred between them what might -be called a conversation. But, as Sam gloomily remarked to himself -afterward, it was like a talk over a wall. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -SPORT FOR SPORT’S SAKE - - -The football weeks were coming to an end. With the loss of eight strong -players who had graduated the year before, or for other sufficient -reasons had left school, and the lack of proper new material with which -to work, the coach and school had been hard put to it to develop an -eleven worthy of Seaton traditions. Sam played on the second eleven -when he got the chance, and regularly did practice kicking to give -exercise in catching punts to the backs on the first. He understood -well, however, that he was not of the chosen, and cherished no -illusions as to chance of promotion. - -With the best of skill and labor a perfect finished product cannot -be expected from poor materials. The school, whose pride had been -exalted by the achievements of the Great Year just past, felt keenly -the failure of the eleven to round into proper form. Weak spots, -apparently incurable, developed in the line. The attack was frequently -forceless and scattered, the defence slow, the whole game perfunctory -and spiritless. Inferior elevens were allowed to score; teams which -Hillbury had found easy, proved serious foes at Seaton. General -sentiment grew pessimistic as the season advanced. - -It was perhaps for this reason that the class games aroused so great -an interest. The juniors got out their heavy men, inspired them with a -spirit of dash and defiance, and beat the lower middlers. The seniors -drafted four fellows from the school second eleven, filled up the -number from the squad of brawny candidates, and went forth to bag the -upper middlers. Varney, the captain of Archer’s class team, took what -he could get from the second eleven,--three, all told,--picked the best -of the crowd of ambitious amateurs, and took up the gage of battle. Sam -found himself, as the only man who could put the ball back straight, -playing at centre, expected to change places with Bull Norris, the -full-back, when there was occasion for kicking. - -The school team, with the faculty director of athletics, had gone to -Cambridge for a game with the Harvard freshmen. Some of the teachers -were out of town; others were busy with their own affairs. Not a soul -of them was on the campus--a fact which was not at first observed. -An umpire and a referee were chosen from the two lower classes. The -referee, from the defeated lower middlers, showed himself a model of -fairness; the umpire, a junior, favored the seniors, whom he considered -the weaker team, hoping that they would survive the fray to meet his -own class. The class supporters took their places decorously on the -side benches, and cheered their representatives in due and seemly -fashion. Archer kicked the ball to the seniors’ ten-yard line, where -Hoover took it and ran it back fifteen yards. At this point there was -a wrangle over Fairmount’s illegitimate blocking. The umpire affirmed -at the outset that the performance was perfectly legal; but on being -pressed, took safer ground for his decision by declaring that he didn’t -see the blocking at all. This aroused a new spirit. The upper middlers -jeered at the umpire, the seniors jeered at the upper middlers. In the -next scrimmage, Taylor, who was playing quarter, didn’t receive the -ball cleanly from his centre, and Archer, sprawling his full length -through a narrow hole beside the guard’s knees, got his hands on the -ball and pulled it under his chin. The squirming layers were stripped -off and Sam was adjudged the rightful holder. Then the upper middlers -pushed Kendrick, their heavy half-back, through the line again and -again, now behind big Ames, now behind Mulcahy, the other tackle, now -through the centre, until a touch-down was achieved, and later a goal. -This score temporarily soothed the inflammation caused by Fairmount’s -holding. - -The seniors sent the ball down to Mudie, who fumbled it and was caught -on the fifteen-yard line. Archer now gave up his place to Norris, who -passed back for a kick. The ball came so high that Sam had to jump for -it, but he managed to get his kick off before Putnam carried him down. -The ball went out of bounds on the forty-yard line, where the seniors -got it. They had no star like Kendrick, whose playing was surprisingly -hard and fast, but they worked well together, and Taylor ran his game -cleverly. Through guard and centre was no thoroughfare, but the upper -middler ends were hugged and pulled out of the way, without protest -from the short-sighted umpire, and the ball was shoved down upon the -goal line by a series of successful flank movements, helped out by an -occasional frontal attack on the tackles. So the score was made even by -a senior touch-down and goal. - -Meanwhile the audience was warming up. A detachment moved down from -the benches to the side-lines, whither the balance of the interested -sympathizers speedily followed. Regular cheering ceased. From either -side now rose spontaneous yells of exultation or hoots of disapproval. -The witty indulged in jocose personalities directed against players of -the opposite camp. The two classes not concerned took sides, juniors -with upper middlers, lower middlers with seniors. Archer kicked off -again to the seniors’ fifteen-yard line. Taylor tried a quarterback -run, and was nailed on the starting line and thrown back two yards. -The seniors’ kick was blocked by Ames, who struck down the arms of -his opponent, and rushing through, took the rising punt on his chest. -From Ames the ball bounded against the goal-post and rebounded among -the pack. It was found, in time, under an upper middler’s body. Wildes, -the senior left end, declared that it had been stolen from him, but -the referee would not allow the claim. Then Kendrick threw himself -into several breaches, and plunged, wriggled, and crawled his way to a -touch-down. Soon after this the half came to an end. - -By this time it had become generally known that not a prof was on -the field. A wild spirit possessed the crowd, a spirit of frolic and -horse-play. Each party wanted victory, but it wanted fun also, and on -the whole more. The ground was cleared for the second half by volunteer -policemen, who made a great show of eagerness for order, and in fact -led in the disorder. The crowd toed the side-lines when the seniors -kicked off; when Kendrick got the ball and ran it back, the throng -of upper middlers crossed the lines and swept in behind the wake of -the play. Varney’s men rushed the ball until they were blocked, when -Archer kicked. Hoover took the ball safely for the seniors, and started -his team on a return trip. Immediately another line of spectators crept -up behind the ball, crowding in upon the game, cutting off the seniors’ -crack end runs and forcing the play directly through the line. Here the -upper middlers held, and got the ball. - -Yet, strange to say, though the upper middlers now found conditions -exactly to their liking, the line plunges, which had been successful -before, suddenly failed. Every attack that penetrated the line seemed -to meet three men in the secondary defence. Big Ames glanced over the -heads of his two opponents and yelled: “Referee! referee! they’re -playing thirteen men!” - -The line, and the crescent of supporters behind it, took up the cry. -The crescent contracted, and meeting the line of seniors, enclosed the -players and cut off escape. The two centres knelt at the ball, gazing -at each other through sweat-dimmed eyes, while the officials counted. -The senior uniforms numbered twelve! - -[Illustration: “REFEREE! REFEREE! THEY’RE PLAYING THIRTEEN MEN!” -_Page 44._] - -Groans and taunts greeted this discovery. The senior team was -reduced to the normal number, elbow room was won by the use of elbows, -and the play went on. Two tackles developed such a mutual interest -that they disregarded the game altogether and devoted their energies -during every scrimmage exclusively to each other. Each was goaded on -by a troop of ardent backers. The ring of spectators narrowed and -thickened and heaved and sputtered. Ambitious volunteers sprang in -behind and lent a hand in pushing or in staying the enemy’s charge. -In the increasing confusion, a loud voice shouted “Game’s over!” In a -twinkling began a stampede for the possession of the ball, a confused -running and pushing and swarming. The football bladder burst in the -mêlée; all that the outnumbering upper middlers carried away was the -collapsed cover of the much-tormented ball. - -In spite of the assertion of spectators of all classes that the -senior-upper middler game had been the most enjoyable event of the -school year, Sam was not wholly content to have his serious efforts -turned into a joke. Duncan, who was manager of the senior team, -likewise strongly disapproved of the course of things, and vowed that -he should protest the game. Together they talked it over in the second -spontaneous conversation of the year, in which Peck took great pains to -deny that there had been any intention of putting twelve men into the -field against eleven. - -The next morning the whole school were treated to a chapel lecture on -the extreme impropriety of their conduct on the field the day before, -and to an exposition of the irreparable injury caused thereby to the -dignity and fair fame of the institution. At the same time the game was -declared null and void, and command was issued that it be replayed. The -ruling as to the game the boys accepted as reasonable; the invective -against their rowdyism served but to sweeten the recollection of an -hour when they had actually enjoyed sport for sport’s sake. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -A BONE OF CONTENTION - - -The game was played again under prescribed conditions, and the upper -middlers won once more, this time in consequence of practice gained -in playing together, by good use of the forward pass, and through -Kendrick’s splendid plunges and fast runs. In fact, Kendrick was easily -the hero of the game. Late in the season as it was, the coach took him -immediately on to the school eleven as a substitute back, and as luck -would have it, he got his S by slipping into the unfortunate Hillbury -game at the very end. Of this we shall speak later or not at all. -Sam Archer too, in much less conspicuous fashion, won credit in the -class match, though the senior centre got under him several times and -carried him off on his back. Big Ames of baseball fame played with his -usual ungainly determination, and a fellow named Mulcahy was much in -evidence during the game. - -It was on the subject of this Mulcahy that Archer and Peck came to -their first open disagreement. They naturally talked the game over -that evening--Sam with frank elation, Peck in a spirit of good-natured -forgiveness. When Mulcahy’s name was mentioned, Peck’s attitude changed -instantly. - -“He’s a mucker!” he said, with contemptuous curtness. - -“Why?” demanded Archer. - -“Because he is,” answered Peck. “Anybody with half an eye can see it. -He held Wildes twice to-day.” - -Sam smiled wisely. “If everybody is a mucker who held in to-day’s -game, Mulcahy isn’t the only fellow in the class. Putnam tripped Ames -deliberately. I saw it myself.” - -“It was probably a knee tackle that slipped down.” - -“No, he stuck out his foot and Ames fell over it.” - -“Well, that’s just because he doesn’t know the game. No one who is -acquainted with Harry Putnam would charge him with dirty play. If he -did that, it was because he didn’t know any better, or forgot himself.” - -“But if Mulcahy did the same thing, it proves he’s a mucker!” - -Sam was quite satisfied with this rejoinder. If Duncan Peck had any -sense at all, he must recognize the absurdity of his prejudice. Sam, -at the age of seventeen, with several generations of locally honored -ancestors behind him, had become, since his arrival at Seaton, an -ardent democrat. He believed firmly that a boy was as good as his -mind and character made him, without regard to the clothes on his -back or the money in his pocket or the social position of his nearest -relatives. Rebelling instinctively at the pretensions of certain -fellows whose fathers had “struck it rich,” and whose money gave them -a kind of importance, he was disposed to see in the poorer fellows -who were carrying the burden of their future on their own unaided -shoulders, examples of a sturdy, manly independence wholly admirable. - -“Whether he did the same thing or not,” replied Peck, coolly, “Mulcahy -is a mucker.” - -“The real difference is that Mulcahy works his way and Putnam doesn’t,” -asserted Sam, warmly. - -Duncan smiled scornfully. “The real difference is that Mulcahy works -other people and Putnam doesn’t!” - -“Putnam doesn’t have to,” retorted Sam. - -“Neither does Mulcahy.” - -“Why, he has to earn every cent he spends,” returned Sam, eagerly. “It -takes a lot more stuff in you to do that than to wear good clothes -and keep your hands white on the money your father gives you. It’s -these fellows who earn their way who do things when they get into real -work. They’re used to hard knocks, and they go straight ahead when -fellows like Putnam flat out. That’s proved by the whole history of the -Academy.” - -“What’s proved by the whole history of the Academy?” asked Peck, with -irritating calmness. - -“Why, that fellows that earn their way make the most successful men.” - -“I haven’t said a word against fellows who earn their own way,” -retorted Peck, sharply. “They may make the most successful men and they -may not. I don’t care anything about that. But if you think that the -history of the Academy proves that every scholarship fellow becomes a -great and good man, you’re sadly off. The scholarship fellows are of -all kinds--good, bad, and indifferent. Some are nice fellows; some are -dead beats, getting their board and clothes off the Academy because -it’s less work and more fun than it would be to milk cows or work in -the shoe-shop; some seem to be training for crooks or anarchists. They -work their way because they have to, that’s all. You don’t suppose they -prefer it, do you?” - -“Mulcahy plays football, and is on the ‘Seatonian,’ and does well in -his studies, and he is a good speaker in the Laurel Leaf,” remarked -Archer, feeling suddenly his inexperience, and returning to the -personal example when general assertion proved unsafe. “He amounts to -more than Kendrick, and yet you don’t make any objection to Kendrick.” - -“Kendrick is a good fellow,” said Duncan, enigmatically. - -“But Mulcahy isn’t!” completed Archer, with a sarcastic grin. - -“No, Mulcahy isn’t.” Duncan’s assertion was made in the nonchalant -fashion which we use in stating generally accepted facts. A slight -pause ensued, which he broke with a sudden accession of vehemence. -“It’s no use to argue about such fellows. Either you like ’em or you -don’t. It’s a matter of taste, and the way you have of looking at -fellows. We shan’t agree, because we don’t think alike. You have your -kind and I have mine. You’ve a right to admire Mulcahy and his gang if -you want to. I suppose you’ve got a right to bring him in here, too--as -half the room is yours.” - -“I shall if I want to,” answered Sam, with head high. “He’s just as -good as--as we are.” - -“That depends on the value you set on yourself,” returned Duncan, -coolly, taking his books into his bedroom with the air of one who -wished to be alone. - -Sam sat down at his desk, declaring scornful indifference to Duncan -Peck and his snobbish notions, but his thought ran rather on the -discussion just held than on the lesson before him. Notwithstanding his -assertion to the contrary, he soon decided that he should not bring -Mulcahy round. It wasn’t the fair thing to impose an unwelcome guest -upon his room-mate. At the same time he was clearly convinced that -Peck’s attitude was unworthy and contrary to the spirit and ideals of -the school. If he must choose between Peck’s favor and the friendship -of deserving boys who were struggling to overcome the handicap of -poverty and make something of themselves, he should not hesitate as to -a choice. The steady fellows toiling along the path trodden by Webster -and Lincoln were more honorable companions than the sleek, empty-headed -brats of the newly rich! - -This resolution to keep Mulcahy away from 7 Hale out of consideration -for Peck, Sam broke that very day--broke because he couldn’t help -himself. Mulcahy would come. To be sure, he had a reason for -coming,--to discuss the election of the Laurel Leaf, of which literary -society Archer had become a member; but he stayed longer than was -necessary for this purpose and talked mainly about himself. Mulcahy was -a striking figure in the school. Of good size, with well-poised head -and bold, regular features lighted up by brilliant dark eyes, ready of -speech and confident in manner, he gave the impression of one who had -a distinguished future before him. He had not only the plausibility of -a natural politician, but a certain insinuating way of taking another -fellow into his confidence as if he alone appreciated the other’s true -value. Sam had been captivated by Mulcahy’s winning attentions early in -his school career; he believed in him and admired him. - -Mulcahy was frankly ambitious. He was bound to lift himself. When he -had finished school--he explained to Sam--he meant to study law and -get into politics in some large city; he might go to college first if -the way opened. He expected to have to work hard to accomplish these -ambitions, especially as he believed in going in for the outside things -as far as possible--the “Seatonian” and athletics and the literary -societies. He tried to keep safely above the scholarship line, and -he did well with the influential profs. He belonged to the Christian -Fraternity, too; it helped you with the profs to belong to that. - -“When you have to fight your own way in the world, you must take -advantage of everything that comes along,” he declared. - -“It’s a great thing to do that, to educate yourself,” said Sam, -enthusiastically. “It develops an ability that puts you ahead when you -come to real work in the world.” - -Mulcahy looked at him sharply. “Yes, it sounds well, but it isn’t all -it’s cracked up to be. If you tried it a month, you’d find out. Lots of -fellows in this school look down on us scholarship fellows.” - -“Not those whose opinion is worth anything,” answered Sam, promptly. -“Not the best fellows, or the profs.” - -“The profs don’t count,” said Mulcahy, “and it’s hard to tell who are -the best fellows. There’s your room-mate, Peck, for instance. He speaks -to me on the street in a kind of condescending way, and he wouldn’t be -above taking a crib from me in recitation, but you don’t suppose he’d -invite me up here, do you?” - -Sam blushed and twisted in his chair; he felt thoroughly ashamed of his -room-mate, sufficiently ashamed to report with open indignation the -discussion which had recently been held on this very subject. But an -instinctive regard for honorable dealing, an instinct which Sam felt -even when his faulty reason would have misled him, closed his lips. -“I’ve heard him speak highly of Kendrick,” he said, at length finding -a clue. “He’s a scholarship man.” - -“Kendrick!” ejaculated Mulcahy. “What’s there to him? A common grind -who’s had the luck to be taken on the football squad!” - -“Why, I thought he was a nice fellow,” remarked Archer, puzzled at -Mulcahy’s vehemence. “What’s the matter with him?” - -“Oh, he’s good enough as fellows go,” replied Mulcahy, “but it’s always -seemed to me a green kind of goodness. He doesn’t know any better.” - -“Know any better!” echoed Sam, still puzzled. - -“I mean he isn’t very keen,” Mulcahy explained. “His wits are dull. -You could take him in as easy as looking. He’s an honest fool, and -good-natured.” - -Sam did not answer. He was wondering why two fellows with the same hard -problems of life to solve shouldn’t sympathize with each other. Mulcahy -rose to go. - -“I’ll count on you, then, in the election. Of course, I don’t want -the office, but we can’t have those fellows running things to suit -themselves all the time. It’s contrary to the whole spirit of the -place. I wish you’d see Lord and Kendrick and get them with us. They’d -bring others.” - -“I’ll do all I can,” said Sam, cordially. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -MR. WORLDLY WISEMAN - - -The blow fell; Hillbury routed the Seaton eleven with ease. Sam had -his mother and twelve-year-old sister down for the occasion. They -came gay-trimmed and expectant, surveyed the room with critical but -forgiving eyes, took luncheon at the Sedgwicks’, saw the game, and -departed by an evening train, witnessing with unsympathetic curiosity -the noisy antics of the victors as they trooped to their special. -Duncan happened in at 7 Hale while the visitors were there. He had the -courtesy to hide any indifference which he may have felt to the Archer -family. As a result, Mrs. Archer found him most agreeable, and she -gave cordial expression to her opinion that Sam had been fortunate in -his room-mate. Peck listened politely and made an acceptable response, -but Sam, with a haste which surprised his dear mother, switched the -conversation to another track. - -After his guests had departed Sam returned to his room and fell to -brooding on the disappointments of life. Being new to the school and -loyal, he was sensitive to the humiliation of the defeat by Hillbury; -he likewise felt his loneliness in the big school in which he knew so -many slightly and cared especially for no one who cared for him. His -relations with Duncan kept him at a distance from Duncan’s friends. In -spite of his championship of Mulcahy he did not find that young man -wholly satisfying as a companion. The temptation to find relief in -wrong ways came up before him in a vaguely attractive form, not strong -enough to upset his moral balance, but effectively adding to his sense -of isolation. John Fish in the room below had planned to celebrate the -victory. The victory failing, John had resigned himself to celebrating -defeat. He did this by stealing out of town to a neighboring city, -whence he would steal back in the early morning with gross boasts of -his achievements ready for trustworthy ears. John Fish was one of -those who never refuse themselves what they crave if gratification -is possible. He was too coarse and too vulgar to exert a winning -influence on Archer, but the thought of him to-night gave a pessimistic -trend to our young man’s philosophy. He looked abroad through blue -spectacles upon a world of injustice in which the wicked triumphed. -There was Birdie Fowle, who never did anything worse than make a noise -or throw water out of a window, and yet was deep in Mr. Alsop’s bad -books; the wise ones declared that Birdie wouldn’t last long in school. -John Fish, meanwhile, went his quiet way unsuspected. Mr. Alsop always -had a good word for him as an orderly and serious-minded youth; yet his -sins compared to Fowle’s were as boiler plate to blotting-paper. - -Sam took up his French books to get ready for Monday’s examination. -Mr. Alsop was young and strenuous, a good teacher, but saturated with -the conviction of his own importance, and ambitious for distinction as -a driver. He boasted that he tolerated no sluggards in his courses; -he prided himself on his keenness in detecting the goats before their -whiskers had begun to appear. The result was that many slow-minded -sheep got the credit of being goats, and many a wily old goat palmed -himself off as an innocent lamb. Mr. Alsop meant well, but went wrong; -and being wholly satisfied with the rectitude of his intentions, he -was the last to discover the crookedness of his course. More than one -unscrupulous idler, by pretending that he was struggling hard against -natural inability, secured better marks than he deserved. Others--among -them Sam--who said less and actually struggled more were predestined -from the beginning to D’s and E’s. Sam felt that nothing short of a -series of phenomenal examination books could propitiate fate. Convinced -that the scales were weighted against him, he worked half-heartedly. It -was with a sense of relief, after a quarter of an hour of unprofitable -study on his French, that he hailed the interruption of Mulcahy. - -“Plugging to-night?” asked the caller, in a tone of surprise, as he -dropped indolently into a comfortable chair and hoisted his feet to the -top of a table. - -“It’s got to be done,” replied Sam; “why not to-night?” - -“Because on the night of a Hillbury game nobody expects to do -anything. If we had won, you’d have been out all the evening -celebrating.” - -“It was terrible, wasn’t it!” mourned Sam, reminded anew of the -school’s affliction. - -“They got it right in the neck,” returned Mulcahy, cheerfully. -“Defence, attack, kicking, running, forward passes, Hillbury put it -all over ’em. They won’t hold up their heads for a week. It’s a very -different thing being on an eleven that’s had the stuffing beaten out -of it, from playing a winner.” - -“You talk as if you were glad we got beaten,” said Sam, gloomily. - -“Oh, no, I’m just making the best of the case. There’s no use in crying -about it. You and I didn’t lose the game, anyway. Those that lost will -have to take the kicks now.” - -“I don’t think they deserve kicks. They played as well as they knew -how. Kendrick was a regular star. The way he stopped the rushes of that -big red-headed Hillbury half-back was wonderful!” - -“Yes, he did pretty well considering the short time he’s been out,” -Mulcahy conceded. “But what good was it? They got licked to their -knees, that’s the essential fact.” - -“Who wrote that editorial in the ‘Seatonian’ special about the game?” - -“I did,” replied Mulcahy, complacently. “Wasn’t it smooth?” - -“Well, your statements don’t hang together then. In that you said that -while the result of the game was disappointing to Seaton, the main -thing, after all, was that it was well played and fairly won; it was no -disgrace to a team to be beaten in such a contest.” - -Mulcahy laughed heartily. “The ‘Seatonian’ was speaking then. The paper -says what will sound well and suit the profs. The editors think what -they please.” - -“Do you write all the good advice the ‘Seatonian’ gives us, about -studying, and maintaining the reputation of the school, and acting up -to the Seaton spirit?” - -“We all take a turn at it. It’s part of the business.” - -“Don’t you believe in it?” - -“Oh, sometimes; sometimes not. We don’t have to.” Mulcahy was growing -tired of the subject. “What’re you working on, French?” - -“Yes, I’ve got an exam with Alsop Monday.” - -“It’s an easy subject.” - -“Not for me, and not with Alsop.” - -“Oh, he isn’t bad if you don’t get him down on you. You want to go to -see him and ask his opinion about things. Pretend to think a great deal -of him, and let him give you information--he likes to do that--and -confide in him some trouble or other--not a real one, you know, but -something you’ve thought up. Get him going on the comparative merits of -ancient and modern languages, if you can, and be convinced. He’s ’most -as easy that way as Rounder. You’ll have to do some plugging too, of -course.” - -“I’m willing to plug,” said Archer, dubiously, “but I hate to talk with -him.” - -“Too bad you don’t have Rounder; he’s the easiest thing there is,” went -on Mulcahy. “Last year Stevens and McCarthy were way down in his class; -they hadn’t either of ’em been doing a thing above E. Both of ’em went -to Doc Rounder two weeks before the end of the term. Stevens said: -‘Don’t you think I’ve been improving lately, Doctor? I’ve been working -terribly. It seems to me I ought to have a D anyway.’ Doc Rounder looks -at his book and says: ‘Well, I don’t know--have you been studying -_very_ hard?’ ‘Two hours every lesson,’ says Stevens. ‘Perhaps I can. -We’ll see,’ says Doc. McCarthy was nervier. He said: ‘Dr. Rounder, I -think I ought to have a B this time. I’ve made a great improvement over -last term.’ Rounder looked in his book again and kind of hesitated; -‘I’m afraid I can’t do it, McCarthy, your marks are too low.’ ‘I ought -to have B with the work I’ve put in it,--C at least,’ McCarthy said, -trying to look indignant. Rounder said he’d think it over. Stevens got -D for a term mark, and McCarthy C--and neither of ’em deserved a thing -above E.” - -“Had they been doing all that work?” asked Sam, innocently. - -“Naw, they hadn’t studied ten minutes a week.” - -“Then they lied.” - -Mulcahy laughed aloud. “Of course they lied. Who wouldn’t to Rounder? -Why, lying is the one thing you learn in his course.” - -Archer pondered this statement in silence. Presently Mulcahy offered to -help him with his French, and they employed themselves for a half-hour -in looking up points on which Mr. Alsop was considered likely to test -his class in the examination. After a time Mulcahy’s zeal slackened. He -tilted back in his chair, smoked a couple of cigarettes, and talked of -the coming election in the Laurel Leaf. - -“Scholarship men do smoke, then?” asked Sam, as the conversation -lagged. He knew well that it was a strict rule that holders of -scholarships should not smoke. - -“We’re not supposed to,” answered Mulcahy, easily, “but you can’t -always do what you’re supposed to.” - -“I should think they would smell it on your clothes.” - -“I’m pretty careful. Besides, you can always lay it off on to some one -you’ve been with. My reputation would save me from suspicion anyway. I -could bluff my way out of it.” - -“It doesn’t seem quite square--” - -“Oh, rot! What’s a few cigarettes? It’s just a question of getting -ahead of the profs. The faculty is on one side and we’re on the other. -They try to make us do what they want, and we try to do what we please. -They’ll soak us if they can, and we beat ’em when we can. This isn’t -a Sunday-school; it’s a little piece cut out of the world. If you’re -going to get on here, you’ve got to shake your kindergarten ideas, and -play the game.” - -Mulcahy soon took himself away, and Sam went early to bed to sleep -off his low spirits. On the next day he made an afternoon call at -the Sedgwicks’ and yielded readily to an invitation to supper. Miss -Margaret was a mighty sorceress in dispelling the grumps. In the -evening he attended the Christian Fraternity meeting, addressed by -a distinguished professor of Yale. Mulcahy sat in a front row, and -listened devoutly. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -SLOW TO ANGER - - -Regular exercise in the gymnasium began immediately after the Hillbury -game. In Sam’s squad was a fellow from South Boston named Dennis -Runyon. Runyon possessed a head ornamented with stiff, bristly hair on -top, a stubby nose and pimply cheeks in front, and flaring clam-shell -ears at the side. In the vacant spaces of his brain lurked, with other -delusions of a large and general ignorance, a fixed idea that every man -who was not positively effeminate admired a pugilist. Runyon’s notions -as to the meaning of education were hazy; he had come to Seaton with -the somewhat vague hope of bettering his prospects in life, bearing a -letter of introduction from a cousin who had worked his way through the -school and was appreciative of the help which it had given him. This -letter from a faithful alumnus procured Runyon’s admittance. Entering a -lower class in which the work was, for him, largely review, he gained -rank high enough to receive a provisional scholarship. - -But Dennis Runyon’s ambitions were not limited to gaining a foothold -on the toilsome, uphill road which the self-made man must travel; he -thirsted for distinction, especially distinction in athletics. The -school football team did not desire his services; his class captain -gave him a trial, and quickly dropped him for a smaller man who used -his head more and his fists less. The football season passed, the -uneventful winter months were at hand, his lesson marks were tending -steadily downward. The name of Runyon was still obscure in Seaton. - -Dennis went home for Thanksgiving, and offered what excuses he could -for his failure to make the expected reputation. - -“Don’t you know any fellows at all?” demanded Pete Runyon, an older -brother, who had brought some glory upon the family by winning public -matches at various boxing clubs. - -“Not many,” replied Dennis, candidly. “They don’t take much notice of -a new fellow.” - -“Why don’t ye get up a fight, then? That’ll show ’em what kind of a man -ye are.” - -“I haven’t got any reason for fighting.” - -“Find one, make one! Pick out one of these fellows who’s stuck on -himself and give him a little jaw. He’ll fight when he gets mad enough. -Then give him a good upper cut and finish him off easy. They’ll have -some respect for you then. Ain’t ye man enough for that?” - -“I dunno.” - -“Ye ought to be, then. What’ve I learned ye to use yer paddies for? See -what it’s done fer me! When I go down the street, the’ ain’t a man in -the ward that don’t jump to give me the glad hand. It’s so everywhere. -Everybody likes a man that can fight. The boys’ll talk about ye all -over the school. Ye’ll be somebody then!” - -Dennis returned to school with his brother’s counsel ringing in his -ears. He experimented at first with boasts, and anecdotes of hard -bouts. The bystanders listened with grins and suggested that he try -his skill on Legge. Legge was a heavy-weight football player, old and -hard, with the torso of a Roman Hercules, and arms ridged with iron -sinews. As Runyon was a light middle-weight, this suggestion could only -spring from gross ignorance of the rules of the ring, or be prompted -by a spirit of ridicule. When flippant small boys of his class, whose -weakness was their protection, fell to asking him, with mock solemnity, -for details of these encounters, he became gradually aware that he was -being chaffed. Something must be done to impress the contemptuous with -his worth. - -Exactly why he chose Sam Archer as the person on whom to try the value -of his brother’s advice is not easy to determine. Jealousy doubtless -entered into the case, a little personal spite, and much of the cunning -of the professional sport. Sam’s democratic principles were not quite -broad enough to include a friendship with Runyon. Sam had made a class -football team when Runyon had not. Sam was tall and therefore looked -big, yet being thin was presumably weak--a combination much to be -desired in the person to be used by Runyon for demonstration of his -prowess. He was, moreover, an independent. Not being a member of any -close organization, he was not always surrounded by friends who felt -themselves privileged to interfere in his affairs; and though not a -fraternity man or a great athlete, he was not so obscure that a victory -over him would be inglorious. - -Having selected his victim, Runyon’s only problem was to make him -fight. It happened soon that chance threw a pretext directly in his -way, though he was not quick enough to recognize it. Archer, in the -hurried crowding to put away dumbbells after the exercise, stepped on -Runyon’s heel and pulled his gymnasium slipper loose. Runyon turned -with a scowl, but before his mind awoke to the opportunity Archer had -begged his pardon and passed on. The next day Runyon deliberately trod -on Archer’s heel, and did not apologize. The result, however, was -disappointing; Sam adjusted his shoe and went his way without bestowing -a look on the offender. - -The boxer now had recourse to more aggressive measures. He pushed -young Hartley into Archer on the gymnasium floor, but it was Hartley -who turned on him with abuse--and Hartley was too small to notice. He -commented with audible contempt on Sam’s performance on the vaulting -horse. As he passed Taylor and Archer talking together at the head of -the gymnasium stairs, he mocked the phrase which had just fallen from -Sam’s lips, and lingered near by to see if his challenge would be taken -up. - -“What’s that fellow driving at?” demanded Taylor. “Is he trying to get -up a scrap with you?” - -“It looks like it,” replied Sam. “Perhaps it’s just his way of being -funny.” - -“He’s getting too fresh. He ought to be squelched!” - -“I don’t want to be the one to do it. You don’t gain anything by -scrapping with fellows like him.” - -Sam’s evident unwillingness to be drawn was just the incentive needed -to urge his assailant on. Runyon was one who could be bluffed or -cowed, but not placated. Sam was by nature good-humored and patient, -capable of holding out on a fixed course to the last gasp, but neither -resentful nor pugnacious. When Collins informed Bruce that Archer was -good material, but must get speed and fight into him before he could -accomplish anything, the coach showed himself a shrewd judge of -character, as well as an expert in the psychology of successful racers. -As Archer sought to avoid him, Runyon’s conduct grew more offensive. -Both were criticised severely by spectators of the performance, the one -for not standing up for his rights, the other for acting like a hoodlum. - -The crisis came one day early in December, when Runyon, having flung -out an unsuccessful gibe in the dressing room, overtook Archer on the -stairs and jostled roughly against him. Sam, at last exasperated, gave -the bully a push with his shoulder that sent the intrepid challenger -hard against the side wall. Runyon rebounded, and striking Archer a -blow in the upper arm, squared himself for battle. - -“Come on, if you want to fight!” he called derisively. “I didn’t -believe you had sand enough.” - -“I won’t fight here,” answered Archer. - -“Ye won’t fight anywhere, I guess. You’re too much of a coward!” - -By this time boys were gathering above and below, and staring at the -brawlers with eager, grinning faces. - -“Don’t stand his lip, Sam,” said Kendrick, pushing his way up the -steps. “Knock the face off him!” - -Runyon turned sharply toward the intruder. Whatever his intention, he -suppressed it as soon as he recognized the stalwart football player. -“He’ll knock the face off me, nit!” said the pugilist. “He won’t even -give me a chance to get at him. Shorty Hartley’s about his class.” - -The gong for the beginning of exercise sounded. - -“I’ll give you a chance this afternoon,” said Sam, hastily. - -“Yes, you will!” sneered Runyon, “probably when you have a crowd of -friends to butt in.” - -“When we can have it out alone,” declared Sam, with a hard look in his -eyes and an air of extreme dignity. “I’ll send a second to you this -noon.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE FURY OF A PATIENT MAN - - -The more Archer considered the matter, the more disgusted he became. -It was totally unreasonable and absurd. Runyon had apparently set his -heart on forcing a fight--why, Runyon alone knew. Sam felt himself the -victim of an inexplicable persecution. He couldn’t hand the persecutor -over to friends to chastise, he couldn’t complain to the faculty, he -couldn’t put up forever with insults and humiliations. He simply must -fight--unless Mulcahy’s sharp wits could devise a way of silencing the -rowdy. - -Sam found Mulcahy before luncheon, and appealed for help. - -“What did you get into such a scrape for?” demanded Mulcahy, with small -show of sympathy. - -“It wasn’t my fault; he forced me into it.” - -“You must have done something to him. He wouldn’t pick on you without -some kind of reason.” - -“Not a thing. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to him. He’s making a fool -of himself and me too. Can’t you go to him and show him how idiotic it -is, and get him to shut up? If you don’t succeed in that, tell him I’m -ready to fight.” - -Mulcahy drew away. “I couldn’t do that, really. It wouldn’t do for me -to interfere. I’d like to help you, of course, but I couldn’t get mixed -up in a thing of that kind.” - -“Why not?” asked Archer, perplexed at his friend’s coldness. - -“Well, it would be talked about; some of the faculty would hear of it, -and they might not understand my position in it. I couldn’t have them -think I was acting as second in a school prize-fight. Then my position -on the ‘Seatonian’ has to be considered.” - -“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Archer, gloomily. “I’ve -got into trouble with a cheap mutt, from no fault of mine. I’ve got to -have some one to help me.” - -“I’ll help you by giving you the best advice I know. Go to Runyon -quietly and fix it up.” - -“Fix it up!” echoed Archer. “How can I fix it up?” - -“Why, tell him you acted thoughtlessly, and are sorry you pushed him. -Beg his pardon, and when the thing is over and settled, avoid him. If -you don’t patch it up, you’ll be walloped by a good fighter, and very -likely get kicked out of school into the bargain.” - -Sam stared--glared--at his counsellor. “Go down on my knees to that -fellow!” he said, with vibrant voice and flashing eyes. “Swallow all -the insults he’s given me and ask for more, beg his pardon for not -taking his dirty kicks with gratitude! I wouldn’t do that for a dozen -‘Seatonians’ and a hundred faculties. I wouldn’t do that for any one, -not if I knew I was going to be fired the next minute!” - -“Don’t blame me, then, if things don’t go right,” returned Mulcahy, -seating himself at his desk as if the interview were over. “You’ll just -get into the scrape deeper. I’ve given you the best advice I know. My -conscience is clear.” - -Sam flung out of Mulcahy’s room without a backward glance or a word. -Furious with Mulcahy and with the whole ridiculous business, he strode -along vowing he would fight without a second, anywhere, at any time. -At the corner of Sibley he ran into Kendrick. - -“Look out there!” sang out Kendrick’s cheerful voice. “What’re you -rushing me for? I’m not Runyon.” - -Sam’s face brightened. “Say, Ken, will you be my second if I have to -fight that fellow?” - -“Sure, I will,” responded the ready Kendrick. “But why do you say ‘if’? -You’ve _got_ to fight him.” - -“Don’t you think you might go to him and show him what a fool he’s -making--” - -“It wouldn’t do a bit of good,” interrupted Kendrick. “Nothing’ll cure -his disease but some good hard punches in the head. I’d just as lief go -and tell him what a fool he is as not. Maybe I’d get a chance to hand -him a few myself. Only it wouldn’t do any good.” - -“You won’t get into any trouble with the profs by backing me, will -you?” questioned Sam, mindful of Mulcahy’s fears. - -“Trouble? Supposing I do? The job’s got to be done, hasn’t it?” - -“Then go and tell him to come to my room after the four o’clock bell -rings. Alsop is at recitation then. He can bring some one with him.” - -“All right,” replied Kendrick, cordially. “Trust the thing to me. I’ll -arrange everything in proper style, giving him a little of my opinion -at the same time. Four o’clock this afternoon at 7 Hale!” - -Mr. Alsop took his books and his dignity over to recitation that -afternoon, little suspecting the plot against the boasted quiet of his -entry. Kendrick had cleared the centre of the room of movables, and now -sat on the sofa, nursing his knee and giving final words of counsel. -Sam had put on tennis shoes, an old pair of trousers and a jersey, and -over this had thrown his coat. - -“Don’t accept any rules at all,” advised Kendrick. “Just wade in and -hit him any old way. You aren’t fighting for a diamond belt, you’re -just defending yourself against bullying; close in on him or throw him; -then pummel him. If you stand off, he’ll whack you. You want to rush -him.” - -“It’s the craziest fool thing I ever got into,” groaned Sam. “There’s -no sense in it at all. I never did anything to the mucker.” - -“What’s the good of going over that again! When a rowdy sets on you in -the street, you’ve got either to fight or to run. It’s no use to tell -him he isn’t acting like a gentleman. If Runyon insists on fighting, -you’ve got to fight him, or get some one else to do it for you, or -appeal to the faculty for protection.” - -“I know it!” growled Sam, whose temper was growing vicious. “I’m going -to fight.” - -“You’re going to win, too,” observed Kendrick, with a sage nod, falling -in naturally with the orthodox practice of encouragement pursued by -seconds since the days of Homer. “He’s nothing.” - -A bold knock at the door announced the coming of the enemy. Runyon -walked in, followed by Brantwein, his supporter. Brantwein was a -radical, avowing and defending extreme socialist ideas. He was beating -his way through the school. He sold peanuts to the fellows on the -bleachers at the ball games, devised various means, effective and -ineffective, of getting marks without excessive work, put the shot -with considerable success, and protested generally that his name did -not mean “brandy,” because it was not spelled with a double _n_. None -the less he was dubbed “Brandy” from the day of his advent. He was -generally against the government, and he liked a scrap. - -Runyon took off his coat immediately. “We’ll follow the Marquis of -Queensberry rules,” he proclaimed. “No hitting below the belt and no -clinching.” - -“Rules nothing!” answered Kendrick, curtly. - -“What’s all this for, anyway?” said Archer. “I’ve nothing against you -to fight over.” - -“I’ve got something against you,” returned Runyon, “and you ain’t goin’ -to crawl out of it now!” - -At this taunt a white spot appeared on each of Sam’s cheekbones, and -an ominous light flashed into his eyes. He drew off his coat--slowly, -because he wanted time to consider his opening. Runyon caught the -change of color in his opponent’s face, and misinterpreted its meaning. -Fearing that the long-suffering Archer might be still reluctant to use -his fists, and that the éclat which he had striven for might at the -last moment escape him, he stepped forward and swung the flat of his -hand in a stinging slap against Sam’s cheek. - -The effect far exceeded Runyon’s expectations. Sam’s long-suppressed -anger at being forced into a ridiculous position flared into scorching -fury. With every nerve alert and every muscle quivering, he flung -the coat aside and leaped forward. He came too quick and too hard -for his enemy’s artistic defence. The blow that should have felled -him to the floor, wildly and feebly aimed, glanced harmless from his -lowered, plunging head. The next instant, Sam’s arms were encircling -Runyon’s waist, his head was planted safely against his opponent’s -chest; the on-rush of his dive swept the boxer, drumming vainly on -the muscle-armored shoulders, back against the wall. They struck the -doorpost with a force that slammed Runyon’s head against the wood. -Before he could recover, Archer caught his footing, and whirling his -confused assailant about, threw him to the floor and fell heavily upon -him. - -What followed was totally contrary to the conduct expected of a -well-mannered hero of a boy’s book. Never was mighty fighter so soon -despoiled of his martial ardor, or so quickly brought to piteous appeal -for mercy. The seconds together dragged the infuriated tiger from -his prey. And while Kendrick in the corner of the study was bringing -Archer back to his normal state of charity and patience, Brantwein -was swabbing Runyon’s swelling, red-smeared face in the bedroom, and -muttering a combination of consolations and invectives. - -“He didn’t fight fair!” sputtered Runyon, when his breath returned and -his throat was clear. - -“Oh, shut up!” retorted the socialist. “You got what was coming to you.” - -“Didn’t I tell you the way to fix him!” boasted Kendrick, when the door -closed behind the battered, cowed Runyon and his disappointed second. -“If you had fought according to ring rules, he’d have knocked you all -over the place.” - -“Supposing he had done it, what then?” asked Sam, looking ruefully at -his knuckles. - -“Then I should have insulted him,” answered Kendrick, promptly, “and if -he did for me, some one else would have come up. He’d never have got -through the year without a good whaling.” - -Runyon went home the next day for comfort and repairs. And when he was -repaired and comforted, not daring or not caring to face the jeers -of his schoolmates, he decided not to return to the scene of his -defeat, but to work in a department store instead. Some time after his -disappearance, some innocent asked a friendly instructor whether Runyon -was expelled on account of his fight with Archer, and thus put the keen -noses of the faculty on the scent. So, long after the school had ceased -to talk of it, the history of the Battle of 7 Hale was revealed to the -authorities. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -DUNCAN’S DISGUST - - -Despite his fears, Sam never heard from the faculty with reference to -his duel. He had, on the whole, proved to his teachers his right to be -considered a law-abiding citizen, if not a distinguished scholar; and -the accepted student version of the affair showed him anything but an -aggressor. Mr. Alsop, while consenting to the verdict of acquittal, -adhered in silence to his own opinion, which held Sam accountable for -the desecration of the well by a low fight. - -This, however, was a month after the event. Mulcahy had come over on -the very evening to offer congratulations. - -“You were lucky to get out of it so easily,” he said. “The fact is that -I thought Runyon would be too much for you, so the best thing was to -switch him off. I didn’t like the idea of your being mauled about by -a rough bully like him. That’s why I tried to keep you back.” - -“But I simply couldn’t put up any longer with the treatment he was -giving me,” protested Sam. “That was worse than fighting and getting -licked. I hadn’t any self-respect left.” - -“I hoped you would be able to patch it up. I see now that I was wrong, -but I was terribly afraid he’d do you some injury.” - -Sam uttered a low laugh--quite the good-natured victor. “Well, he -didn’t. My knuckles are the only sore spot on me.” - -“It’s a good thing you got Kendrick into it with you. He’ll be more -likely to come over to our side on the Laurel Leaf matter. Have you -talked with him yet?” - -Sam shook his head. - -“Be as careful with him as you can. Make him see that we want to get -the offices out of the hands of the oligarchy, back into the school. -It’s a shame that a democratic institution like the Academy should be -bossed by the few fellows in the fraternities.” - -“Isn’t it chiefly because the frats have got some of the best fellows -in them?” asked Sam, innocently. - -“No! They have some good fellows and a lot who wouldn’t be anything if -they didn’t have money behind them. They put a frat man forward, and -the rank and file just sit still and vote him in.” - -“The rank and file don’t care much about it anyway.” - -“They ought to, and they will when they’re aroused. It’s up to us to -show them how to protect their rights.” - -After Mulcahy went, Sam compared the statement which his guest had -just made about the duel, with the reasons which he had given the day -before when he refused to act as second. “He was really afraid to have -anything to do with it,” he mused. “I don’t believe those fellows he’s -so down on would have gone back on a friend in that way. Still, I ought -not to blame him for that; he has his way to make; he can’t afford to -get into trouble with the profs.” The contrasting conduct of Kendrick, -who also had his way to make, occurred to him, and shook his faith -in his own argument. “But Ken is a natural scrapper,” he reassured -himself. “Ken would do ’most anything to see a fight.” - -One thing, however, Ken would not do--vote for Mulcahy for office. That -Archer discovered as soon as he broached the subject. - -“I wouldn’t vote for him for street sweeper!” he declared. “Mulcahy’s -a pig, and a grafter. He’s all for Mulcahy, and for nobody and nothing -else. If he wants a thing, on general principles I don’t want it. If -he says a course is right, I’m sure it isn’t. He works everything and -everybody he can get hold of. He’s got the faculty hypnotized into -believing he’s an angel. I wouldn’t trust him around the corner.” - -“He’s a mighty able fellow,” replied Archer, who charged Kendrick’s -vehemence up against prejudice and envy; “a lot abler than Metcalf, or -Dupont, or--” - -“Or me--” put in Kendrick, fervid, but ungrammatical. “He’s all -that--everything but straight.” - -“I’ve never seen anything crooked about him,” Sam persisted. “He’s been -a very good friend to me. I should think as you’re both in the same -boat, you’d sympathize with him.” - -“How are we both in the same boat?” - -“Why, you both have to rely on yourselves for what you get. You are -both scholarship men.” - -Kendrick looked relieved. “Is that all you meant! I was afraid you -thought we were in some way alike. If that was so, I was going to -change right off so as to be different. Mulcahy’s a crook!” - -“He’s a friend of mine, if you please,” said Sam, with dignity. - -“What has he ever done for you, anything?” - -“Yes, he’s helped me with lessons and given me advice.” - -“Advice is cheap. You can get it by the hour down in Alsop’s room. If -he’s given you free tutoring, that’s something.” - -“It hasn’t been very much,” confessed Sam. “I didn’t need it.” - -“He wasn’t much use to you in your row with Runyon, was he? If you’d -followed his advice then, you’d have been to the bad altogether.” - -“He meant well; he was afraid I’d get hurt,” announced Sam; and then, -to cut short this discussion of Mulcahy’s virtues, he asked, “Then you -won’t vote for him?” - -“Vote for him? Never. I’d rather vote for myself! I’m more or less of -a fool, but I have a little principle, and there are some things I’m -too good or too proud to do. There’s nothing Mulcahy wouldn’t do, if -he could make anything by it, and was sure nobody saw him. Don’t be -surprised if you find me electioneering against him.” - -Sam went back to his room disgusted. The causes of his disgust were so -complex, that he couldn’t possibly disentangle them. He imagined the -chief one to be his failure to accomplish his object with Kendrick, -and the latter’s colossal prejudice against Mulcahy. In fact, he -was beginning to feel the difficulty of defending his friend from -insinuations against him, and to be annoyed that it was necessary to do -so. He found Peck standing before the grate with hands clasped behind -him, and a black frown on his face. - -“I hear you’ve been turning this place into a prize ring,” began -Duncan. “Hereafter when you have these little affairs with your -friends I wish you’d hold ’em somewhere else.” - -“I shan’t have any more. I didn’t want this one. I tried as hard as I -could to keep out of it.” - -“You didn’t have to hold it here, did you?” - -“Perhaps not. I didn’t know where else to go. I thought you wouldn’t be -here.” - -“I wish I had been. I’d have stopped it mighty quick. Runyon and Brandy -Brantwein and Mulcahy and you! That combination would ruin any room’s -reputation!” - -“Mulcahy wasn’t here!” said Sam, sullenly. - -“Who was it, then?” - -“Kendrick.” - -Duncan stared. “I wonder how he got into it,” he said at length. - -“He knew I was forced into the thing and he wanted to help me out,” -answered Sam, quickly. “That’s more than some fellows I know would do,” -he added with scornful emphasis. - -Duncan’s stern look melted into a malicious grin. “More than Mulcahy -would do, I’ll bet. He isn’t running any more risks than he can help.” - -“There wasn’t any risk!” said Sam, bravely. - -“There wasn’t? Why, you’ll every one of you be fired when the faculty -gets on to it.” - -“I guess not,” Sam remarked with a confidence which was not altogether -sincere. - -“That Mulcahy has the crust of a crocodile,” went on Peck. “I -understand he’s trying to elect himself president of the Leaf.” - -“Look here, Peck,” said Sam, holding his head high, “I wish you’d leave -Mulcahy out of the conversation hereafter. He’s a friend of mine, and I -don’t care to hear him abused all the time. If you don’t want to vote -for him, you’re not obliged to. There’ll be other candidates. He has -brains and ability, but perhaps they don’t count as much in your eyes -as clothes and a big allowance and membership in a frat.” - -“That isn’t so,” snapped Duncan. “I don’t care anything about money, -but I hate a mucker whether he’s rich or poor.” - -“Mulcahy isn’t a mucker. My opinion on that point is worth more than -yours, for I know him better than you do. He’s going home with me over -next Sunday. That shows what I think of him.” - -Archer spoke with six feet of dignity and the gravity of a judge -handing down a decision, but Peck was totally unimpressed. “I hope he -won’t steal the silver,” he said with an exasperating twinkle,--“the -old silver!” - -Sam blushed, and cursed himself that he had ever been fool enough -to tell Peck anything. And while he blushed and sought vainly for a -crushing reply, Peck went whistling off to his bedroom, disposed to -think rather better of his room-mate after all. If you believe in your -friends, it’s your business to stand up for them--until you find them -out. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -A REVELATION OF CHARACTER - - -There was no danger of lack of quorum at the election of the Laurel -Leaf. Every faithful wheelhorse, every indifferent who had joined “to -please the folks at home,” every intermittently interested member -hastened to the society rooms with ballot in his hand and zeal in his -heart. The tide set hard against the champion of democracy. Underwood -was elected by a vote representing two-thirds of the society. - -Greatly chagrined and deeply sympathizing with his defeated friend, Sam -took Mulcahy home to 7 Hale to console him. Peck, who happened to be -in, greeted them coldly, and withdrew in such marked haste that Sam, -fearful lest Mulcahy should resent the intended slight, hastily pushed -his best chair forward and invited his guest cordially to sit down. -Mulcahy, however, showed himself in no wise sensitive. He settled into -the comfortable chair and composedly lit a cigarette, less like a -young reformer who had suffered a great disappointment, than a shrewd -old philosopher to whom a single defeat was but one of the little -annoyances of life, to be smiled over and forgotten. - -“When are you going to begin to smoke?” he asked, as Sam drew his chair -to the fireplace beside him. - -“Not for a long time,” answered Sam, “perhaps never.” - -“Why not?” - -“My family don’t want me to, for one thing. Then I want to keep myself -in good condition.” - -“Most fellows wouldn’t care much for either of those reasons,” said -Mulcahy. “You’re expected to do what the rest do.” - -Sam did not reply to this; he was thinking how hard it often was to -resist doing the things which the rest did. - -“People at home don’t know anything about what is necessary in a school -like this,” continued Mulcahy. “If you want to get on, you mustn’t go -against the crowd.” - -“I don’t care anything about getting on,” said Sam. “I’m not ambitious.” - -“You’d like to be popular, wouldn’t you?” - -“No!” Sam answered decidedly. “I shouldn’t want to be disliked, but -holding office and that kind of thing doesn’t interest me. There’s too -much hard feeling and disappointment.” - -Mulcahy laughed. “You don’t know anything about it. Now, I got beaten -to-night. Do you suppose I’m discouraged? Not a bit. I’ll lie low -for a while and work my game and wait. By and by things will come my -way. If you just hang on to a thing long enough, don’t make mistakes -and don’t get mad, you wear away the opposition after a time. There’s -another election this year, and there’s another year after this. I’ll -be president of the Laurel Leaf before I leave this place. See if I -don’t.” - -Again a silence. Sam believed in Mulcahy’s prophecy, but the tone of it -grated on him. - -It was not Mulcahy’s habit to take people into his confidence. But -to-night, as he lolled in Archer’s comfortable easy-chair, flattered -by the attentions and admiration of this boy of superior strain, he -relaxed his caution and gave a glimpse of his real self. - -“Do you know what I do summers?” he asked. - -“Work, don’t you?” - -“At what?” - -Sam shook his head. “You’ve never told me.” - -“I sell books. I can go into a factory--when they’ll let me in--and -sell books right through from floor to floor, to men and women both. -I’ve sold books bound in morocco for six dollars to women who didn’t -earn that a week. I used to be so successful that when I came to -deliver the books, they’d pretend I’d used unfair means to get their -signatures. Yet it was all done by holding on and not taking offence, -and flattering and agreeing with people.” - -“I don’t think much of getting poor women to pay a week’s wages for a -book when they need every cent they can earn for food and clothes,” -said Sam, bluntly. - -“Oh, perhaps they earned more than six dollars. It don’t matter. -They’re bound to throw away about so much anyway.” - -“How old are you?” asked Sam. - -“I’ll be twenty-one next July.” - -“You’re only three years older than I am, but I couldn’t do that kind -of thing if I were fifty.” Sam did not say exactly what he meant, which -was that he couldn’t do that kind of thing under any circumstances. - -“I just mentioned it to show what hanging on will do. I don’t really -care anything about this Laurel Leaf office except as a help to -something else.” - -“What is that?” - -Mulcahy looked at his host doubtfully under the rising twists of smoke. -“You won’t speak of it to any one?” - -“Certainly not, if you don’t want me to.” - -“You know what the Yale Cup is?” he asked. - -“Never heard of it.” - -“The Yale Club of Boston gives a cup every year in three or four -big schools to the senior who ‘combines the greatest excellence in -athletics with good standing in his studies.’ That’s the way it reads -in the catalogue. It’s awarded at Commencement, with a whole batch of -other prizes. In June of our senior year I want that cup. The greatest -difficulty is about the athletics. I’m going to try hard for the -football team next fall, and I’ll do something with the pole vault this -year. With the ‘Seatonian’ and the presidency of the Laurel Leaf, and -good rank in studies, and the favor of several influential profs, which -I’m working for, I ought to have a good show.” - -“Do you apply for it?” asked simple Sam. - -“No, foolish! The faculty picks out the man.” - -Mulcahy threw the stub of his fourth cigarette into the fireplace and -lighted another. “That’s a prize worth having,” he went on, “for it -means that the winner is a superior, all-round man. I’m going in for -the Merrill compositions too, and perhaps for the speaking. They’re -cash prizes, you know; but as honors they aren’t in it with the Yale -Cup.” - -“Did Owen get it last year?” - -“No, he wasn’t a good enough scholar. He did well enough in athletics, -but he was only about a C man in his studies.” - -“That would be a perfectly bully thing to take home with you, wouldn’t -it?” broke forth Sam, in honest enthusiasm. “Your father and mother -would be tickled to death with the scholarship part of it, and the -honor of the athletics would make you feel like a prince. I’d rather -get a thing like that than have an auto of my own.” - -Mulcahy smiled complacently. “I really don’t care much about athletics. -I only go in for them because it’s at present the thing to do.” - -A light step was heard in the entry, followed immediately by a knock -at the door. Mulcahy put his cigarette on the edge of the table, and -shoved his chair away; Sam turned his half round. “Come in!” he cried. - -The door opened to admit Mr. Alsop. “Good evening,” he began, as both -students rose, and Mulcahy retreated still farther from the table. “I -came to inquire the result of your election.” - -“I was badly beaten,” said Mulcahy, with charming frankness. “They -wouldn’t have me. Underwood was the honored man.” - -“I’m glad to see that you take it so well,” said Mr. Alsop. “That’s the -spirit I like in school politics.” He stopped short, suddenly aware of -the thick atmosphere of smoke and the pungent, penetrating odor of -cigarettes. “Why, Archer!” he exclaimed, turning sternly on Sam, “you -told me the other day that you did not smoke at all!” - -Sam flushed to the roots of his hair; his look glanced from the -reproving countenance of the teacher to the calm face of Mulcahy. He -did not answer. - -“He doesn’t smoke much, I can assure you,” Mulcahy broke in quickly. -“I think he was tempted to try a cigarette to-night to comfort himself -over our defeat.” - -Mr. Alsop sniffed the air. “There’s more than one cigarette in the -atmosphere of this room.” - -Sam raised his eyes sullenly to the teacher’s, shot a swift, -significant glance at Mulcahy, and looked out across the table at the -red banner upon the wall. He said nothing, for there was nothing that -he could say. - -“There’s a great difference between not smoking at all and smoking a -little,” the teacher continued in a severe lecture tone. “As I have -explained, we do not forbid smoking, except to scholarship men; we try -to discourage it all we can, because we consider it harmful. You told -me that you did not smoke. I find you smoking. You have not been honest -with me.” - -Mr. Alsop paused to give Archer an opportunity to reply. Sam racked his -brain for some non-committal form of words, and found none. “Yes, sir,” -he said desperately. - -“He probably thought, sir, that he smoked so little that it was -practically none at all,” interposed Mulcahy. “I’ve never seen him -smoking before to-night.” - -“He should have said so, then,” declared Mr. Alsop, addressing Mulcahy. -“My question was a friendly one and should have been frankly answered.” -He faced the culprit again, who, with angry red cheeks and hostile, -defiant eyes, now looked squarely at him. “I want to be helpful to you, -Archer, but I can’t be that unless you trust me. If you had been honest -with me, I shouldn’t have said anything different to you then from what -I am saying now, but it would have been pleasanter for you to hear. Any -smoking at all is bad for a boy of your age. The habit will grow on -you, if once you get it, in spite of you. It will interfere with your -physical and mental growth, and unfit you to do your best in studies -or in athletics.” - -“Yes, sir,” said Sam, whose indignation over the unfair treatment -which he was enduring did not prevent his recognizing the truth of the -instructor’s words. - -“Good night!” - -With this abrupt salutation, Mr. Alsop went his way downstairs, wholly -satisfied with his own conduct, but confessing serious disappointment -with certain of the boys under his care. If only Archer were as -straightforward, and Fowle as orderly, as John Fish, the well would -be less a source of uneasiness to him and less damaging to his pride. -Archer evidently needed watching; and Fowle--well, Fowle would -certainly have to go before the end of another term. That boy’s -perpetual disregard of rules and apparent contempt for authority were -unendurable! - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -MR. ALSOP’s DIGNITY - - -“I’m awfully sorry!” began Mulcahy, vehemently, as soon as the door had -closed behind the departing form of Mr. Alsop. “I’m awfully sorry, but -I couldn’t help it. There wasn’t any other way out.” - -“I suppose not,” answered Archer, with sullen sarcasm. - -Mulcahy came round the table and put his hand on Archer’s shoulder. Sam -threw it off and edged away. - -“Just try to think of it from my side,” urged Mulcahy. “Here I was, -caught in the act. If Alsop had wanted to make a row about it, I might -have lost my scholarship. They’d all have been down on me, anyway, and -it would have been terribly hard to get them over to my side again; -while as for you--” He hesitated at this point, not sure how to put -his idea into unobjectionable form. - -“While as for me,” flamed Archer, “all I get is to have Alsop tell all -the rest that I’m a liar and going to the bad as fast as I can. That’s -nothing at all!” - -“You’re crazy!” answered Mulcahy, smiling compassionately at his -companion’s vehemence. “Nothing like that will happen. You’ve a right -to smoke if you want to. Alsop understands that. I smoothed out all the -difficulty about your telling him that you didn’t. You won’t hear from -it again. Alsop won’t think any differently of you from what he always -has.” - -“No different, but more so,” interjected Sam, bitterly. - -“While as for me, why, my whole life plans might be spoiled.” - -“_My_ life plans don’t make any difference, do they?” - -“You haven’t any. You don’t need to have any. A fellow in your -position, with all the bills paid for you, and everything provided for -years to come, doesn’t know what it is to have to struggle along with -your head just above water, always afraid a big wave will roll up and -swamp you.” - -“Why didn’t you think of that when you lighted the cigarettes?” -demanded Sam, roughly. “What business have you to smoke at all? You -know the rules.” - -“The rules are silly for a man of my age,” returned Mulcahy. “If I’d -known Alsop was going to butt in, of course I wouldn’t have done it.” - -“It’s done now, anyway,” sighed Archer, looking at his watch. “I don’t -know about you, but I’ve got to do some studying to-night. I can’t let -Alsop flunk me to-morrow, after this.” - -“I’m going,” said the visitor. He held out his hand with his best, most -flattering smile. “Good-by, Sammy. You showed yourself the right sort -of a friend to-night. I shan’t forget it.” - -“Nor I,” thought Sam, as he gave back a feeble pressure and muttered a -return good-night. - -When Mulcahy was gone, Sam sat down by the lamp with his books spread -out before him. For a long time, however, he let his eyes stray past -them to the shaded corner of the room, while with tight-pressed -lips and wrinkled brow he considered his experiences since he came -to Seaton, and pronounced himself a fool. He had not been a fool in -every respect, it was true; he hadn’t been fresh, or boastful about -himself, and he had not done things flagrantly wrong, but he saw -clearly that many of his judgments had been mistaken. Strangely enough, -the irritating incident of the evening did not so greatly depress him. -He felt a certain satisfaction in the superiority of his behavior as -compared with Mulcahy’s, which served to offset the uneasiness caused -by the teacher’s error. But he did wish that he hadn’t committed -himself so far to intimacy with Mulcahy, and he regretted that he had -invited him home for Sunday. - -In the distractions of the evening, Sam overlooked one part of the -French lesson for the next day. Mr. Alsop had given notice of a test -on vocabulary, a comparatively easy matter to prepare if he had only -remembered to study it. He was unpleasantly reminded of this omission -at the recitation next morning, when Mr. Alsop announced that all those -who failed to write correctly the English equivalents of twenty of -the twenty-five French words on the paper, must come to a “make-up” -on Saturday at five. Sam had forgotten to study his vocabulary. He -struggled over the list, and succeeded in getting but eighteen of the -twenty-five. On Saturday morning Mr. Alsop read his name among those -doomed to the five-o’clock make-up. - -To be present at five o’clock on Saturday meant a late train home and -the evening spoiled. Sam had secured out-of-town permission from the -office, and had arranged to escort his mother to a meeting of his old -school athletic association in the evening. It seemed hard--unjust--to -be cut off from this prearranged visit, in order to take an exercise -which involved hardly five minutes and could be as well taken at some -other time. So the boy, having fretted and reviled for an hour, called -at Mr. Alsop’s room, and after explaining that the make-up would -prevent his going home, offered to take it in the instructor’s room -immediately after his return. - -“I don’t see why you should have a privilege which the others have not; -and I don’t see why I should sacrifice my time to save a student from -the results of his own neglect,” said Mr. Alsop, tartly. Like many -a serious but narrow-minded pedagogue, he was taking the wholesale -failure of the class as a personal affront. He felt his dignity struck -at almost as if the boys had deliberately refused to learn. To Sam -Archer, moreover, he owed no favor. - -“It’s a slight matter,” pleaded Sam, foolishly, “and it’s going to keep -me from going home. I got permission from the office three days ago.” - -“It is _not_ a slight matter,” declared Mr. Alsop, sharply. “I beg to -differ with you. Neglect of work is never a slight matter. Permissions -from the office are always provisional. You will come with the rest. I -have no extra time to give you.” - -Sam withdrew, crestfallen and indignant. He understood that he was -paying the penalty for the misunderstanding of the evening before, -and also for the morning’s shock to the teacher’s self-esteem. The -unfairness of it rankled deep. The loss of thirty-six hours at home, -the breaking of the engagement with his mother, the abandonment of -his plan of reunion with his old mates--all counted as nothing in -the balance when weighed against Mr. Alsop’s five minutes and ruffled -dignity. The worst of it was the fact that there was no appeal. The -principal was away on leave of absence for six months. Every teacher -was autocrat in his own courses. To resist would be to collide with the -whole machinery of government of an institution which prided itself on -expelling annually more boys than any other school in the land. Between -enduring in silence, and resorting to entreaties and flattery,--the -only alternatives,--Sam did not hesitate a moment. The one he could -bear, the other he would not stoop to. - -On the way down to the telegraph office, where he sent a brief message -to his mother, announcing that he could not get away, Sam drew an angry -comparison between Mr. Alsop’s methods and those of certain other -instructors: Dr. Leighton in Greek had discovered his pupil’s weakness -on the verb and offered to give special help at any time the boy chose -to call at his room; Mr. Howe in mathematics, finding him well advanced -in geometry and algebra, had voluntarily suggested that he slight those -subjects and apply the time thus gained where it was more needed; -Professor Towle in English roughed him in the class when he got things -wrong, but Towle had a heart of gold and was square as a brick. On the -way back he dwelt on Mulcahy’s treacherous selfishness of the evening -before, which had set Mr. Alsop against him and had made him forget -that wretched vocabulary. “There’s one consolation,” he muttered to -himself. “I shan’t have to take him home with me now.” - -But Mulcahy had no wish to be cheated of his visit to the Archers. -“I’ll fix that up,” he promised eagerly, when Sam informed him of the -change of plan. “Let me go and see Alsop. I’ll tell him a yarn that’ll -bring him round in five minutes.” - -“What yarn?” - -“Oh, I don’t know; any old thing that’ll go--something about a family -party, or your mother’s being sick and sending for you and your being -so overcome by losing his respect that you didn’t dare explain. It’ll -be dead easy.” - -“Easy or not, you won’t do it!” replied Archer, savagely. “I won’t have -any one sucking round Alsop for me. You’ve told him lies enough, as it -is.” - -“Don’t be a fool!” said Mulcahy, sharply. “Don’t you want to go?” - -“No, I don’t. I did, but I don’t want to any more.” - -Mulcahy, disappointed here, had other forms of amusement. That -afternoon Sam dropped in at the Sedgwicks’ to call, and allowed himself -to be persuaded to stay to dinner, at which meal he proved to his -own satisfaction that the disasters of the day had not affected his -appetite. Afterward he lingered in the society of Mrs. Sedgwick and -Miss Margaret as long as it seemed decent, and departed for his room -reasonably comforted in mind. As he crossed the street, in the rear of -the Academy buildings, two familiar figures appeared opposite him under -a gaslight and got away quickly into the darkness. They were John Fish -and Mulcahy, each with an overcoat on his arm. - -The next day John Fish was at church, wedged into the corner of a pew. -He slept during most of the service. Mulcahy stayed in his room; his -report next day informed the authorities that he had been suffering -from an attack of indigestion. Fish took a long nap in the afternoon. -He told Mr. Alsop, as they walked to dinner together, that he liked -to pass Sunday quietly. Mulcahy was well enough to be present at the -Christian Fraternity in the evening. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -THE CHALLENGE - - -The Christmas vacation brought Sam a chance to consider his school -experiences away from the school atmosphere. He did this in part -deliberately, in part by an unconscious process of comparison of school -standards with home standards, the hard facts of student life with -the fine and high ideals of his father and mother. Certain phases of -schoolboy morality he talked over with Mr. Archer, who, pleased to -receive the confidence of his son, met frankness with frankness and -cleared Sam’s mind of many a harassing doubt. The quiet trust of his -parents braced the boy strongly against the influence of evil. - -Sam went back to school resolved that if he could not have the intimacy -of the best he would at least not associate with the worst; if he could -not be popular with those whom he respected, he would not seek the -favor of those whom he could not respect. He was convinced that he -was not marked for great distinction in his school career. He might, -by keeping eternally at it, in course of time make a fair showing as a -hurdler; he could always get good marks in mathematics and history; he -could maintain friendly relations with a good many fellows. More than -this, however, was not to be hoped for. He could not, if he would, go -on a still-hunt for honors after the calculating fashion with which -Mulcahy was scheming to gain possession of the Yale Cup. He was not -made that way. - -The work of the winter was for Sam uneventful and plodding. He toiled -with sullen aversion on his French, with devotion on his Greek, with -calm satisfaction on his mathematics and history, with resignation on -his other subjects. In the gymnasium he practised pole-vaulting; and on -the wooden track outside, with Collins’s assistance, he struggled with -dashes and starts and hurdles, and met discouragement with a laugh. He -managed also to find free intervals for a little reading. On the whole -the laborious life proved not unpleasant, and time slipped rapidly -away. - -Besides himself, Jones and Mulcahy were the chief exponents of the -art of pole-vaulting. Jones was the star of the school, brilliant and -unapproachable. He could do ten feet whenever he wanted to, and was -deemed capable of very much better performances. Mulcahy started with -nine feet, and Sam with eight feet six. After a month’s work, Mulcahy -had climbed to nine three and Sam to nine feet. They practised at -different times, but each listened greedily to reports of the other’s -progress, and while openly depreciating his own powers, hoped from day -to day to discover the precious knack of combining spring and throw, -which would put him well ahead of his rival. Mulcahy was handicapped by -his weight, Sam by his length and slowness. - -The intimacy between the two was lapsing. The process was slow, -because Sam was too good-natured to quarrel openly and Mulcahy too -thick-skinned to be sensitive to ordinary chilliness of treatment. Sam -put himself to some inconvenience to be absent from his room when he -thought Mulcahy might call; he likewise cultivated a friendship with -Kendrick, whom Mulcahy disliked. In time Mulcahy awoke to the fact -that Archer’s neglect was intentional, and accepted the rebuff as he -would have accepted the final refusal of an expected purchaser to -take a book. While there was no open break between them, Sam shrewdly -suspected that to reject Mulcahy as a friend was to invite him as an -enemy. - -“Where’s your friend Mulcahy these days?” Peck asked, one evening early -in February. “You don’t seem to be so thick with him as you were a -while ago.” - -“No,” answered Sam, indifferently. “I don’t seem to be.” - -“What’s the matter?” pursued Peck. “Been scrapping?” - -“No. We just don’t see as much of each other as we used to.” - -Duncan fidgeted about a little, and then blurted out, “Of course it’s -none of my business,--except as I’ve a little claim in the room and -have some interest in knowing whom I’m likely to find here,--but I’d -really like to be told whether you’re just taking a vacation from him -or have got through with him for good.” - -“Well, I guess I’m through with him for good,” confessed Sam. - -Duncan’s face broke into a smile. “Glad to hear it! Only you ought to -have done it long ago. When you ran up against him in the pole-vault, -you probably began to see what sort of a fellow he is.” - -“I haven’t run up against him in the pole-vault,” replied Sam. “We -don’t practise together. It was something that happened last term that -opened my eyes.” - -“Oh, it was!” said Peck, in a tone between a question and an -exclamation. He waited a little to see whether Archer was going to -explain, but as Sam volunteered no information, he continued: “It’s -about time for me to begin to work, if I’m going to pass off those -exams in June. I couldn’t study here with that fellow hanging round.” - -“I’m sorry if I drove you out,” said Sam, rather stiffly. - -“Oh, that’s all right. I didn’t have to go unless I wanted to, and you -had just as good a right to have your friends round as I did to have -mine. I couldn’t really expect you to take up all my prejudices.” - -“There was prejudice all round, I’m afraid,” responded Sam. “I had my -share. I thought you were down on Mulcahy just because he was a poor -fellow who was pushing his way up, and it made me so mad I couldn’t see -anything wrong with him. It wasn’t till after he’d played me a dirty -trick with Alsop that my eyes began to open. Then I thought it all over -during vacation, and made up my mind that he wasn’t a safe person to -fool with.” - -“I didn’t hear anything about any trouble with Alsop,” said Duncan, -with evident curiosity. - -Sam saw that he was committed, and told his tale. Peck listened with -deep interest and frequent exclamations. “I don’t think I should have -taken that as sweetly as you did,” he said at length. “No fellow has a -right to put you in that position. Why didn’t you say: ‘Mr. Alsop, I -told you the truth. I don’t smoke,’ and let Mulcahy get out of it as -well as he could?” - -“I didn’t like to do that,” replied Sam. “It didn’t seem honorable.” - -“I don’t know but you’re right,” said Duncan, thoughtfully. “You -couldn’t play the mucker because he did. It wouldn’t have done any -good, either. He’d have lied you right down.” - -“Perhaps so. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make it -worse.” - -Duncan nodded agreement. “I suppose it would. You’ve got a lot more -sense than I thought you had.” - -Sam smiled grimly at the dubious compliment. - -“Look here,” went on Duncan, taking up a brown-covered book from the -table. “You’re a shark in geometry, aren’t you?” - -“I got B plus for a term mark,” said Sam, complacently. - -“Well, I wish you’d explain this formula. I can understand equation 3, -but how you get 5 from it, as the book says, is beyond me.” - -It wasn’t a difficult thing to explain, nor was Duncan as stupid about -geometry as he thought himself. Sam turned the clean white pages of the -book. - -“New?” - -“Yes!” ejaculated Duncan, with indignant emphasis, “the third I’ve -had this year. It’s a scandal the way books disappear in this school. -You might as well throw ’em away as leave ’em out on the hall racks. -The last one I had, I put my initials in at the bottom of the next to -the last page. If you ever see a book with ‘D. P.’ in it, confiscate -it--it’s mine.” - - * * * * * - -Duncan stopped that afternoon for a few minutes at the room of Fuzzy -Woods in Odlin House. - -“How’s Shirley?” he asked in the course of gossip. “Done anything queer -lately?” - -“I guess not,” drawled Woods. “He’s got two or three duels on.” - -Duncan giggled. “What for?--insults?” - -“Yes,” returned Woods. “It’s always for insults.” - -“Will they fight?” - -“Naw, the duels never come off--at least none has so far. They think -it’s a great joke till he gets fierce as a pirate and asks ’em which -they’ll take, swords or pistols. Then most of ’em try to sneak out of -it. He told Lauter he’d shoot him anyway, and scared the life out of -him.” - -“Has he challenged you?” - -“Naw, I let him alone.” - -“What’s the matter with the fellow?” - -“He was in school a long time in France and Switzerland; he got a lot -of crazy ideas there about honor and insults and settling things by -duels.” - -“Can he really fence?” questioned Duncan. - -“How should I know!” answered Fuzzy, indifferently. - -Just then some one knocked and was yelled at to come in. It proved -to be Shirley himself, a slender, well-groomed boy with an English -accent, who had come to borrow a translation. On Woods’s invitation he -stayed. Duncan fell to asking him questions about foreign schools and -schoolboys. The two got on finely until Duncan wanted to know what kind -of athletics they had in these foreign places, and Shirley confessed -that there were no regular sports. - -“What do they do for exercise?” - -“Oh, they walk and fence and play tennis a little.” - -“No track athletics, or football, or baseball, or rowing?” - -“No. Football wouldn’t be allowed.” - -“Why not?” - -“It isn’t a gentleman’s game.” - -Duncan sniffed. “It isn’t a lady’s game. Don’t they even have cricket?” - -“No, they don’t know any more about cricket than they do about -baseball.” - -“I suppose they all go to walk two and two, like the girls in a -convent. They must be a choice lot of little mollycoddles!” - -“I shouldn’t advise you to call one of them by that name!” declared -Shirley, warming up. - -“Why not?” - -“You’d have a duel on your hands.” - -“Rats!” said Duncan, contemptuously. “No one but a barbarian fights -duels these days.” - -“That shows how little you know about it,” said Shirley, stiffly. - -“Would you fight a duel?” demanded Peck. - -“Certainly, if honor demanded it.” - -“Then you’d be a barbarian. Don’t you think so, Fuzzy?” - -“I don’t think anything about it,” answered Woods, who had been vainly -trying to catch Duncan’s eye and warn him that he was entering -dangerous ground. - -“Half barbarian and half fool,” continued Peck. - -Shirley rose and stood erect, gazing straight at the visitor, with -indignant eyes and reddening cheeks. - -“I am not used to being called a fool!” he said solemnly. - -“Who called you a fool?” asked Duncan, coolly. “I didn’t.” - -“You said a man who would fight a duel was a fool and a barbarian,” -repeated Shirley. - -“Half a fool and half a barbarian,” corrected Peck. - -“But I said that I would fight a duel.” - -“Then you must be it,” asserted Duncan, with nonchalance, stretching -himself out in his chair and putting his hands in his pockets. - -“Those are insulting words to apply to a gentleman. You will take them -back!” cried Shirley, hotly. - -“I didn’t apply them--just made a general statement. You took ’em -yourself. Perhaps you felt they fitted.” - -“That’s quite enough!” said Shirley, slowly, taking a step forward. -“It’s evident that you mean to insult me. We will settle the point of -honor in a gentleman’s way. Name your weapons and the place of meeting. -Shall it be swords or pistols? The choice is yours.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -AN AFFAIR OF HONOR - - -“Swords or pistols!” echoed Duncan, sufficiently aroused to sit up in -his chair. “What have swords and pistols to do with it?” - -“They are the recognized weapons for settling affairs of honor. Perhaps -you were ignorant of the fact.” Shirley spoke with scornful dignity. - -“This isn’t an affair of honor, it’s a mere difference of opinion,” -protested Duncan. “You wouldn’t fight over that, I hope.” - -“I’d fight over insults!” - -Duncan laughed aloud, reckless of the fact that his laugh added to the -affront. - -“What good does fighting do? If you should wound me with a sword, it -wouldn’t make the truth of what I said any less true, and if I should -put a bullet into you, it wouldn’t drive out the insult. I say that -the man who fights duels is a barbarian. If I fight, I make myself a -barbarian.” - -“Swords or pistols!” insisted Shirley, with a dogged indifference to -logic. - -“Neither,” answered Peck. - -“Then you are not a gentleman, and are a coward. You have my contempt.” - -“Hold on there!” exclaimed Peck, dropping his smile and his air of -pleasantry. “Who’s calling names now?” - -“They are names usually applied to a man who insults you and won’t give -you satisfaction.” - -“If you think I owe you satisfaction for our difference of opinion, you -must owe me something for calling me a contemptible coward,” announced -Duncan, in serious tones. “I’ll propose--” he hesitated, and approached -a step nearer Shirley; “I’ll propose bowie-knives!” - -Shirley recoiled. “I am not used to bowie-knives.” - -“Nor I to swords and pistols,” said Duncan. - -The fairness of this answer appealed to the man of honor. “Then we must -find some other way,” he said. “Insults can only be wiped out with -blood. We’ll play chess, and the one who’s beaten will commit suicide.” - -At this proposition Duncan stared hard. For a moment he harbored the -suspicion that Shirley was chaffing him, not he Shirley. But the boy’s -solemn face and tragic manner immediately dispelled this illusion. - -“I don’t play chess,” Duncan answered with plausible earnestness. -“Let’s make it golf, and leave to the one who’s defeated the option of -committing suicide or not. We can consider him dead anyway.” - -“I don’t play golf.” - -At this point Woods, seeing a chance to bring the deadly affair to a -bloodless conclusion, interrupted with a shrewd proposal. - -“Why not run it off? Both of you can run. Make the course a certain -number of times round the wooden track, and let the fellow that’s -beaten set up fudges and stuff for the principals and seconds. I call -that a very honorable arrangement.” - -“It isn’t quite regular,” remarked Shirley, doubtfully. “Properly there -ought to be some blood shed.” - -“If I’m beaten, I’ll apologize,” said Duncan. “How does that strike -you? I suppose on a pinch I might produce a little blood. I don’t want -to neglect any formalities.” - -“I think I can accept without that,” said Shirley, with magnanimity. - -“The one that’s beaten sets up for the crowd; don’t forget that!” Woods -interposed. “Whose second am I going to be?” - -“You can have him and I’ll get some one else, or I’ll take him and you -can have some one else.” Duncan was truly generous. - -“I’ll take him,” said Shirley. - -“Then, sir, I will send my second to wait upon yours and arrange for -the details of the combat. I have the honor, sir, to wish you good -afternoon. We shall meet again!” This grand peroration safely and -pompously delivered, Duncan stalked solemnly away. - -So much time had been consumed in this highly interesting interview -with Shirley that Duncan postponed until after recitation the pleasure -of retailing the whole story to Bruce, and giving him the chance to -act as second. On the way home he remembered that Bruce was to be in -Boston the following day, but this did not dampen his spirits. Seconds -for such an occasion could be obtained by the squad. He flew upstairs -to his room chuckling and stumbling, nodded absently to Archer, who was -moping over a Greek lesson, and took up an algebra with the intention -of utilizing the fifteen minutes remaining to gain some idea of the -methods of the review chapter which was the lesson for the four-o’clock -flunkers’ class. Through the carelessness of inattention he ran on a -snag in the first explanation, and had to call on his room-mate to help -him off. Then he worked out two problems near the beginning and one -near the end of the exercise, threw the book on the table, looked at -his watch, rose, stretched, and burst into a hearty laugh. - -“I never saw anything so funny as that in the algebra,” remarked Sam, -observing his merry room-mate over his reading glasses. - -“It isn’t in the algebra, it isn’t in any book,” cried Duncan, -gleefully. “Nothing like it ever happens in a book. I’m engaged in an -affair of honor; I’m going to fight a duel!” - -“A duel!” exclaimed Sam, aghast. “With whom?” - -“Oh, a fellow you don’t know, in Odlin House.” - -“When?” - -“To-morrow, on the running track behind the gym. Will you be my second?” - -The invitation was due to a momentary impulse of friendliness. Archer -was a track expert and a decent fellow; why not let him in? - -Duncan stood with hands in trousers pockets, smiling roguishly and -watching the expression on Archer’s face. Appalled by the grim picture -called up by the word “duel,” and puzzled to reconcile this conception -with Peck’s evident gayety, Sam knew not whether to accept or refuse. -Then there recurred to his mind the serious incident of the last term, -when Kendrick had sprung instantly to his help, and he answered in -Kendrick’s own words, “Sure I will!” - -“That’s right,” said Peck. “There’ll be no end of sport. You see--oh, -hang that bell!--I’ll tell you all about it after class.” - -At half-past two the next afternoon, when the outskirts of the -gymnasium were clear of idlers, the duel was fought. It was agreed -that Archer should be starter and Woods judge at the finish; the course -was three times round the track. Shirley took the lead at the start, -running in quick, short steps, with Peck pounding away in eager strides -behind him. Shirley tripped past the judge on the first lap, ten yards -ahead of his pursuer, and went pattering around the curve and up the -back stretch as if his legs were driven by a gasoline engine. At the -lower end, however, his pace began to tell upon him; the pat-pat of the -striking soles became slower, the steps shorter. Duncan perceived that -the time for his spurt had come, but he was twelve yards behind when he -crossed the line the second time. - -The third lap proved fierce beyond all expectation. Shirley, game to -the last, clenched his fists and lashed himself on. Duncan, stung by -the fear of an ignominious end to his adventure, plying his legs to -the limit of his strength, with dry mouth and dizzy head panted after -his rival. He gained but slowly. On the back stretch he was still five -yards behind. As they came down toward the finish line, two wobbly, -tottering figures with set eyes and strained, twisted features, one -close to the shoulder of the other, Sam, seized with the fear that -both would drop before the finish, reached forward eagerly to catch -Duncan as he touched the line. Duncan, keeping his feet to the end, -plunged helplessly into Sam’s arms. At the same time Woods received -the quivering, gasping Shirley, who lay upon him for a few seconds, an -inert dead weight. Presently Shirley opened his eyes and looked up. -“Who--won?” he breathed rather than spoke. - -“I’m blest if I know!” answered Woods. “I forgot to see. Who got it, -Archer?” - -“I didn’t notice,” said Sam. “It wasn’t my business to judge the -finish. I was getting ready to catch this fellow.” - -“They were right together anyway. We’ll have to call it a tie,” decided -the judge. - -“That means we don’t get anything,” observed Archer. - -“We’ll run it--over again--” panted Shirley, over his shoulder, as -Woods led him away to the gymnasium. - -“No, we won’t!” whispered Duncan in a broken undertone into his -second’s ear. “I’d rather take my chances with swords or pistols. Catch -me running any more races without training. I’ll bet we made a new -record.” - -It developed in the course of the afternoon that there had been unseen -witnesses of the spectacle, and these witnesses not only spread highly -colored versions of what they had seen, but also asked rude, saucy -questions of the actors. The fellows in Odlin House cleverly pried -certain admissions out of Shirley, guessed at what they did not know, -and put in circulation a tale which was received with greedy ears and -grinning faces. Duncan bounced into 7 Hale in the middle of the evening -and planted himself, an outraged victim of treachery, before Archer’s -chair. - -“What did you want to go and blab all this thing for?” he began, -glowering fiercely at his room-mate’s startled face. - -“I didn’t,” replied Sam, quickly. “I haven’t said a word about it.” - -“It’s all over school. Some one’s been giving it away. They say it was -you.” - -Sam tossed his book upon the table with a spiteful jerk. “They lie, -then. I haven’t even told who won the race. I’ve referred every single -fellow to you.” - -Duncan’s wrath gave way to gloom. “Some one’s done it, anyway. They’re -all joshing me about it.” - -“I can’t help that,” said Sam. “What do you care? Laugh it off.” - -“I’ve been laughing it off. I’ve laughed till my face aches, but that -doesn’t make me any happier. Do you know, I could have sworn I was -ahead of that fellow at the finish. Why didn’t you keep your eyes open?” - -“I was thinking of you, not of the race. You looked as if you were all -in, ten feet before you got to me. I expected to see you drop.” - -Sam waited for Peck to reply, but Peck offered no comment. - -“As a matter of fact,” continued Sam, frankly, “the last time I _did_ -notice your positions, Shirley was a good yard ahead.” - -“I’m dead sure I beat him at the finish,” said Duncan, obstinately. “I -wish I’d had Bruce there!” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -SAM’S FIRST RACE - - -One result of the Shirley-Peck duel was to check the developing -friendship of the inmates of 7 Hale. Duncan felt that Archer ought to -have been on the watch when he passed Shirley at the finish--he took -most indignantly the suggestion that Shirley was really ahead after -all. Sam, having performed his part to the best of his ability, was -disgusted with the childish obstinacy with which Duncan cherished his -sense of injury. Coldness again marked the relations of the room-mates. - -Another consequence of the bloody fray was the appearance of Shirley -among the track men. Bruce got him out--no one could long resist -the spell of Bruce’s winning manner--and Collins appointed him his -proper task. They tried him at first on the longer stretches, but six -hundred yards and even three hundred were soon found to be distances -for which Shirley’s quick stride was not adapted. Then Collins set -him to sprinting, and rubbed his hands with delight over the result. -“Frenchie” took to starting and sprinting as a hound to a rabbit trail. -In a week his starts were instantaneous, and his legs twinkled along -the forty yards like the feet of a running mouse. Duncan was out too -for the three hundred, and doing well, his friends said, though with -old Chouder in the event, second place was the best he could hope for. - -Mulcahy’s attitude toward Sam was changing. There had been no -outward break in their relations, but Mulcahy had become distant in -his greeting, and only showed his old cordiality when he had some -special object to attain. He was busy now with what Duncan called “a -new graft”--getting members for the Harvard Club, of which he was -secretary and treasurer. Every boy who was preparing for Harvard was -pressed to join in order to prove his loyalty. Every new member paid -one dollar for a printed shingle signed by the secretary. The club had -no meetings, except to elect officers and to be photographed. It had -no expenses except the price of the shingle plate with fifty cheap -prints, and the cost of inserting a group photograph in the school -Annual. - -“Easy money!” said Duncan in disgust, when Sam reported that he had -joined. “He’s got my dollar too.” - -“You don’t think he keeps the money, do you?” asked Sam, surprised at -the implied charge. - -“You don’t think he gives it back, do you?” retorted Duncan. - -“No, but there must be miscellaneous expenses.” - -“You can call it that if you want to. The account stands something -like this: twenty-five shingles sold to new members at a dollar each, -twenty-five dollars; twenty-five shingles bought at a dime each, -two-fifty; picture in the Annual, five; miscellaneous, seventeen-fifty; -balance in treasury at the beginning of next year, nothing. Conundrum: -who got the seventeen-fifty? Your friend Mulcahy is a slick one!” - -“He isn’t my friend!” declared Sam, stoutly. - -“He is if he can get anything out of you; if he can’t, he’s your -enemy.” - -Vexed at the slur at his simplicity implied in Duncan’s words, yet -half inclined to acknowledge that the senior was right, Sam took his -geometry and departed for the Academy. It lacked still fifteen minutes -to the time for recitation, but he hoped to find among the few steadies -who often came early either Phipps or Entstein, the sharks of the -section, and get an idea from one of them as to the last original in -the lesson. He had solved four out of the five. - -No sooner was he seated at a desk than Mulcahy came in, glanced round -the room, made quick estimate of the possibilities offered, and slipped -into a seat beside Archer. - -“Hello, Archer!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing with cordiality. “I -haven’t seen you for a week. How’s the pole-vault going?” - -“Not very well,” responded Sam, coldly. - -“If you’re doing no better than I am, you’re rotten!” went on Mulcahy, -amiably. “I can’t make nine feet any more--seem to have lost the knack. -I hear you did nine four the other day.” - -“Nine three,” corrected Sam. - -“I can’t touch that. I see where I come out at the bottom in the -Shield Meet. How many originals did you get to-day?” - -“Four.” - -“You’re a shark! What kind of figure did you have for 213?” - -Sam opened his papers and showed a neatly drawn diagram with his proof -carefully indicated beneath. Mulcahy studied it silently for two full -minutes. “That’s the way I did it,” he said. “I wasn’t sure it was -right. Did you get 214?” - -Sam handed over another sheet, to which his companion gave as close a -scrutiny as to the first. “I don’t understand that,” he said, pointing -to a statement. “How do you get that?” - -“That’s easy,” replied Sam, proud of his achievement. “I’ll show you.” -He looked about for a loose sheet of paper. - -“Use this,” offered Mulcahy, turning to the blank page at the end of -his book. “I can rub it out afterward.” - -Sam took the geometry and quickly jotted down on the fly leaf the -omitted intermediate steps. “I see that,” said Mulcahy, and devoted -himself once more to the study of Sam’s diagrams. Sam turned back the -leaves of the geometry. On the margin of the page next to the last he -found the two letters D. P. - -This discovery effectually occupied Sam’s mind during the few minutes -that remained before the recitation bell sounded. His papers went -unnoticed through Mulcahy’s hands. While the bell was ringing, Mulcahy -asked a last question, and Sam leaned absently toward him to follow the -questioner’s finger upon the page. At this moment, while their heads -were close together, some one called sharply from the door at their -side, “Archer!” - -Sam turned and beheld Duncan Peck grinning at him in the doorway. - -“What did I tell you!” Peck threw at him in a jeering undertone, and -disappeared behind the entering class. - -“There’s one thing I could tell _you_,” thought Sam, grimly, as he -faced front again, “but I won’t. You can find your missing books -yourself!” - -When the instructor asked how many had succeeded in proving the whole -five originals, Phipps alone put up his hand. Three, including Archer -and Mulcahy, averred that they could do four. Others professed three -and two and one, and some none at all. Mulcahy was sent to the board -and returned in triumph, sure of a good mark for the recitation. He had -made excellent use of Archer’s solution. Sam was not called on. - - * * * * * - -To the blasé attendant from the town, the Faculty Shield Meet of that -year would have seemed little different from a dozen other events of -the kind which he had witnessed. Collins and Bruce, testing it by -a standard of their own, called it satisfactory. The old boys who -came back from the colleges in fine attire to act as judges spoke of -it with patronizing interest as a success. For two contestants, at -least, it was the most important event that the school year had as -yet developed. Shirley, the duellist, won his trial heat in the forty -yards, though some derisive remarks were made about him as he crouched -on the starting line. These remarks ceased when he took his second -heat, an easy yard ahead of his nearest rival. In the third heat he was -again the leader. In the final he was matched against Gay, the best -hundred-yards man in school. - -Sam and Taylor stood together near the finish line. - -“I wish Shirley would beat that Gay, even if Gay does belong to my -class,” remarked Taylor, maliciously. “Since he won the hundred last -year at Hillbury, he wears a hat four sizes bigger. I don’t suppose -there’s any chance for Frenchie.” - -“Lots of chance,” returned Archer, wisely. “Shirley strikes his stride -in the very first yard. He may get put back, of course.” - -There was a false start, but it was Gay who went back a foot; another, -and Fairmount joined him. All four hung on the next set, and the pistol -cracked. While the others were still rising, Shirley was shooting -forward with his feet well under him. He was a yard ahead at the end of -ten yards; at the forty no one was within five feet of him. - -“Bully for Frenchie!” cried Taylor. “That’ll take down the swelling on -Gay’s head an inch or two. What’s the time? Four and three-fifths? Why, -that’s the record!” And Taylor ran off to have a hand in the boisterous -congratulations which the lower middlers were lavishing on their -unexpected champion. - -Sam was on his way to the starting line for the forty-five-yard -hurdles. He had no chance against Fairmount, he knew well, but -Fairmount was not in his heat, and he hoped to survive the first trial -at any rate. If he could only get his long legs to swinging faster! -He crouched for his start, a little white around the lips, but cool, -waited while Somers was put back, and got off reasonably well. Somers -was ahead of him at the second hurdle, but he caught him on the third, -and breasted the tape a foot ahead. In the finals, Fairmount was -outside him and Edmands and Foote inside. This time he was slower. All -three got off before him, but Foote stumbled at the first hurdle and -fell behind. Edmands he overtook as he passed the second. Together they -ran for the third, but Archer cleared with less waste of time, and was -close behind Fairmount at the finish. It was not victory, but he was -fully satisfied with second place. - -After that Sam had nothing to do but sit content in his warm bathrobe -and watch the other races. Bruce, of course, took the six hundred -yards, and Weatherford the thousand, both veterans who surprised no -one. Then old Chouder’s race, the three hundred, was called. Duncan -was in the pack that chased at Chouder’s heels, gradually scattering -behind as the pace told. Duncan was not the last by any means, nor -quick-stepping Shirley, who held the pole behind the leader, and after -gaining fifteen yards on the first round, kept himself in the van -during the second. Both Peck and Richmond spurted to pass him on the -final stretch, but neither could quite reach him. Shirley fell across -the line two feet behind Chouder, with Peck a yard farther back. - -“I wonder what he’ll say now!” thought Sam, gleefully. “He can’t -pretend he beat Frenchie this time!” - -But alas! Sam’s complacency was soon to receive a shock. In the -indoor pole-vault, which Jones won at ten feet four amid great -applause, Archer did his expected nine feet three. Mulcahy, however, -who had pretended two days before that he could no longer reach -nine feet, vaulted nine six with ease! And when Sam taxed him -with the inconsistency of his words and his performance, he smiled -contemptuously, and “guessed he had got back his form!” - -That night Sam waited a sleepy hour beyond his bedtime to catch Peck, -who spent the evening out. - -“What about Shirley now?” he demanded, as soon as the door was closed -behind the truant. - -“He can run,” answered Duncan, coolly. - -“He licked you to-day, right and good, didn’t he?” - -“Yes, he did,” conceded Duncan. - -“What about the day of the duel,” pursued Sam. “Didn’t he beat you -then, too?” - -“Perhaps he did and perhaps he didn’t. Who can tell?” - -“I wasn’t so far out, anyway,” growled Sam. And Duncan thought so too, -but not being wholly ready to acknowledge the error, he deferred his -admission to a later time. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -HE TRIES AGAIN - - -On the Saturday after the Faculty Shield day, Sam ran in the -forty-five-yard hurdles again, in the handicap meet which regularly -follows the scratch contests. The handicapper thought one yard about -the right allowance for the long-legged upper middler; Somers got two -and Foote three. Fairmount ran from scratch. It was a hot race, with -every contestant hoping to cross the line first, the man in front -driving himself that his advantage might not be wrested from him, -the pursuers confident of superiority and struggling to secure the -positions which belonged to them. Sam felt the presence of Somers and -Foote ahead pulling him forward as the magnet attracts steel; his legs -followed each other faster than they had ever gone before; the three -hurdles were but three exhilarating bounds in his course. Forgetting -Fairmount, who was behind, he ran down Somers, pressed on after Foote, -and passed him by a convulsive straining effort at the finish. Never -before had he felt what it was to _fight_ his way in a race; to mark -his adversary and beat him, as one throws his opponent in a wrestling -bout, or as the tackier downs his man, surely and hard, on the football -field. In his struggle to pass Foote he had kept ahead of Fairmount, -who finished two feet behind him. - -Collins was pleased, as much with the new spirit of the hurdler as with -his success in the event. “He’s slow,” he remarked to Bruce, “but he’ll -come in time.” - -“This year?” questioned Bruce, closely. It was “this year,” the year of -his captaincy, that interested Bruce. - -“I can’t say,” answered Collins, thoughtfully. “It may take a long -while. He’s a good, steady boy; he’ll come all right sometime.” - -Duncan Peck, too, seemed to be influenced by Sam’s modest success in -the handicap meeting. He confessed one day in a burst of confidence, -after Sam had led him through the maze of a foolish algebra problem -about two men who rowed past each other up and down stream--each, -apparently, with a stop watch and a log line--that his duel joke -with Shirley had proved a boomerang. In return Sam told him of the -initials--D. P.--in the back of Mulcahy’s book. - -“It’s mine all right,” remarked Duncan, “but I’ve got another now, and -it isn’t worth while to make a row about it. I can’t prove anything -against him. He’d say he bought it at Moran’s or of one of those -fellows who were fired last week. It shows you what he is, though.” - -“I know what he is,” said Sam, blushing. “I don’t need any more -lessons.” - -Another person with whom Sam hoped that he might gain some influence by -the prestige of his improvement in the hurdles was his second cousin, -Wally Sedgwick. Wally was a lower middler, active-minded and ambitious. -Athletics would have given a natural scope to his energy, but he was -too small and immature to have any chance in Seaton sports. He had -fallen in with a set of idle boys of not the highest standards, who -appealed to Wally’s imagination as gay young bloods; they knew things -and were up to date. None of these was in the class of John Fish, a -reprobate, and callous to the opinion of his associates; nor in that of -Mulcahy, whose ambition led him to conceal his wrong-doing, but could -not prevent his determined selfishness from pushing to the surface. -The wickedness of Wally’s friends lay mainly in talk and swagger, but -they had already suggested to him that the code of morals taught in his -home was goody-goody, and that the proper way to show his spirit was -to do “what everybody did.” Wally was popular with many of the older -boys because he was the brother of Margaret Sedgwick. They bestowed -attentions on him in the hope of “making themselves solid” with Miss -Margaret, caring little whether these attentions were good for the boy -or not. - -The track team were going to Boston to compete in the schoolboy games -of the Boston Athletic Association. For the first time in his school -career Sam was to be a member of a Seaton team in contest with other -schools. He was to wear the significant red letters on his shirt, was -to see his name on the big official programme as a representative -of Seaton, was to be trusted to do a part in gaining public honors -for the school. He thought of it by day, dreamed of it by night, and -longed, as only an inexperienced tyro can long, to do credit to those -who trusted him. Mr. Archer, who sympathized with his son in all -innocent interests, that he might wield the stronger influence when -great questions of conduct came up for settlement, ordered a ticket and -promised to be present at the contests. Sam wrote the usual disclaimer -of any expectation of getting a place, but his secret hopes ran high. -Why shouldn’t Fairmount win first and he second, as they had done at -Seaton? - -Then came the trip in pleasant but orderly company, the lunch in town, -the dressing in confused, cramped quarters, the facing of tier on tier -of partisans encircling the huge room, the disorderly jumble about the -starting lines, the hurried calling of contestants, the uproar of rival -cheers--and at last the all-important summons. Few looked upon that -particular heat of the forty-five-yard hurdles with special interest. -Occasional friends of runners scattered through the benches, Mr. Archer -straining his eyes at the long, lank figure crouching in the outside -course, Collins ever calmly observant of his protégés, the little -batch of eager Seatonians watching the red letters, a noisy squad -cheering the wearer of a big W--these were the real audience. - -The pistol cracked. The line shot forward, over hurdles, through -hurdles, stampeding for the tape. Sam stumbled, caught his step again -and dashed blindly on. He sprang for the last hurdle as another was -leaving it. A blue N was first, the W second, Sam an unplaced third. -The starters were calling the sixth heat. - -It was all over in ten seconds--the set, the start, the struggle, the -finish, Sam’s dream of achievement. He slipped into a corner by his -schoolmates and tried to forget his disappointment in watching the -efforts of his friends. He saw Kilham of Hillbury beat out Fairmount -by a foot in the finals of the hurdles. He cheered vigorously when Gay -took the forty. He groaned in dismay as Bruce was pocketed on the curve -of the track in the six hundred and forced behind. When Weatherford -won the thousand yards and Brewster the mile, and Jones soared a -handbreadth above the bar after all rivals had failed, he exulted with -pure delight. At such times the sight of the success of his school -almost comforted him for his own failure. But when unfamiliar letters -were in the van, when the Seaton runners were lost in the field of -pursuers, then the fruitlessness of his own effort recurred to him -afresh, and the folly of his hopes. Abashed, he glanced up at the -indistinct face in the distant gallery and wondered whether his father -felt himself the victim of false representations. Exactly what his -father did think he had no opportunity to discover. When Sam looked -for him after the pole-vault, his place was empty; Mr. Archer, having -stayed to the limit of his time, was hurrying for his train. - -The next day Sam approached the groups of chattering acquaintances with -some dread of sarcastic comment. His fears were needless. Kendrick -and Taylor and a few others remarked sympathetically on his “hard -luck”; Duncan Peck made a creditable effort to be encouraging; but the -majority showed no concern whatever in his failure. This contemptuous -indifference on the part of the many, this assumption that he didn’t -count or that nothing was expected of him anyway, stirred Sam’s -fighting blood. He did not need the consolation which Collins gave -when he spoke of the event as “just practice,” nor the inspiration of -Bruce’s gay derision of himself for being blocked off on the track. The -public disdain was stimulus enough to a proud spirit. Sam’s resolution -to brook no discouragement until time had fully proved his incompetency -dates from that day. - -But there were other interests in Sam’s daily life besides hurdling. -His lessons were going, some well, some tolerably, some ill. In French -he did not get ahead, and consequently he did not gain in favor with -Mr. Alsop. In truth, it is to be feared that Sam did not try his very -best for the lord of his entry. The experienced had informed him that -if one did well enough with two or three teachers to make himself solid -with them, they would defend him against those with whom he did ill. -As Sam’s schedule was a full one and some neglect was inevitable, he -followed his inclination and neglected Mr. Alsop. That gentleman did -not relish neglect; it offended his dignity and cut through the smooth -coating of his self-satisfaction. Mr. Alsop would never have struck an -enemy whose hands were bound, but he did not hesitate to assail in the -classroom with personal flings and stinging sarcasms the luckless boy -who incurred his displeasure. Unable to strike back, the boy endured -in silence and nursed his sense of unjust treatment with sullen, -unforgiving wrath. Mr. Alsop meant well, but he lacked the instinct of -fairness. - -In the dormitory entry there were troubles for which Sam and Birdie -Fowle were generally held responsible by Mr. Alsop,--Sam as the -accessory who was too clever to be detected, Birdie as the criminal -occasionally caught in the act. Some one, supposed to have been Birdie, -had thrown water out of a window in the vain attempt to reach a boy -who was hurling taunts from below. Mr. Alsop had called up Fowle and -charged him with the offence. Birdie had acknowledged his sin. The -teacher, instead of welcoming this frankness as an encouraging symptom, -and by tact and kindness inspiring in that careless youth the desire to -keep the peace, read him a harsh to the indignant satisfaction of the -boy that the fellows were right when they said that honesty was not the -best policy in dealing with profs. Injustice being the rule, one might -as well be actually bad, as good and always suspected of badness. - -Soon after this the day’s collection of waste paper in the wire grate -in the basement was set on fire, causing small damage, but much -excitement throughout the well and great chagrin to the official -regulator thereof. Fortunately for Birdie, his presence at recitation -at the time enabled him to prove a complete alibi. Right upon the heels -of this act of vandalism some miscreant, in the middle of the evening -study hour, set off a cannon cracker in the entry. Mr. Alsop, who was -at home, tore open his door and rushed savagely up the stairs. Through -a dense cloud of smoke he descried John Fish standing in his doorway. - -“What is it, Fish?” Mr. Alsop demanded angrily. - -“Some one’s set off a cannon cracker, sir,” answered Fish. “I was just -coming out to see if I couldn’t catch the fellow.” - -Doors were open now about the stairway, heads peered over from above. - -“Could you tell where it came from?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Did you have anything to do with it, Booth?” - -“No, sir.” - -“You, Rand?” - -“No, sir.” - -“You, Moorhead?” - -“No, sir.” - -“You, Taylor?” - -“No, sir.” - -“You, Fish?” - -“No, sir.” - -Mr. Alsop went upstairs, called out every occupant of every room, and -put to all the same question. Fowle and Archer he asked twice. Peck -was out, and so was Lord’s room-mate. Otherwise the entire well was -canvassed. After the cross-examination was concluded, the teacher -gathered the whole company into his room. - -“Some one has told me a falsehood,” he began solemnly. “I do not know -who it is, but I can guess. To that person I want to say that I -consider a lie as much worse than setting off crackers, as crackers -are worse than an ordinary rough-house. The one who is responsible -will do well to come to me and confess the truth. The rest of you who -are shielding the guilty one should remember that by keeping silent -you assume a share in the guilt. If I can’t have order in this well by -any other means, I’ll put the whole well on study hours, and if that -doesn’t answer, it will have to be cleaned out altogether. The school -has no use for rowdies.” - -This last threat Mr. Alsop did not really mean, as it would have -involved firing the studious Moorhead, the good John Fish, and the -cherub Rand,--the sweetest, most friendly, most diligent little boy -that Mr. Alsop had on his list. But instances were known of whole -dormitory wells ruthlessly swept clear at an indignation meeting of -an offended faculty. Fowle and Archer as the scapegoats of the well -foresaw trouble for themselves, at any rate, whatever punishments -were inflicted. They got together soon after Mr. Alsop’s audience was -dismissed, and held wrathful council. At the end they picked up Taylor -and moved down on John Fish, who opened his door a crack to see who -was knocking, and then opened it wide because a big foot prevented its -being closed. - -“I’m getting popular,” he said, smiling feebly at his visitors. - -“Not with this gang!” said Taylor, as he shut the door behind him. - -“You set off that cracker!” blurted Sam, with suppressed fierceness. - -“I didn’t.” - -“You lie! You did,” retorted Sam. “You know you did. We want to give -you warning that this funny business has got to stop. You know that -Fowle and I get the credit if anything happens here, whether we’re -in it or not. If we get soaked by Alsop for anything that’s done -hereafter, we’ll maul you so that you can’t stand!” - -Fish looked at the trio in apprehension. Archer’s fight with Runyon -had passed into dormitory history; he was regarded as a dangerous man. -Fowle and Taylor were solid fellows, the latter a member of his class -football team. Fish himself, though easily superior to the smaller -occupants of the well, would have shrunk from single combat with any -one of the militant trio. His chance against them all would have been -very poor indeed. - -“What do you want?” he asked sullenly. - -“We want you to cut it out, that’s all,” answered Fowle. - -“Cut it out entirely,” added Taylor. - -“Well, I will,” answered Fish, in a sour tone, “but I can’t be -responsible for everything that happens.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -A FOOLHARDY ADVENTURE - - -The inhabitants of the east well of Hale became lovers of peace. -Mr. Alsop had not full confidence in the change, scenting something -ominous in the unnatural calm. The rumor that had spread among his -colleagues that Alsop was having a sad time in his dormitory touched -that gentleman in a sensitive spot. Ability to get on with pupils -is considered a most desirable quality in a teacher, even in an -institution like Seaton, in which the headsman’s axe is the chief -disciplinary weapon, and the fear of it the great persuader to the -quiet life. Trouble with his boys meant that Mr. Alsop was not in all -respects a success; and the teacher, while forced to confess this -fact to himself, did not wish it unpleasantly noised abroad. He was -suffering for his own conscientiousness and keenness of perception; he -knew Fowle and Archer as dangerous boys, while other teachers were -still dull-witted or misguided enough to defend them. - -One morning, as Mr. Alsop, thinking gloomy thoughts about the waste of -himself which a talented man commits when he takes up the life of a -teacher, swung sharply round the corner of his dormitory, he beheld a -most exasperating sight. - -Wally Sedgwick had been loafing in 7 Hale that morning, keeping both -Sam and Duncan from work which neither wanted to do. Wally’s hat lay -on the window seat. Duncan, concluding that Wally had overstopped -his leave, lifted the window and pushed the hat gently from its -resting-place. Then he calmly informed Wally that his “dip” had fallen -out. Both peered over the sill to see where the hat had fallen. - -John Fish, in the room below, had caught sight of the object falling -past his window, and leaned out to investigate. It occurred to him -immediately that (as the physicians say) water was indicated; so he -brought his pitcher and began pouring upon the hat. Duncan, observing -this manœuvre from above, was seized with a bright idea. He too -fetched a pitcher and poured his libation upon John Fish’s unprotected -head as it projected from the window below. It was this spectacle of -pitchers and streams of water and heads and an all-suffering hat which -greeted Mr. Alsop’s gaze and outraged his sense of propriety as he -emerged into view before the front of Hale. - -Fish did not pour long. The chilling grip of the water upon the back of -his neck quickly reminded him that his conduct was unbecoming. Duncan -stopped when Fish stopped, but neither before the teacher got a good -view of the offenders. - -“Gee, there’s Alsop!” cried Duncan, jumping back into the obscurity of -the room. “My name is mud.” - -“I guess I’ll go,” said Wally, quickly, “before some one pinches the -hat.” - -Wally scuttled downstairs, dashed past the teacher at the door, seized -his hat and sped away from danger. Mr. Alsop mounted directly to Number -7, and knocked vigorously. Sam opened the door. - -“Peck, it was you who were pouring water out of your window upon the -head of a boy below?” - -[Illustration: THIS SPECTACLE OF PITCHERS AND STREAMS OF WATER AND -HEADS GREETED MR. ALSOP’S GAZE.--_Page 164._] - -“Yes, sir,” said Duncan, promptly, “but it was in self-defence. You -see, the hat fell out, and before we could get it, some one downstairs -began to dump water on it. I had to do the same thing to him to make -him stop.” - -“I suppose there was no other way of stopping him,” answered Mr. Alsop, -with angry sarcasm. “You knew very well that all throwing of water from -dormitory windows is forbidden. I shall report you at the office as on -study hours.” - -“That’s a pretty note!” said Duncan in disgust as soon as the enemy was -out of hearing. “Put me on study hours for that! It was nothing at all. -Fellows do it all the time in Sibley and Wentworth and don’t get even a -call-down. That’s a way to run a dormitory, isn’t it? He probably won’t -do anything to Black Hand Fish!” - -Therein Duncan was wrong. Mr. Alsop stopped on his way downstairs to -give Fish the same punishment, but he did it with reluctance, in fact -almost apologetically, and he took the penalty off at the end of a -week. Duncan, being of a proud spirit and showing evident resentment -in his manner, the instructor disciplined by a longer period of -restraint. During this season of penance, when Duncan was at home -morning, afternoon, and evening, cut off from all visitors, the two -room-mates were inevitably much together. Some of this time Duncan -wasted in maledictions on his unjust fate and on all those whom he -held responsible for his sufferings; some he spent profitably in -studying, and in getting acquainted with his room-mate. The experience -of this period, which proved effectively the value of Sam’s friendship, -destroyed the last shreds of the prejudice which Duncan had nursed so -long. He signalized his conversion by suggesting to Archer that it was -time they addressed each other by their first names. He made atonement, -not by falling on his friend’s neck and beseeching his pardon for -misjudging him, but by treating him with frank cordiality at home and -commending him abroad. - -“Black Hand” Fish, released from the ban at the end of a week with a -gentle recommendation that he restrain his sprightliness, returned -most subservient thanks and went his old way. Fish’s old way was not -a good one from the point of view of morality or of the happiness of -his neighbors. He was the “bad boy” of the well, a natural Ishmaelite. -His hand was against every one. He borrowed money without the slightest -intention of paying; he rough-housed recklessly in the rooms of those -not strong enough to eject him, smashed furniture, threw books, spilled -ink, played hair-dresser with the shoe-brush. And withal, so strong -was the code of honor among his victims, so suave and respectful was -his demeanor toward Mr. Alsop, so craftily did he choose his hours of -molestation, that the teacher had no suspicion of his character. When -Mr. Alsop passed Fish’s room on a visit of reproof to Fowle, and saw on -the door a threatening demand for money emphasized by the drawing of a -black hand, he reflected sadly upon the persecution which an orderly -student must suffer at the hands of the disorderly. Indeed, he felt -tempted to call a meeting of the well to protest against the cowardice -of anonymous threats. - -Fish himself was not greatly disturbed by the sight of these -manifestoes. He was not to be frightened into disgorging by the threat -of a Black Hand. When, however, a similar notice appeared on the -blotting-paper on his desk, he began to suspect his long-suffering -room-mate Moorhead, and made him the special object of his attentions. -Moorhead was a studious youth, an honor man, very ambitious to keep -his rank. Fish hid his books, poured away the water from his pitcher, -pulled his bed to pieces, inked his exercises. A favorite diversion was -to sing Moorhead to the verge of madness when the boy wanted to study. -This was especially effective when a “dec” had to be learned, or lines -memorized for English. - -With the occupants of Number 7 Fish took no liberties. They “wouldn’t -stand for it,” and they were capable of defending themselves. The -weaker inhabitants of the well safeguarded themselves and their -possessions as best they could by keeping their doors locked. Even with -this precaution there were times when the pest found admittance. Being -debarred from outside disturbance by the serious threats of the trio, -he was in a way thrown back upon the rooms for amusement. - -Spring came, if a muddy windy March has any right to the name of -spring. Sam, whose reputation was better with other teachers than -with Mr. Alsop, sometimes got permission to go off with his gun. He -returned one Wednesday night, empty-handed, as usual, but eloquent of -the grandeur of the heavy surf as it broke over the rocks at the foot -of Great Boar’s Head. He wrote a theme on the subject before he went to -bed, and read it to Duncan. - -“Gee! but it must be worth seeing!” exclaimed Duncan. “If that beast of -an Alsop hadn’t put me on study hours, I might go down and get a look -at it.” - -“Why don’t you ask him to take you off?” - -“Ask him to take me off!” repeated Duncan, indignantly. “I wouldn’t ask -him to take me out of a pit, if I were dying of thirst!” - -“He probably wouldn’t do it anyway,” remarked Sam, recalling the -humiliating refusal which he had himself received when he asked for a -special make-up on French vocabulary. - -Thursday and Friday the wind blew hard from the east. Saturday was -clear. At nine, after his first recitation, Duncan came dashing in with -the signals of exciting news flaming in eye and cheek. - -“Alsop’s gone to Boston to-day to tell the Modern Language Profs how to -do it. He won’t get back until to-morrow night.” - -“What of it?” asked Sam, calmly. - -“I’m going to take a holiday. I’m going to see the surf, that’s ‘what -of it’!” - -“You’d better not. You can’t get permission; and if any of them see -you, they’ll report you, and it’ll be all up with you.” - -“I’m not going to stay cooped up here all the time. I did nothing to -be put on probation for, not as much as John Fish, and he was let off -a week ago. I’m going to see the surf!” - -“Supposing they see you?” - -“They won’t see me. I’ll get something to eat early down at McLane’s; -then I’ll take the one o’clock car outside the town. Nobody would leave -as early as that, and if they do, Brucie, who’s got permission to go, -will take the same car in town, and signal me at the right place if -there’s any danger. Then I’ll jump off at Leavitt’s, skip over to the -rocks, have a look at the waves, and take the same car back. I’ll be -here by three.” - -“It’s risky,” said Sam, thoughtfully. - -“I’ll take the risk!” - -All that morning, Duncan’s foolhardy scheme troubled Sam’s mind. There -was danger in it--a danger quite out of proportion to the pleasure to -be gained. The boy who leaves town without permission goes permanently. -That was a rule to which the faculty rarely made exceptions. It was -useless to expostulate with Duncan; he had made up his mind, and -the resolution of a boy who had studied the ins and outs of Academy -discipline for four years could hardly be expected to yield to the -objections of a newcomer. And yet there was an objection which appeared -to Sam to be serious. - -“What are you going to do about the two o’clock car going down?” he -asked Duncan, as the chums came together again at twelve o’clock. -“There’s sure to be some one on that who would recognize you; it will -pass you at the power-house.” - -“That’s easy!” answered Duncan, confidently. “I’ll duck down when we -pass the cars, going and coming. If you’re trying to scare me out of -this, you’re wasting your breath. I’m going, anyway.” - -This ended Sam’s attempts at interference. He hung around the room -for a while after Duncan had gone, then hunted up Dr. Leighton and -asked permission to go to the salt marshes or elsewhere, shooting. Dr. -Leighton knew Mr. Archer and believed in the boy. As a result, we may -say by way of parenthesis, the boy believed in Dr. Leighton, and, what -is more to the point, strove to earn his esteem by honest work for him. -Dr. Leighton’s permission was quickly obtained. - -Sam boarded the two o’clock car in his shooting togs, without any -clear idea as to his purpose. He didn’t care much about shooting that -afternoon, and he did want to help Duncan, but how he could help -Duncan he had but the vaguest notion. If there were teachers aboard, -he might engage them in talk at the critical time, and so divert their -attention. Two teachers did get in at the square, Professor Towle and -Mr. Snow, both elderly men above the temptation of spying--the fault of -overzealous youth--but quite as rigid in their sense of duty as their -younger colleagues. If Duncan showed himself, his head was forfeit. - -The car bowled rapidly along the desolate, water-soaked highway. Sam -left his seat and went forward with the motorman to catch the first -glimpse of the waiting car at the turnout. As they bore down upon -the power-house, they saw ahead of them a group of workmen gathered -about a heavily loaded service car which appeared to have broken down, -obstructing both main track and turnout. - -“Looks like a block,” observed the motorman, as he crowded down the -brake. - -“What will they do?” asked Sam, quickly. - -“Probably swap passengers with the up car when it comes, and send us -back.” - -The car came to a stop. The motorman opened the door of his vestibule -and leaned out. Sam peered over his shoulder. - -“You’ll have to go back, Jim,” said an official to the conductor. -“Transfer your passengers.” - -Sam seized his gun, pushed by the motorman, and strolled along the -track past the obstruction. As soon as he felt himself sheltered by the -derailed car from the argus eye of the faculty, he jumped the wall, and -in its shelter ran headlong for the curve round which the up car was -expected. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -MR. ALSOP BARKS - - -Two minutes later a youth in khaki, armed with a gun, stopped the up -car just around the curve beyond the power-house, called out a startled -passenger, and let the car go on. Those who were curious enough to look -back--including a shrewdly grinning conductor--saw the pair disappear -over the fence into a clump of trees. - -“What’s up?” demanded Duncan, as soon as his foot touched the ground. - -“They’re going to transfer passengers at the power-house. Towle and -Snow are there--” Sam stopped for breath; his run up the hill had -winded him. “You’d have been caught like a rat in a trap.” - -Duncan whistled, and gave vent to a variety of exclamations prompted by -a variety of feelings. Sam cut into them abruptly. - -“You can’t show yourself until after the car passes here. By that time -the other one will have gone, and there isn’t another for an hour.” - -“And some one is likely to be on that,” said Duncan, gravely. - -“Yes, and on the one after. If you want me to, I’ll stay down and watch -to see who’s aboard, and give you a signal. Or--” - -“Or what?” - -“You might walk back. It’s only five miles.” - -“In all this mud?” cried Duncan. - -“It isn’t so bad on the track; and it’s the safest way. If any one sees -you walking, it won’t hurt, because you’ve got a right to walk where -you want to.” - -“That’s true,” said Duncan. “Well, I guess I’ll walk. What are you -going to do?” - -“I got permission for the marshes. I suppose I ought to go.” - -“Go ahead!” answered Duncan. “There comes your car. I’ll see you when -you get home.” - -Sam vaulted the fence, stopped his car, and got in. Professor Towle -fastened on him a questioning glance as he sat down. - -“We were wondering what had become of you,” said the teacher, kindly. -“You went on ahead?” - -“Yes, sir,” answered Sam, demurely. - -“Rather unpleasant walking,” remarked Mr. Snow, looking at Sam’s muddy -feet. - -“I don’t mind the walking,” Sam hastened to say. “When you’re out with -a gun, you go through so much mud that a little more or less doesn’t -count.” - -“I suppose so,” responded Mr. Snow. Professor Towle was thinking in a -half-interested way that it was a queer freak for a boy to go ahead -of a car on a day like this, and wondering vaguely what prompted the -impulse. He did not wonder long. When one has been guessing more or -less unsuccessfully at schoolboy conundrums for a quarter of a century, -one gives up easily before a casual new one. - -When Sam came back to 7 Hale that night, with game bag empty as usual, -he found Duncan stretched out in an easy chair before the fire, arrayed -in bath robe and slippers. His shoes, brown with mud and bleached at -the tips with water, sulked, neglected, in a corner. - -“Been to dinner?” inquired Sam, as he opened the door. - -“Not going,” Duncan answered laconically. “When I got back about five, -I was so dead hungry I couldn’t wait for dinner, so I filled up at -McLane’s. You see I didn’t stop for much luncheon this noon. I had a -whopping big steak with two orders of French fried, and half a lemon -pie. I sha’n’t want anything more to eat this week.” - -“What do you think about it now; was it worth while or not?” Sam talked -from his bedroom, where he was busy peeling off his soaked clothes. - -“No, it wasn’t,” responded Duncan, slowly. “I didn’t see much of the -surf, and I came near getting into trouble.” He waited a minute and -added as an afterthought, “From one point of view it was.” - -“What’s that--exercise?” - -“No. I found out what a good fellow I’ve got for a room-mate!” - -A thrill of delight ran through Sam’s chilly limbs as he heard this -unexpected acknowledgment. His own heart had long since declared -itself. Yet an instinct of self-repression, inbred by many generations -of Puritan ancestors, combined with the aversion to sentiment common to -all boys, forced an almost flippant answer to his lips. “You’d better -wait till the end of the year before you say that. Your opinion of me -may slump.” - -“I’ve waited long enough--too long. You got me sour on you at first -when you turned me out of my room; then the way you let Mulcahy work -you, made me sore.” - -“I was pretty slow about Mulcahy,” confessed Sam, “but that was partly -your fault. I thought you were unfair to him, and that made me hang on -to him.” - -“How did you come to go down there this afternoon?” asked Duncan, with -an abrupt change. “You didn’t say anything about going when I started -off.” - -“I thought I might as well go,” Sam answered carelessly. He shied at -confessing the real reason. - -“You saved my neck, all right,” remarked Duncan. “I believe you went on -purpose. I’m going to think so, anyway.” - -Sam hurried his shower and his dressing and got over to dinner before -the doors were closed. On his way back he stopped at Dr. Leighton’s -rooms to tell him that he had returned within the time set. Dr. -Leighton invited him in, and they talked together intimately for an -hour, not as teacher and pupil, but as friends. They fell ultimately -upon the subject of injustice in the school life; of boys who trotted -and cribbed and got C, while boys who plugged and were honest got E; -of lies that secured immunity when the truth brought punishment; of -Duncan Peck kept on pro for three weeks when Fish got off with one for -the same offence; of the troubles of mischievous Birdie Fowle, who, -though by no means a bad boy, was considered a monster, while others -were thoroughly corrupt and yet enjoyed an immaculate reputation; of -hypocrites who joined the Christian Frat because it would help them -with the faculty, yet showed no respect for the principles of the -organization. Dr. Leighton did not deny the facts of injustice; he -did not undertake to absolve either himself or his colleagues from -all mistakes in their estimates of the boys. But he did try to show -that injustice is not intentional or permanent, that immorality and -dishonesty are sure to work their way to the light of day and receive -their reward; that no boy can escape the responsibility for his own -character and influence. Sam went home feeling that his own unimportant -life, if lived cleanly and honorably, might have a value in the school -world. - -Mr. Alsop returned Monday morning, his sensitive and suspicious soul -agitated by a dire discovery. He had distinctly seen, as he walked -along a Boston street on Saturday evening, Duncan Peck with another, -unrecognized boy entering a theatre--Duncan Peck, whom he himself had -put on probation, and who could not, save by misrepresentation, get -leave of absence from any one. He went immediately to Peck’s boarding -place--Duncan had long since wearied of Alumni--to make inquiries, and -learned that Peck had not been present at dinner Saturday night nor -at breakfast Sunday morning. He visited the matron of the dormitory, -and was told that the maid who had gone in to take care of Number 7 -on Sunday had reported Peck sleeping soundly at nine o’clock, with -shoes standing before the fireplace still wet, and muddy trousers -hanging over a chair. Remembering the heavy downpour of rain which had -occurred early that morning, Mr. Alsop felt that his case was complete. -The rascal had broken his probation, had taken a six o’clock train to -Boston Saturday night, attended the theatre in the evening, spent the -rest of the night--no one knew how--and returned in fancied security by -the paper train very early in the morning. It was a piece of tragic but -most successful detective work. The circumstantial evidence supporting -the testimony of his own eyes was complete. - -Yet before he laid the scandal in all its appalling details before -the faculty, Mr. Alsop decided to question Peck, and incidentally -Archer. It should never be said that he had condemned a boy without -a hearing. From Archer he expected no confirmation of his own true -account of Peck’s movements on that fatal night, for in accordance -with the notions of loyalty prevailing among the students, a room-mate -would feel bound to hide the facts, however heinous the guilt of the -offender. Peck, of course, would not hesitate to lie, when he found -himself trapped. - -The two boys rose as the instructor walked solemnly into the room. He -dismissed the offered chair with a wave of the hand and a chilly “Thank -you,” and entered straightway upon his business. - -“Peck, I have come to ask you about your absence from town on -Saturday,” he began. - -Duncan threw a look of dismay at his chum. “My absence from town!” -he exclaimed, striving to appear wholly surprised, yet conscious of -a traitorous blush suffusing his cheeks and a well-nigh irresistible -inclination to avoid the instructor’s stern eye. - -“Yes, from town,” repeated Mr. Alsop, with slow and distinct emphasis. - -“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Duncan. - -It would have been an interesting problem for a mediæval casuist to -determine the moral character of this statement; whether a black lie, -a white lie, or no lie at all. Duncan used it merely as a means of -drawing the teacher out. He suspected that he knew only too well -what the instructor meant. Yet, as a fact, he knew nothing. Mr. Alsop -recognized it at once as the first of the expected chain of falsehoods, -and sharpened his wits to detect its successor. - -“Where were you on Saturday afternoon?” - -“Knocking around,” answered Peck, vaguely, sure now that he saw Mr. -Alsop’s meaning, and wondering how he had been found out. - -“Were you out of town?” - -Duncan was silent. - -“Where were you in the evening?” went on the inquisitor, triumphantly. -The weak line of defence was already breaking. - -“Here,” replied the defendant, puzzled to understand the bearing of the -question. - -“Are you quite sure, Peck?” said the questioner, solemnly. - -“Yes, sir.” - -Sam stepped forward and opened his lips, “Mr. Alsop--” - -He was interrupted by an uplifted hand. “I am questioning Peck, if you -please.” Sam retired, abashed. - -“Were you not in Boston Saturday evening, Peck?” - -“In Boston!” Into this three-syllabled explosion Duncan compressed a -heavy charge of wonder and relief. - -“Yes, in Boston!” returned Mr. Alsop, with sharp emphasis. “You are -doubtless an excellent actor, Peck, but please do not answer my -questions with exclamations. Were you in Boston Saturday night or not?” - -“Not!” replied Duncan, his eyes twinkling, and the corners of his mouth -twitching in an incipient smile. He had recovered his self-possession -completely. - -“This is not a fit subject for jest, Peck.” Duncan’s face sobered -immediately. “It is a very serious matter. I repeat my question once -more and demand a frank answer. Were you in Boston last Saturday -evening?” - -“I was not,” answered Duncan, in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on -the floor. - -“It would be better to confess honestly than to persist in a lie, -Peck,” continued Mr. Alsop, in a judicial manner. - -Duncan did not reply. His head was turned away. - -“The fact is bound to come out, whether you admit it or not.” - -“What fact?” - -“The fact that you were in Boston Saturday night. I saw you there with -my own eyes just as you were entering the Colonial Theatre!” - -Duncan drew a long breath, and waited an artistic interval before -replying. “I suppose if you saw me--” he began. - -“If I saw you, what, Peck?” prompted the teacher, gently. - -“If I should confess, should I get off any easier?” - -“I can make no promises. The faculty would doubtless give the fact -consideration. You have been a long time in school.” - -“Why, he has nothing to confess!” broke in Sam. “He was here Saturday -evening. I can testify to it.” - -To Sam’s surprise, Duncan turned roughly upon him. “It’s no use for you -to say that. You’d better keep your fingers out of it.” - -Mr. Alsop nodded approval. “I respect your desire to help your friend, -Archer, but false testimony will only serve to hurt you without -benefiting Peck.” - -This calm assumption that he was prepared to act the part of a false -witness wounded Sam’s self-respect and stirred his indignation. For the -instant, however, he was dumb with astonishment. Before he could gather -his wits to make protest, Duncan had turned away from Mr. Alsop and -shot at his chum a beseeching look, emphasized by a vigorous side jerk -of the head, that closed the boy’s opening lips. - -Again silence, broken by Mr. Alsop. - -“It is better to make a clean breast of it, Peck,” he said, in a -persuasive voice. - -Peck drew another long breath and lifted his eyes to the instructor’s -face. He had evidently taken a deep resolution. - -“Tell me everything frankly,” encouraged Mr. Alsop. - -“I wasn’t in Boston at all,” declared Duncan, lapsing suddenly into a -sullen manner. “I haven’t been in Boston for five weeks.” - -Mr. Alsop’s face hardened. “You insist on that story, do you?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“So much the worse for you, then. The faculty will consider the case -on Tuesday evening. I will give you until that time to come to your -senses.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -UP THE WRONG TREE - - -Mr. Alsop closed the door of Number 7 behind him, more than ever -convinced that he had caught an experienced and clever offender. Peck’s -confusion when suddenly taxed with an absence from town which he had -supposed totally unknown, his theatrical attempt to bluff, his apparent -conflict in mind over the wisdom of confessing and throwing himself -on Mr. Alsop’s mercy, his pains to keep an over-loyal room-mate from -committing himself to a falsehood, his final decision to abide by the -original denial--all this was the natural behavior of a conscious -culprit. The unfortunate boy had been given an opportunity to confess -and gain a possible mitigation of penalty. The instructor’s conscience -was clear. - -Inside Number 7 Duncan was dancing in transports of merriment. “Did you -ever hear anything like it!” he cried. “Oh, but it’s great! If some -fool doesn’t butt in and spoil it all before to-morrow night!” - -“You’re a fool yourself!” said Sam, in disgust. “Why didn’t you let me -tell him the facts? I could have cleared you.” - -“Because I didn’t want to be cleared,” declared Duncan, joyfully; -“because this is the chance of a lifetime to get back at him for -all his spying at keyholes and sneaking round. If you’d blurted out -everything you wanted to say, you might have made him doubt, and I -don’t want him to doubt.” - -“Do you want to be fired for what you didn’t do?” demanded Sam. “You -weren’t in Boston. You were here.” - -“I know I was here, but he doesn’t. He’ll bring it up before the -faculty--and then!--” - -“And then what?” - -“He’ll get a fall, a nice, hard, dizzy fall that’ll make him see stars. -He’ll rise a better man.” - -Sam stared for some seconds and meditated. “I don’t see why you’re so -sure about that,” he said at length. “I’m the only one who can prove -you were here. If he doesn’t believe me, why should the rest?” - -“You’re not the only one!” - -“Were you out that night? If you were, you broke your probation.” - -“I wasn’t out.” - -“If you had fellows in here, you broke your probation just the same.” - -“I didn’t have fellows in here. The laundryman brought my bundle and -collected a dollar twenty. Better than the laundryman, Mr. Sedgwick -came to invite you there Sunday night--I forgot to tell you about it.” - -Sam’s face showed deep disgust. “You’re a fine man to leave a message -with, aren’t you? Here it is Monday morning. They’ll think I’m a chump!” - -“Never you mind! She’ll forgive you. You can go this afternoon and tell -them how it happened. Maybe you’ll get another invitation. Anyway, Mr. -Sedgwick makes a second witness. Alsop might suppose I’d fixed the -laundryman, but they’ll have to believe Mr. Sedgwick. Then there’s -Don.” - -“What has Don to do with it?” - -“Sammy, you’re positively thick. Who do you suppose Alsop really saw in -Boston?” - -“How should I know?” - -“He saw Don!” - -Then a light suddenly broke upon Sam’s slow mind. He had met Donald -Peck, Duncan’s twin, on the morning of the Hillbury football game, and -had been amazed at the close resemblance between the two brothers. -Since then, various anecdotes of the pair, current in the school, had -come to his ears, and Duncan himself had told him much about their -experiences together. - -“That’s just what happened!” Sam cried. “Don came in from Cambridge to -go to the theatre, and Alsop saw him. I wonder why he didn’t think of -Don.” - -“He wouldn’t think of anything except that he’d caught me,” said -Duncan. “He wasn’t looking for ways of proving me innocent.” - -“What are you going to do about it?” - -“Nothing. Oh, yes, I am! I’m going to telephone Don, and if he says he -went to the Colonial Theatre that night, I’ll get him to write me a -letter.” - -The routine business of the faculty meeting on Tuesday had been -disposed of. Petitions from various misguided students for an extension -of the approaching spring vacation had been refused. It had been -decided that the Mandolin Club might not give a concert in Haverhill, -and that the Assembly Club under certain conditions might hold a dance -on the evening of a certain Friday. The secretary was reading the -alphabetical list of students to refresh the memories of those members -of the faculty who had come to the meeting with questions to ask or -charges to bring. Halfway through the catalogue of seniors, at the name -of Peck, Mr. Alsop interposed. - -“Stop there, please! Did any one give Peck permission to go to Boston -on Saturday night?” - -Silence effectually answered the question. “I thought not,” continued -Mr. Alsop. “He is on special probation. I was in Boston over Sunday, -and on Saturday night, a little after eight, I saw Peck just entering -a theatre on Boylston Street with a companion whom I did not know. As -soon as I returned I made inquiries at his boarding place, and learned -that he was absent from dinner on Saturday night and from breakfast -Sunday morning. The chambermaid reported him in bed at nine o’clock -on Sunday, his shoes standing before the fireplace still wet. There -was a heavy rain early Sunday morning, as you perhaps remember. I am -convinced that he left town by the six o’clock train Saturday and -returned by the paper train Sunday morning. I questioned him about -the matter and told him where I had seen him. He was confused in his -answers, and at one time seemed on the point of confessing, but he -finally decided to take the other course, and faced it out to the end.” -Mr. Alsop paused. - -“If you saw him,” said Mr. Moore, who was presiding, “I should say that -it is a case for immediate dismissal.” - -“I saw him distinctly.” - -“Who is his room-mate?” asked Professor Towle. - -“Archer.” - -“What does Archer say?” - -“Archer would probably pretend that Peck was in his room on Saturday -evening. He was about to say something to this effect, but Peck, -who evidently wanted to keep him from committing himself to a false -statement, objected to his testifying.” - -“That seems a strange proceeding,” remarked Professor Towle. “A boy -who would run away from school for a night wouldn’t be likely to care -whether his room-mate lied or not as long as the testimony was in his -favor.” - -“I should myself be very unwilling to believe either that Peck would -leave town without permission or that Archer would lie about it -afterward,” said Dr. Leighton, for the first time taking part in the -discussion. - -“It is a question of fact, not of opinion,” replied Mr. Alsop, tartly. -“It might not seem to you so unlikely, if you had seen as much of the -pair as I have.” - -“Might it not have been Donald Peck whom you saw?” asked Dr. Leighton. -“He is in Cambridge, and might very well have been in Boston that -night.” - -The effect of this question was first to stagger and then to anger Mr. -Alsop. In his zeal to bring the guilty Duncan to punishment, he had -put aside all thought of error in identification. This reminder of the -existence of Duncan’s double came to him as a shock. He entertained -the suggestion but a moment, however, dismissing it immediately as -reflecting on the accuracy of his observation. - -“I can only repeat,” he said with frigid dignity, “that I saw Duncan -Peck in Boston Saturday night. The suggestion that the evidence of my -own eyes is not trustworthy will not explain his two absences from -meals, nor the condition of his room on Sunday morning, nor his very -noticeable confusion on being questioned.” - -“I am afraid we are spending time unprofitably,” broke in Mr. Moore. -“May I suggest that the case be left to a committee, with full power to -dismiss the boy if he is found guilty?” - -Professor Towle moved that Dr. Leighton, Mr. Alsop, and Mr. Snow -constitute such a committee. The motion was passed and the august -body continued its review of the list, putting six boys on special -probation for an excess of five chapel cuts during the term, voting -that notice be sent to three fathers that their sons must be withdrawn, -ordering A. Jones to retire from the Assembly Club, and B. Brown to -give up either French or German, and C. Smith to pay before Thursday -for the damage done in his room or be suspended,--and so on for a -ruthless hour of house-cleaning. - -After his first recitation next morning, Dr. Leighton got to work on -the task of his committee. He found Duncan and Sam together in 7 Hale. -Sam retired at the suggestion of the teacher that he wished to talk -with Peck alone. - -“Was I fired?” asked Duncan, when Dr. Leighton had stated his errand. -Duncan’s manner showed plenty of curiosity, but little deep concern. - -“Your fate is in the hands of a committee,” replied Dr. Leighton. “If -it is true that you were in Boston that night, I couldn’t keep you here -if I would, and you may be sure that I should not try to do so. The -question is one of fact. At present the presumption is against you. I -want first your own word. Were you in Boston Saturday night?” - -“No, sir,” responded Duncan, promptly, looking frankly into the -teacher’s serious face. The boy’s expression was serious too, except as -to the eyes. In them gleamed but half suppressed a glint of fun. - -“Where were you?” - -“Here.” - -“Did any one see you here?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Who?” - -“Sam Archer.” - -“His evidence might satisfy me, but not others. It is conceivable that -a room-mate should feel in duty bound to defend his friend at the -expense of a lie. Did no one else see you?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Who?” - -“The man who delivers for Jetteau’s laundry, a short, red-faced fellow. -We call him Pete.” - -Dr. Leighton wrote in his book: “Pete, Jetteau’s laundry.” “I wish it -had been a better witness,” he said regretfully. - -“There was a better witness,” said Duncan, his satisfaction now -breaking forth into a broad grin, “Mr. Sedgwick.” - -Dr. Leighton closed his notebook with a snap. “Did he see you here?” he -demanded eagerly. - -“Yes, sir. He came a little before eight to invite Sam to supper the -next day.” Duncan’s face took on a rueful look as he added, “I forgot -to tell Sam until this morning.” - -“You ought to have given me his name in the beginning.” Dr. Leighton -spoke reprovingly, but with evident relief. - -“Mr. Sedgwick came last,” answered Duncan, demurely. “I was giving the -witnesses in exact order.” - -Dr. Leighton laughed, a frank, natural, unprof-like laugh. “You always -were a joker, Duncan, but take care how you joke with the faculty. Some -of us don’t understand jokes.” - -Duncan grinned in silent comprehension. - -“But why didn’t you tell this to Mr. Alsop?” pursued Dr. Leighton, now -serious again. “It Would have saved all this misunderstanding.” - -“He didn’t give me any chance,” said Duncan. “He spent all his time -trying to make me confess I’d done what I hadn’t done.” - -“But you prevented Sam from testifying.” - -“Yes, I did,” declared Duncan, stoutly. “As Alsop was so sure I was -bad, I thought he might as well find out the truth himself. I hoped it -would come hard, for he’s treated me dirty mean.” - -“How has he treated you meanly?” asked Dr. Leighton, quietly. - -“Lots of ways. For one thing, he’s kept me on probation three weeks for -throwing water out the window, when the fellow who started the thing -only got one.” - -“Go and get Archer,” commanded Dr. Leighton. - -“Was Peck here Saturday night?” asked the instructor, as the two boys -returned. - -“Yes, sir,” answered Sam, eagerly. “He was here the whole evening from -the time I came in a little after eight. We both went to bed about -eleven. He was no more in Boston than I was.” - -“One thing more, Peck,” said the teacher, turning abruptly on Duncan. -“Where were you on Saturday afternoon?” - -Duncan’s countenance fell. “Knocking around,” he answered cautiously. - -“That’s indefinite. You were not at dinner.” - -“No, sir. I got my dinner at McLane’s at about five.” - -“And before five?” - -Peck hesitated, looked at his room-mate, then out the window, then at -his room-mate again, and at last into Dr. Leighton’s face. - -“I’d rather not tell you; that is, officially. I’ll tell you -personally, if you like. I didn’t do anything bad.” - -“Personally then, if it must be,” said the instructor. - -“I went to Hampton Beach to see the surf.” - -“What!” - -“I went down on the one o’clock car and came back on it. I walked up -from the power-house.” - -Dr. Leighton was silent, while Duncan shifted nervously from foot to -foot, and wondered wildly whether he had made the great mistake of -being confidential with an untrustworthy prof. Dr. Leighton, however, -understood clearly the distinction intended; he had agreed to receive -Duncan’s confession, not as a member of the faculty, but as a friend of -the confessor. Officially he could take no cognizance of the affair. He -must speak as a friend and adviser, or not at all. - -“Duncan,” he said with slow seriousness, “in going to Hampton you -were leaving town without permission just as much as if you had gone -to Boston, as Mr. Alsop thought you did. That Mr. Alsop treated you -unfairly, or that your visit was for an innocent purpose, is no excuse -whatever for the act. You broke a rule on which the school wisely -insists, and the punishment for which you well knew. In that you were -totally wrong.” - -“Yes, sir,” said Duncan, humbly. - -“You understand that if your absence is discovered and the fact brought -before the faculty, I cannot say a word in your defence?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Now I want you to promise, and promise honestly, that for the rest of -the year you will try to keep well within the school rules.” - -“I will, sir.” - -“Good!” Dr. Leighton held out his hand, and turned to go. At the door -he spoke again. “One more word of advice--as a friend. You have the -advantage over Mr. Alsop in this Boston affair. Use it to come to a -better understanding with him, and not to annoy him. Remember that -there is a very weak spot in your own armor.” - -When the teacher was gone, the two boys remained for a time in silence. -Duncan’s malicious joy in the prospect of Mr. Alsop’s humiliation had -given place to a serious mood. “Leighton’s a square man!” he said at -length. “You’d do right for a man like him when you’d rather do wrong; -while as for Alsop, why, you’d do wrong for him when you’d rather do -right, just to spite him.” And therein Duncan Peck showed a knowledge -of the essential traits of an inspiring teacher which is rarely -possessed by school trustees. - -Later in the day Mr. Alsop came to apologize for his error, and the -interview left a pleasant impression with both participants. Duncan -had special reason to be satisfied with it, as the instructor, to make -amends for his false accusation, removed the annoying probation. -Through Dr. Leighton’s influence the special committee made no report -to the faculty, and Mr. Alsop was spared the pain of an official -verdict on his blunder. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -THE SOCIALIST - - -For a few days after Duncan’s acquittal, Mr. Alsop seemed really to -have profited by his lesson. It is no slight humiliation to make a -theatrical charge of falsehood against two boys, and then be compelled -to eat one’s words in sackcloth and ashes. The tale circulated among -the students in a variety of versions, none of which was inferior -to the truth in picturesqueness. Members of the faculty smiled -significantly as they passed on the word that the committee on Peck -would not report, even while they deplored their colleague’s misfortune -and expatiated on his devotion to duty. The discomfited instructor -had to draw on his whole fund of self-esteem to save himself from -confessing that some of his methods needed mending. As he treated Sam -with unwonted consideration in recitation for the next few days, and -Sam, as a result, made more conscientious preparation of lessons, it -began to look as if Sam, at least, was to be the gainer. - -Birdie Fowle was left alone to bear the weight of Mr. Alsop’s -particular suspicion, and Birdie dropped as naturally into trouble, -as a fly into the milk-pail. Taylor and Sam, with Birdie, had one -evening been enjoying a most exhilarating game of ball in Birdie’s -room. They used a baseball and a bat. Sofa cushions piled in the corner -constituted the field. To hit the Harvard cushion was a base hit, the -Yale cushion counted for two bases, the pillow with the girl’s head on -it three, and the S cushion a home run. To miss the cushions altogether -was an out. The sport was great; the cries of the trio floated out -through the open windows, and the floor trembled with the lunges of -the players. Mr. Alsop, who had latterly resolved not to interfere -with the boys in their rooms unless the disturbance was serious, -growing impatient under the strain, tramped his study, nervously asking -himself, with each crescendo from above, whether the time had not now -come when he really must interfere. Then the noises ceased, and he -went back to his work relieved. - -The game was at its height when a knock at the door sent the guests -scurrying to the closets. Poor Birdie, bound to obey the summons, -tossed the cushions back upon the sofa, ran his fingers through his -disordered hair, threw on his coat, and hurried to open the door. -Without stood Brantwein with his basket of “hot dogs.” - -“You old fraud!” exclaimed Birdie. “I thought sure it was Alsop.” - -“You ought to be so glad it isn’t that you’d want to buy me out,” -observed Brantwein, as he pushed in. “I’ll sell you the whole stock for -an even dollar.” - -“Come out!” yelled Fowle. “It’s only Brandy!” The hidden players -emerged. “Who wants a dog?” - -“I’ll give you a dime for three,” offered Taylor. “That’s all they’re -worth.” - -“They’re the best I ever sold, specially fine breed of dog,” returned -Brantwein, seriously. “They’re really worth ten apiece, but I’ll let -you have ’em for a nickel.” - -“Hot?” asked Sam, thrusting his hand into the basket. - -“Two hundred twelve degrees,” answered the vendor, as he pulled his -basket well out of Sam’s reach. “Don’t handle the pups.” - -Fowle treated the crowd, and the three were soon munching the -sandwiches and crying down their quality. - -“How’s socialism, Brandy?” asked Fowle, winking at his nearest -neighbor. “I hear it’s a back number nowadays.” - -“The socialists are the party of the future,” said Brandy, solemnly. -“The time is coming when the government will own and operate all -railroads and public utilities, together with all mines and great -industrial plants, and the product and advantages derived from the -resources of the country will be enjoyed by the people, to whom they -belong, not by the few greedy monopolists who sit with their feet in -the trough at home--and send their fat-witted sons to Seaton Academy.” - -“Good!” cried Taylor. “That’s me! But look here, Brandy, will the -government run the hot-dog business too? If it does, where’ll you be?” - -Brandy threw at the interrupter a glance which was meant to express -pity for Taylor’s ignorance. - -“Those that are qualified will hold the important positions, not those -who have a pull. I shall be chief government inspector of hot dogs.” -Brantwein turned again to his main audience. “The United States is -to-day fifty years behind Europe in the matter of socialism, but we’re -learning fast now. We must make a beginning with the coal mines and the -great trunk lines--” - -“That’ll be bad for you,” cut in Birdie. “You can’t beat your way from -Chicago to Boston, then.” - -“I shan’t need to,” retorted Brandy. “The state will pay for every -man’s education. Fellows like you, of course, the state won’t waste -much time on. You’ll be used for road-menders and crossing-sweepers.” - -“Hear! hear!” cried Taylor, lacking for the moment a more effective -reply. - -“It will be another golden age, won’t it, Brandy?” interposed Sam, -“like that one Virgil tells about, when the pastures were speckled all -over with sheep of different colors, each one producing wool of just -the right tint, so that there was no need of dyeing it. All the lazy -will become hustlers and all the crooks honest, and everybody will have -what he wants to eat and go to the theatre every night.” - -“Once a term was more than enough for Duncan Peck,” said the socialist, -most irrelevantly. “That was a hot old bluff he put up on Alsop, wasn’t -it?” - -“It was no bluff at all,” answered Sam, warmly. Just then the door was -pushed open and Fish lunged in, gave a general nod that was meant to -include all present, and made a dive for Brandy’s basket. The socialist -proved quite able to defend his property. He met Fish’s onset with a -hard shove that sent the intruder into the desk, then picked up his -stock in trade and made for the door. “I can’t waste any more time on -you fellows,” he said. “Fish has come to make a rough-house and there -are about twenty starved Alumni Hall boarders to be warmed and fed out -of this basket. So long!” - -Fish took a newspaper from the desk, punched a hole through it, and -proposed that Fowle wear it as a collar. - -“Get out, won’t you!” pleaded Fowle. “I don’t want any rough-house -here.” - -“We’ll put him out, if you say so,” offered Sam. - -“No, don’t!” expostulated Birdie. “That’ll make a row and Alsop will be -down on us. He’ll go.” - -Sam and Taylor drifted home to save the balance of the evening. Fish -seized the long-handled hearth brush which Birdie’s mother, in the -trustfulness of her heart, had sent to her son with admonition that -he keep his fireplace tidy. “Let me brush your hair,” urged Fish, -advancing on his unwilling host. - -“Keep away with that!” Birdie commanded, but Fish persisted. Each -clutched the handle of the brush and struggled against the other, Fish -to accomplish his purpose, Birdie to ward off the attack. In the fracas -the stick parted; Fish retained the handle end, Birdie the brush. - -“Now see what you’ve done, you hoodlum!” cried Fowle, indignantly. “Get -out of here!” - -As Fish showed no inclination to yield to this order, Birdie threw wide -his door, got inside his enemy, and with a hard buck, given suddenly -and low, tried to rush him out the door. Fish caught by the casing, -pulled himself back, and ultimately escaped, with a jeer of defiance, -to the farther side of the room. Here Fowle attacked him again, and by -superior strength dragged him to the door, where Fish by the skilful -use of hands and feet once more blocked his opponent’s game. By this -time Birdie had undeniably lost both temper and caution. He grasped the -interloper’s wrist with one hand, his neck with the other, and twisting -the wrist and pressing the neck hard between thumb and fingers, urged -him to the door. - -“Stop! stop!” cried Fish, quickly. “I’ll go.” - -“I won’t trust you,” shouted Fowle. “I won’t let up an ounce till -you’re outside that door!” - -Fish stood not on the order of his going. Outside Birdie gave him a -final push and paused, panting and dishevelled, in the doorway. Fish -had hardly stretched his cramped neck and shaken out his aching -wrist, when he suddenly lifted his head in an attitude of attention, -and darted up the next flight of stairs. While his ascending head was -still visible over the banisters above, the angry visage of Mr. Alsop -appeared from below. - -“At it again, Fowle! Disturbing the whole well for your own amusement, -regardless of the rights of others and my repeatedly expressed wishes! -There’s a limit, I wish you to understand, even to my patience.” - -“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy, “but this time it wasn’t my fault.” - -“It never is, according to your statements,” declared the instructor. - -“What would you do if a fellow came into your room, tried to brush your -hair with a hearth brush, broke your things, and refused to leave? You -wouldn’t stand round and let him rip the room to pieces, would you?” - -“Who was it?” - -“I can’t tell you, sir.” - -“If you prefer to shield him, you can’t blame me for holding you -responsible. Whoever the others may be, you are certainly one. If boys -trespass on your room, you should keep your door locked.” - -“I do, usually,” answered Birdie. “Sometimes I forget.” - -“For the rest of the term you are on probation,” continued the -instructor, severely. “At the next faculty meeting I shall report your -case and ask that a notice be sent to your parents that unless you can -come back to live an orderly, quiet life in the dormitory, we do not -wish you back at all.” - -Overcome by a deep sense of injury, Birdie next morning confided his -troubles to Sam. In consequence, feeling that the fuel for Mr. Alsop’s -ire must have been provided by the ball game in which they had had a -share, and grasping at a vague hope of bettering the condition of the -luckless boy, Sam and Taylor visited the teacher and tried to deflect -to themselves some share of Birdie’s punishment. - -“Which of you was the one that forced himself into Fowle’s room and -broke his fire brush?” - -“Neither of us,” said Sam. - -“But you both played with bat and ball in his room?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Then you may both write out for me before Saturday night ten pages -of French. I ought to put you on probation, but I will reduce the -punishment in consideration of your confession.” - -Sam and Taylor withdrew in gloom. “That’s what you get for being -honest!” groaned Taylor. “Write out ten pages! That means five hours’ -work!” - -“And we didn’t help Fowle any, either,” commented Sam, sadly. - -Sam was so depressed by the erratic course of school justice that he -went over to Dr. Leighton’s that evening and told him the whole story, -in which Fish figured only as “a fellow in the well.” Dr. Leighton -listened with sympathy and gave what comfort he could. A certain amount -of injustice, he said, is inevitable in our lives; when we can’t -prevent it, it is better to bear it bravely than to whine over it. Sam -went home resolved to take his punishment without grumbling, and to -hope for better things. - -After the boy left, Dr. Leighton drew out his catalogue of students and -ran rapidly down the list to discover who belonged in the east well of -Hale. At the name of Fish his pencil rested. “That’s the black sheep,” -he said, as he put away the pamphlet. “I’m afraid he’s not what Alsop -thinks him.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -HONK! HONK! - - -The day after Birdie Fowle reached home for the spring recess, a letter -arrived from the Seaton authorities containing a printed blank, filled -in with an alternation of D’s and E’s. There was likewise enclosed a -short note from the school secretary, giving the startling information -that the boy’s conduct in the dormitory had been so reprehensible that -he would not be permitted to return except on trial from day to day; -and that any further complaint from his dormitory master would be -followed by immediate notice to withdraw. - -The Fowle household was burdened with sorrow during the six days -which Birdie spent at home. Mr. Fowle was taciturn and grave, Mrs. -Fowle wept, and Birdie (properly named James), after a day or two of -aggrieved expostulation, settled into a mood of deeply despondent -fatalism. He knew that he was not a bad boy; he did not follow the -evil ways of some of his schoolmates; he did not drink nor play poker -nor run in debt nor cut recitations. Other fellows who did these and -worse got off clear, while for a little rough-housing, much of which -had been forced upon him by others, he was to be branded as a criminal. -Of what use was it to try to be good, if he got the punishment of the -worst? He might as well be bad and have the fun of it. - -So Birdie returned to school, his ears still tingling with the stern -warnings of his father and the tearful entreaties of his mother, his -heart saddened by a presentiment of failure. He was like an unwilling -soldier marching to expected defeat. - -Sam and Duncan came back in a very different state of mind. They had -spent the week at the Archers’ in Portland, where Duncan, who was on -his best behavior, by his deferential politeness and open-hearted -cordiality made amends to the parents for his early churlish treatment -of the son. The family were charmed with him. - -“We are so glad to have had you here,” Mrs. Archer confided to Duncan -on the day of their departure. “We always like to know Sam’s friends, -and we have been interested in you since Sam first wrote about you.” - -At this Duncan looked a trifle conscious, and shot a swift glance at -Sam, whose face was turned away. “It’s very good of you to let me -come,” he said politely, trying to escape the unpleasant reminder of -the past by dwelling on the agreeable present. - -“He used to write us, you see,” went on Mrs. Archer, smiling, “that he -liked you, but that you had other friends and did not care for him. I -knew it would be different when you got to know each other.” - -“Was the carriage ordered, mother?” broke in Sam, most abruptly. - -“Yes, for two o’clock,” Mrs. Archer rejoined, and turned again to her -guest. “I was disappointed when Sam proposed to bring down Mulcahy, -whom I did not know at all, and not you whom I had met and wanted to -see more of. Is Mulcahy one of your friends, too?” - -“Not a very intimate one,” replied Duncan. - -“He must be a very remarkable young man.” She addressed herself again -to the uneasy Sam. “But you haven’t said much about him lately, Sam. -What has become of him?” - -“Oh, he’s around,” answered the son of the house, unpleasantly -reminded of the superlatives which he had used in his early letters in -describing Mulcahy. “Didn’t you say you were going to hand over some of -that cake to take back with us, mother?” - -“Katy’s doing it up now. Shall I tell her to put in some strawberry -jam?” - -Mrs. Archer rustled out on her errand, leaving the boys alone. Sam -picked up a magazine which lay on the table, and turned the pages of -advertisements. - -“I did treat you pretty rocky that fall term,” remarked Duncan, as if -their differences during Sam’s first months in school had been the -topic of conversation. “I acted like a mick.” - -“Don’t think of it,” returned Sam, without looking up. “I was a fool.” - -And this was all the reference ever made to their early disagreement. - -Birdie Fowle’s melancholy fatalism lasted about a fortnight. By the -end of that time, having been successful in keeping his door locked and -having received two C’s on half-hour exams, he began to feel better. -His old cheerfulness returned, and with it a measure of carelessness. -Sam, who was trying to help him, had urged him to avoid John Fish and -give the dormitory scourge no excuse for enmity. It was clear, even to -our inexperienced young man, that Fish’s cunning was not keeping pace -with his effrontery. Success in deceiving his dormitory master had -stimulated the fellow’s audacity to the point of recklessness; sooner -or later he would expose himself. - -Birdie, though accepting readily this rule of conduct, was hardly -capable of carrying it out. On April first, the day of fools, he -was tempted and fell. It happened in this wise. As he started down -toward the post-office after his morning recitation, he saw John -Fish sauntering in the same direction a dozen yards ahead of him. -Obedient to the advice of his counsellor to keep out of Fish’s way, -Birdie checked his own pace and trailed along behind. In front of the -post-office stood a dozen fellows gossiping and looking out upon the -street. When Fish was two-thirds across, Birdie’s good resolution -yielded in an instant to the inspiration of the opportunity. He opened -his mouth, hardened his throat muscles, and forced out two harshly -resonant syllables. - -Birdie’s “honk! honk!” was a masterpiece of mimicry for which he was -justly famous. No one in school could perpetrate anything approaching -it in effectiveness. Barney and Litchell had developed a fair imitation -that would deceive the inexperienced; Fowle could frighten the elect. -Fish, whose mind was intent on the question of how best to spend a -certain expected check--if he repaid the money he had borrowed from -various boys, he would have nothing left--gave a great clumsy plunge -forward, like a startled dray-horse. His cap flew from his head; his -books dropped from his hand. Safe at the curbstone, he turned to throw -a malediction on the reckless motorist, and looked into Fowle’s gleeful -face. - -“April fool!” sang Birdie, cheerfully. - -The fellows on the sidewalk hooted. Fish went back to gather up his -property. “You’re a clever child,” he said, smiling contemptuously. -His look was more significant than his words. - -In five minutes Birdie was aware that he had committed a sad error. -Fish in good-nature was always a menace to peace; Fish offended would -be an unscrupulous enemy. Disheartened, Fowle took his troubles again -to Sam. - -“You were a fool to do that,” expostulated Sam. “I told you to let him -alone.” - -“I tried to,” mourned Birdie, “but it was such a slick chance!” - -“Well, as long as you can keep him out of the room, it’ll be all right. -You aren’t afraid to tackle him in the open.” - -“I guess not,” returned Fowle, emphatically. “If I could get him -outside, I wouldn’t put up with anything from him!” - -“Then if he gets in, order him out; if he won’t go, tell him you’ll -hold him responsible for everything he does in the room, and get out -yourself.” - -“A lot of good that will do! He’d plug the gas jets, pour water in the -bed, write things on my collars, and spoil things generally. And if I -stayed, he’d be likely to do something to make me mad, and I’d wade -into him. Then rough-house, noise, and home I’d go.” - -It was indeed a hard problem that poor Birdie faced: if he defended -himself against aggression, he committed _lèse-majesté_ against Mr. -Alsop by having a rough-house, and the sentence hanging over him would -be executed; if he endured in patience, his possessions would be -wrecked before his eyes; if he reported the facts, he transgressed the -one law of which all schoolboys, good and bad, despise the breaker. - -“Come down here the next time he gets in,” proposed Sam, at length, -“and let me go up and settle him. You can prove an alibi if anything -happens, and I’m not on probation.” - -A fortnight passed. Sam, busy with studies and track practice, had -ceased to think of Birdie as in immediate danger. Moorhead, Fish’s -unfortunate room-mate, had proposed to room with Sam the next year, and -Sam, feeling that it would be better for him to live with the quiet, -studious scholar than with some more lively but less helpful chum, -had consented. The interests of the present and plans for the future -absorbed his attention. He was gaining in French and in Mr. Alsop’s -esteem; he was really beginning to hope for a recommendation in the -subject for the college preliminaries. Collins kept him encouraged -in the hurdles. Unless some better man appeared, he seemed sure of a -place on the track team as Fairmount’s understudy. Altogether he felt -satisfied with himself and at peace with the world. - -But it is hard to keep at peace with the world, if the world makes -unjust war upon one’s friends. Fowle, returning to his room from Greek -one morning, neglected to secure his door. He hadn’t been in his desk -chair ten minutes when some one pushed the door open, looked in, and -cried, “Honk, honk!” It was Fish! - -“Keep out!” called Fowle. “I’m on pro.” - -“That don’t scare me,” said Fish, as he shut the door behind him and -sauntered across the room. - -On the table lay the first sheet of a theme, neatly copied. Fish dipped -a pen in the ink, and shook a blot on the outspread page. - -“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “I was going to correct it;” and he dropped -another blot beside the first. - -“Look here, Fish!” spoke Fowle, sharply, “I don’t want you here. Clear -out!” - -“You’re not very polite,” returned the visitor, unabashed, as he threw -the pen, point downward, at the table, and picking up a couple of -magazines and a book, began rearing a triangular steeple on the lamp -chimney. - -Birdie’s ire was waxing. He felt that he could not control himself much -longer. “Will you go or not?” he demanded hotly. - -“I’ll go when I get ready,” answered Fish, watching closely to see how -high Birdie’s temperature was rising, taking care meanwhile to keep the -table between them. He did not want to get Fowle into a dangerously -pugnacious state; he merely wished to incite a good lively rough-house, -in which the smashing of a few trifles would be unavoidable. - -Instead, however, of reaching over the table for his tormentor or -chasing him round it, Fowle took an unexpected course. He turned and -walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -HOW THE FISH WAS CAUGHT - - -Fish stood gazing with stupid astonishment at the closed door for some -seconds after the sound of Birdie’s footsteps had died away. He was -alone, with no check whatever upon his Hunnish craving for mauling and -smashing. Yet mauling and smashing _in se_ were not what delighted the -heart of John Fish. He liked to stroll about a room when its occupants -were at home, and goad them gradually into a destructive fray. He liked -to do accidental damage under the eyes of the sufferers. In the corner -near the door of Fowle’s bedroom had once stood a handsome and solid -chair. By sitting in this chair whenever he came in, by tipping it back -on its hind legs and wrenching it and twisting it with silent disregard -of the protests of its owner, he had at last brought it to complete -collapse--of course, unintentionally. In the embroidered scarf which -hung from the mantelpiece were two big scorch-rimmed holes; here he had -accidentally held a lighted cigarette behind him as he stood in front -of the fireplace. He had enjoyed himself in this room, but always in -the presence of spectators. The pleasure of laying waste dwindled to -nothing, if the victims were not on hand to expostulate and mourn. He -really was at a loss what to do with his liberty. - -While he was still ruminating, the door flew open and Sam Archer rushed -in. The new-comer threw his coat into a corner, turned up his cuffs, -and opened the door. Then he spoke, briefly and to the point, “Get out!” - -Fish looked across the table into Archer’s face and recognized there -an expression different from that worn by the challenger to an -amicable rough-and-tumble. He had no mind for a serious set-to with -the vanquisher of the redoubtable boxer Runyon, neither did he wish to -retire tamely before a mere threat. - -“Get out yourself!” he answered. “It isn’t your room.” - -“No, it’s Fowle’s room, and he wants you out of it. You know well -enough that rough-housing will fire him. I’m here in his place. Now, -beat it!” - -“I’ll go when I get ready,” growled Fish in return. - -They began circling the table. As Fish passed the door, he slammed -it to. When Sam reached it, he opened it again and shoved a heavy -arm-chair against it. Then he removed the lamp to the mantelpiece, and -made another half turn round the table. This movement brought Fish near -the door again. He stooped over to swing aside the arm-chair which kept -the door open, and at the same moment Sam vaulted the barrier. - -As Fish beheld his assailant’s long legs swinging over the edge of -the table in a hurdler’s leap, and the sinewy body bearing down upon -him, it flashed into his brain, and from his brain with instantaneous -impulse into nerves and muscles, that by dodging the frontal attack and -delivering an immediate rear charge, he could put Archer himself out of -the room and close the door upon him. His dodge, however, was not quite -quick enough. The hurdler came down with long arms flying, and one -of these flying arms, or the clenched fist attached to it, as it swung -up, caught the ducking Fish under the eye. It was an unintentional -blow, but it had force, and Fish went back against the door-post, for -a moment dazed. When he got to his feet again, he found himself in the -entry. The door was locked behind him; over the banisters he beheld the -head of the descending Archer. - -[Illustration: AT THE SAME MOMENT SAM VAULTED THE BARRIER.--_Page 228._] - -On the second floor at the foot of the stairs Mr. Alsop was standing, -peering suspiciously upwards. “Another disturbance in Fowle’s room, I -judge,” he said, frowning. - -“I’ll explain, sir, if you’ll let me,” said Sam, breathing hard. “Won’t -you come in here?” - -He threw open his door and let the teacher pass in ahead of him. - -“Now, what is it?” said Mr. Alsop, when they were inside. - -“It’s this,” responded Sam. “Fowle has been trying his best to keep his -probation and live up to the faculty’s orders. This morning a fellow -came into his room to stir up a rough-house, and Fowle, knowing that -he couldn’t keep out of it if he stayed at home, cut out and left the -fellow there. He’s over in the library now.” - -“Who is, Fowle or the fellow who came to rough-house?” asked Mr. Alsop, -sarcastically. - -“Fowle! He stopped on his way down and told me about it; I went up -and--” - -“And what?” - -“Threw the fellow out,” continued Sam. “I had to, or he’d have smashed -everything in the room.” - -Mr. Alsop smiled with an air of incredulity. Sam drew himself up to his -full six feet. The look of wounded self-respect that he flashed into -the teacher’s face was unmistakably real. - -“I suppose you don’t believe me,” he said proudly. “If you will go to -the library, you’ll find Fowle there. He’ll let you into the room, and -you’ll see my coat just as I dropped it.” - -“I have not said that I don’t believe you. I do believe you,” -interposed Mr. Alsop, hastily. “You probably would not care to tell me -who this intruder was?” - -“No, sir, I couldn’t,” returned Sam. “I don’t believe he’ll come -again,” he added, looking ruefully at his knuckles, still numb from -the blow which had felled the audacious Fish. “I didn’t mean to -say anything against anybody. I just wanted to have you know that -Birdie--that Fowle--wasn’t in it at all.” - -Mr. Alsop felt no disposition to discuss Fowle. Having frequently -proclaimed the young man to be the pernicious influence in his domain, -he did not like to acknowledge that he had erred. He therefore -contented himself with repeating certain hackneyed sentiments as to the -responsibility for order in the well and the offended spirit of the -school,--and withdrew. - -As far as his dormitory master was concerned, Fish certainly possessed -a charmed life. When he appeared the next day with the darkly obvious -marks of a bruise about his right eye, he had no difficulty in drawing -upon Mr. Alsop’s sympathies by his explanation of the flying ring which -had struck him in the face in the gymnasium. It did not occur to the -instructor to put together the fact of the black eye and Sam’s account -of the forcible expulsion of a trespasser. - -This example of the unique way in which order was maintained in -his well, Mr. Alsop repeated with satisfaction to several of his -colleagues, among others to Dr. Leighton. - -“And you have no suspicion as to who this rough-houser was?” asked Dr. -Leighton. - -“None whatever.” - -“Have you noticed Fish’s black eye?” - -“Yes; he got that in the gymnasium from a flying ring. Bad bruise, -wasn’t it?” - -“There seems to be a different version about that eye going round the -school. They charge it up to some fracas with another boy.” - -“They would anyway,” replied Mr. Alsop, sagely. “Boys always joke over -a black eye. Fish told me all about it himself.” - -The comment on Dr. Leighton’s lips remained unspoken. He had his own -opinion as to Fish, formed from investigations which were not yet -complete. He did not wish to hazard his plan by setting Alsop to -pounding along the trail. If his suspicions were well founded, Fish -would sooner or later betray himself. - -Fish had grown incautious. Of late he had taken to keeping liquors in -his room. He had found an excellent hiding-place, the pedal compartment -at the bottom of Moorhead’s piano. It was closed by a lid which swung -down on hinges set at the lower edge. Moorhead came in one day just in -season to find Fish closing the door of this borrowed cupboard. - -“What are you doing to my piano?” he demanded sharply. - -“Nothing, just seeing how it works.” - -Moorhead went straight to the piano, and opening the compartment, -discovered Fish’s two bottles and a glass. - -“Do you call that nothing?” he asked, reddening with anger. - -“Yee-up, I do,” answered Fish, complacently. “The faculty might not.” - -“I don’t want them there, do you hear?” announced Moorhead. “I don’t -want to be mixed up with the things at all.” - -“They won’t do any hurt. Nobody ever opens the place.” - -“I don’t care!” retorted Moorhead. “I won’t have them there.” - -“Oh yes, you will,” Fish answered complacently, and went about his own -affairs as if the matter were settled. - -A few hours later Fish discovered his precious bottles on the floor in -the back of his closet. He restored them to their appointed place in -the piano, and lay in wait for Moorhead. - -“You dirty little scut!” he shouted, as the rebel appeared. “Didn’t I -tell you to leave those bottles alone?” - -“I said I wouldn’t have them in my piano,” faltered Moorhead. - -“And I said you were to leave ’em alone. You might as well have handed -’em over to Lady Jane while you were about it. If you touch ’em again, -you’ll find your pretty music box there scratched from top to bottom.” - -And Moorhead, who knew what Fish was capable of, gave heed to the -threat and held his tongue. - -It was not long after this that slow-moving justice at last overtook -Mr. John Fish. One morning when Moorhead was just starting for -breakfast, he noticed that the lid of the piano compartment was down. -Feeling under no obligation either to replace the lid, or to remove -the chair which screened it from the casual observer, he took his book -from the top of the piano and went his way. At the clang of the first -chapel bell, Fish crawled forth from bed and for the next seven minutes -devoted his energies exclusively to the task of throwing on his clothes -and getting into chapel before the second bell ceased to ring. He had -no leisure to waste in idle contemplation of his study. - -The chambermaid, making her rounds, observed the bottles and called the -matron. The matron came, closed the lid, and reported to Mr. Alsop. Mr. -Alsop, scandalized and incredulous, made an examination of the premises -and demanded an explanation separately from each occupant of the room. -Each disclaimed ownership of the bottles. Fish declared, in addition, -that he did not even know that there was any such cupboard in the -piano; Moorhead acknowledged that he knew that the bottles were there, -but would give no information as to their owner. As the piano belonged -to Moorhead, Mr. Alsop was inclined to hold him either the criminal or -an accomplice. - -But this time the truth proved stronger than the lie. When the matter -came before the faculty, every individual teacher to whom Moorhead -recited conducted himself like an attorney engaged to defend him. After -Dr. Leighton brought forward the report of his investigation into -Fish’s manner of life, the august body voted that Fish be dismissed; -and the yea vote was so overwhelming that Mr. Alsop did not venture to -raise a dissenting voice. The evidence that came to light a few days -after the disgraced student left town, evidence which showed that Mr. -Alsop had been shamelessly imposed on since the beginning of the year, -was a severe blow to that gentleman’s self-esteem. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -LESSONS IN HURDLING - - -With the departure of Fish, the east well of Hale ceased to be a scene -of mysteriously fomented disturbance. Mr. Alsop, having been wofully -betrayed through blind following of his own prejudices, resolved to -be more cautious in forming opinions in the future, and less hasty in -the performance of duty. He had yet to learn that a teacher may make a -reputation in a week which he cannot live down in the whole subsequent -school life of his pupils. - -For Sam now began the busiest, most exciting period of the year. The -college examinations were near enough to render devotion to lessons a -matter of personal advantage; the outdoor school meet and the track -contest with Hillbury challenged his zeal and ambition. Besides -these serious interests, May and June offered their usual lavish -opportunities for innocent but distracting amusement, ranging from -tennis and scrub ball games and long walks, to the convention of wags, -wits, and philosophers, which gathered every pleasant evening after -dinner on the high steps of Carter, and intermittently sang songs and -discussed men and things--mostly men--to the vast entertainment of the -listeners. Here Brantwein, released for the time from the burden of the -peanut basket, was a protagonist, with socialism as a general theme -and every exposed head as a target for his verbal shillaleh. The crowd -yelled applause for every crack he gave, and lavished double measure on -every telling return. - -Good practice in the high hurdles amounts to something more than daily -exercise in starting, running, and jumping. The course is one hundred -and twenty yards over ten hurdles, with fifteen yards clear before the -first, and fifteen more after the last. Between each pair of hurdles -lies a distance of ten yards; each barrier is three feet and six inches -high. The runner must clear the barrier in such a way as to interrupt -his advance as little as possible, by rising neither too high nor too -low, by taking his jump neither too long nor too short, by landing -in the right position, by adjusting his inter-hurdle strides to the -distance and to his own powers. It has been known since the race was -first practised that the average man must take three strides between -hurdles; but the length of the jump, and the proper arrangement of -short and long strides, are even now matters of dispute. - -Collins’s theory, which of course Sam followed, was that the jump -should be short rather than long. He insisted that to prolong the -distance covered while in the air on the force of previous effort -is to cut short the opportunity to use the legs; to overjump is to -introduce into the race a series of dead periods when the runner is -passively waiting for his feet to touch the ground before he can become -active again. So the trainer labored with Sam to bring him over the -hurdle to the ground at the earliest possible moment; to teach him -the quick rotary whirl of the legs that neither drags nor interferes -with the step, the forward leg doubled and slightly swung, the other -brought quickly around after it in a wide arc; to force him to take -the landing step short--in order to bring his feet under him--and to -stretch the other two strides. Sam’s handicap was his slowness and a -tendency to make his strides too long. His advantage lay in staying -power; he could do twelve hurdles as well as ten. So the clever trainer -worked him day after day on starts and over two or three hurdles, and -once a week sent him over eleven. - -“You don’t put me over the course enough, it seems to me,” complained -Sam, one day. “I’m tired of that everlasting thirty-five yards.” - -“If you can do two hurdles right, you can do ten,” answered Collins, -calmly. “If you can’t do the first two, you can’t do any.” - -“I should say that it’s speed between that I lack,” pursued Sam. “I get -over the hurdles pretty well, but I lose momentum somewhere between -jumps.” - -“You take your first step too long, as I keep telling you. Four to five -feet is all you ought to cover in that first stride after the hurdle. -If you come down right and take the first step right, you can put speed -into the other two and get just the right take-off to drop you over -the next hurdle. Speed will come in time.” - -“I wish it would!” lamented Sam. - -“It isn’t all in fast running,” said Collins, “nor half. Taking the -hurdles is the main thing. There’s really only two running steps -between, if you throw out the short step. And what a fast runner makes -in those two steps, he’ll more than lose on the hurdles, if he doesn’t -do ’em right. Three feet lost on a hurdle is thirty feet on the race, -a good second and a fifth. No one wins a race by that much. The work -that’s cut out for you is to get your jump so near perfect that you -don’t lose anything in going over. Then just steady, hard running will -put you ahead of the fellow who hasn’t your staying power.” - -“We all seem to have about the same amount of that.” - -Collins hesitated. His first impulse was to deny Sam’s statement; -his second to let it go unchallenged. After all, there was nothing -so important for Sam’s progress as that he should continue to think -that everything depended on hard, steady work. Sam was one who could -stand work. While he was occasionally discouraged, he never became -despondent; he did not grow irritable under defeat nor refractory at -criticism. He disclaimed high expectations, smiled at discomfiture, and -plodded on. - -The school meet came and went, bringing little glory to the name -of Archer. That Fairmount would beat him in the hurdles, Sam fully -expected. The start was fairly even, but Fairmount was in the air -above the first hurdle when Sam was leaving the ground on his first -spring; at the fifth Fairmount was yards ahead. Yet at the tenth, -strange to say, Sam had almost caught him. Archer finished less than -two yards behind the leader, and fully six ahead of Sanderson, his -nearest pursuer. Fairmount’s time was sixteen and four-fifths. So Sam, -according to Collins’s estimate, had come close to seventeen seconds, -a gain of at least a second by a year’s work. From this result, with -which the trainer was fully satisfied, Sam was at least inclined to -draw more consolation than discouragement. He had still another school -year before him. - -It was his defeat in the pole vault which caused him the most chagrin. -Jones, of course, rose like a bird soaring against the wind; his -light, lithe body arched the rod gracefully at ten feet, six. Sam -surmounted nine feet, six--but Mulcahy reached nine feet, ten. It was -not jealousy that beset the defeated vaulter, nor wounded pride, nor -the mean ill-will that grudges success to a rival. Sam’s heart had -harbored only feelings of congratulation towards Fairmount, who had -beaten him in the hurdles; his enthusiasm over Jones’s achievements -was genuine and whole-souled. These two were sportsmen through and -through, to whom the joy of the contest, the delight of winning, the -promise of gaining points for the school in the meet with Hillbury, -constituted the whole stimulus and reward. Mulcahy cared for none of -these things. At heart it mattered not two straws to him whether the -blue or the red triumphed, as long as his own advance was assured. -To Mulcahy, athletics were but a ladder by which he could mount, the -means necessary to a desired end. He wanted prominence in school, -distinction, prizes. He wanted the Yale Cup as the crowning honor -of his school career. To win this, he professed an enthusiasm for -athletics, as the unscrupulous politician professes the principles that -win votes. - -Ten days later Sam took part in his first contest with Hillbury. In -the interval he did some work in preparation for the event which is -not set down in the coaching directions. When Collins received from -the secretary of the Academy the list of those whose work was “up” -and who were therefore allowed to compete, the names of Fairmount -and Chouder were missing. There was a hurried consultation with the -faculty, resulting in the announcement that if the backward work were -made up to the satisfaction of teachers by the day before the games, -the prohibition on the two men would be removed. Bruce called upon -Mulcahy, who was known to have had experience in tutoring. Mulcahy -could not possibly find time for extra work. Then Sam undertook the -case of Fairmount, and Moorhead volunteered to coach Chouder. Both -tutors labored early and late to bring their charges into a condition -acceptable to the authorities. Moorhead had the more difficult task, -for Chouder was behind in two subjects, and learning came harder to -his slow, unreceptive mind than chopping wood or running races to -his sinewy body. It was Moorhead’s first opportunity to do something -tangible for the school athletics, and he gave the best that was in -him, freely and patiently, hour after hour, oblivious to the fact that -there could be no public recognition of his service, no personal glory -in victory. Fairmount triumphed over his geometry with a C, while -Chouder, to his infinite satisfaction and the relief of his anxious -tutor, scraped through his examinations on a brace of D’s. - -So it happened that Moorhead, as he perched high on the cheering -section at the Hillbury games, felt that he had more part in the -contests than those who sat about him, mere longing hearts and -vociferous units in the chorus. When Chouder took the two-twenty yards -from Merton of Hillbury, running from the start like a predestined -victor, Moorhead thrilled with the consciousness that it was in part -his race and his victory. In the low hurdles his candidate was not so -successful, as the redoubtable Kilham of Hillbury led at the finish, -though Chouder pressed him hard. Fay and Shirley had to content -themselves with second and third places in the hundred yards, but -Bruce won the quarter in a grand burst of speed that cut the time down -close to fifty seconds, and Weatherford made sure of the half-mile. -Jones sailed deftly over the vaulting bar at ten feet, seven, with -Mulcahy a safe third at nine feet, eight. And old Brandy Brantwein, -feeling unusually free from the trammels of society by reason of the -absence of the peanut basket, showed what socialism will do for a man -by throwing the hammer four feet beyond the best cast of the Hillbury -individualist, and putting himself into second place in the shot -contest. - -The general issue was already decided when the high hurdles were -called. Seaton had won. Under the inspiration of victory, Sam felt that -he, too, might achieve something worth while. His start was good, but -at the second hurdle the two outside men, Kilham and Fairmount, were -already ahead of him. At the fourth they were still farther ahead, but -he pressed steadily on, clearing his hurdles by two inches, dropping -short and driving himself forward with the routine pace. At the -seventh hurdle only Kilham kept his distance; Fairmount was nearer. The -tenth he passed at Fairmount’s side, with Kilham but a stride beyond. -In the finish, Fairmount sprinted better and gained a yard, but was -still behind the leader by the thickness of his body. - -“If you hadn’t coached up Fairmount so that he could pass his -condition, you’d have been second in that race instead of third,” -remarked Duncan, as they discussed the events of the day, after the -celebration. - -“And we should have lost one point,” answered Sam. - -“One point wouldn’t have made any difference in the result. You -deserved second, anyhow, by the way you’ve worked. Fairmount will be -gone next year, and then you’ll have things your own way.” - -“There’s Kilham,” said Sam, wistfully. “He’s only an upper middler. -He’ll be in Hillbury next year and beat me out again; then he’ll go to -Yale and I to Harvard, and he’ll beat me four years more. That’s what -I’m up against!” - -“Oh, cheer up!” returned Duncan. “You’ve improved a lot this year. You -may beat him all to pieces next year. They said that your race to-day -was in mighty good time, and you weren’t much behind Kilham.” - -Sam shook his head with a smile of resignation. “I haven’t won a thing -this year, and I probably shan’t do any better next, but I’m going to -keep right on. I’m too much used to losing to mind, and there’s always -a chance that by a fluke I may win something.” - -“It’s a shame!” thought Duncan to himself. “I’d never coach a fellow up -just so that he could take a prize from me, if the school never won an -extra point.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -ROBERT OWEN, FRESHMAN - - -On the Monday following the Hillbury games, Duncan rushed in with a -letter in his hand, and an eager look on his face. - -“Look here, Sam! Bob Owen’s sent me two tickets to the Harvard-Yale -Freshman ball game on Wednesday. Do you suppose they’d let us off to -go?” - -“Who’s us?” - -“You and me.” - -Sam’s eyes sparkled. “Wouldn’t it be great! Good seats?” - -“Right behind the back-stop. Just think of seeing Owen bucking against -McPherson and Hayes! O’Brien, who used to pitch for Hillbury, is going -to be in the box for the Harvard Freshies, and several old Hillbury men -are playing with Yale. It’s a queer jumble; Seaton catcher and Hillbury -pitcher against a mixed mess,--half of them old Seaton and Hillbury -fellows.” - -“I shouldn’t think you’d care much who wins,” observed Sam. “You’ve got -friends on both sides.” - -“I do care,” answered Duncan. “I’m with the Harvard lot every time, and -you are, too, only I’ve got more reason for my stand than you have. -It’s Don’s class and Bob Owen’s class, and old Bob’s captain.” - -“Well, I hope his nine will win. The Yale fellows beat ’em in football, -didn’t they?” - -“Yes, and Bob was on the eleven. He’s aching to get back at them. It’ll -be a hot old game, all right. The only question is whether we can break -away to see it. Who’s the most likely prof for you to tackle? You’ll -have to get the permissions. I haven’t a pull with a single man in the -faculty, worse luck!” - -It was decided that Sam should try to win Dr. Leighton to the cause, -and through the strong influence of the teacher float Duncan’s -uncertain craft across the bar. Duncan suggested various subtle methods -of appealing to Dr. Leighton’s favor, but Sam preferred a simple, -straightforward course,--which was unquestionably the best one. He -called on his patron saint of the faculty that afternoon, explained -to him with eager enthusiasm the special opportunity which had been -offered, urged that neither had had out-of-town leave for a long time, -and promised, if they were allowed to go, not only exemplary conduct -while absent, but compensation in diligent work on their return. Dr. -Leighton smiled a little mournfully at this conception of diligence in -school work as a favor granted to a teacher, and promised to think the -matter over and do what he conscientiously could. Sam departed, greatly -encouraged. - -Two circumstances counted in favor of the boys’ request: the fact that -the invitation came from Robert Owen, for whom Dr. Leighton cherished a -sincere regard, and his full confidence in Sam. He believed, moreover, -that an honest petition for a legitimate purpose from an honest boy -should receive at least as much consideration as some fictitious -excuse of necessity trumped up to satisfy a formal rule. More than -once, as he was sadly aware, had A’s candid request been refused by -the authorities, when B, who followed with a lie on his lips, obtained -a permission which was used for precisely the same purpose. Dr. -Leighton’s commendation carried weight at the office. - -They boarded the eleven o’clock train, jubilant in spirit as any -schoolboy released for a lark, but self-contained as conscious -Seatonians, who pride themselves on being above the “kiddishness” of -minor schools. In Boston they snatched a hasty lunch and took a car -for Cambridge. The car filled quickly. The Harvard track meet was to -be held in the Stadium at the same time with the Freshman game on the -ball field, and many outsiders were tending Cambridgeward. On Boylston -Street a large, serious-faced young man climbed upon the running board -of the car, and looking calmly over the crowded seats to spy out an -unoccupied place, winked solemnly at a familiar face. - -“Look, there’s old Brandy!” exclaimed Sam, nudging Duncan sharply in -the ribs. “How did he get here?” - -“How does he get anywhere?” retorted Duncan. “On his cheek, of course.” - -Brantwein swung himself along to the seat occupied by Sam and Duncan. -He was dressed in his best, and carried himself with a noticeable air -of importance. - -“Going out to the game?” he asked coolly. - -“Yes, are you?” - -“I’m going to something, I don’t know what. Either the track or to see -the freshmen play.” - -“How did you get off?” questioned Sam. - -“I had business in Boston.” - -“Buying peanuts?” - -Brandy smiled. It was his regular armor-plated smile against which all -personal jokes fell dead and harmless. “No, buying a peanut farm and a -burying-ground for fools. I’ve got to lay out about a dozen up there at -Seaton before I leave. You fellows are feeling lively to-day.” - -“Yes, we’re going to see Owen beat Coy again.” - -“Do you expect to see that?” - -“We hope so.” - -“I don’t know but I’ll go there, too,” said Brantwein, meditatively. - -“You may not be able to get a seat now.” - -“I don’t care about seats.” - -The three approached the entrance to the grounds together, but there -in the crowd Brantwein disappeared. Our friends gave little heed to -the movements of their eccentric schoolmate, being taken up with the -pleasant excitement of the quest of places. Duncan hailed several -fellows whom he knew, and pointed out several others whom he knew -about. While they were waiting for the nines to appear, with Duncan -still busy over his search for familiar faces, Sam’s eyes fell upon a -well-known figure seated on one of the benches reserved within the side -lines for coaches and old players. - -“Look there, Duncan,” he cried, “on the first bench on the side line! -Isn’t that Brandy?” - -“As sure as guns!” returned Duncan. “How did he get there?” - -“Search me!” returned Sam. “He has the most colossal nerve! He told -me once that with a two-foot rule in his hand he could get into any -building going up,--construction work, he called it,--even if a man -stood at the door to keep people out. Perhaps Owen let him in.” - -“Owen nothing!” retorted Duncan. “He’s worked one of his bluffs on the -ticket-taker. One of these days his nerve’ll carry him inside a jail.” -Duncan did not fancy Brantwein, even as an amusement. - -But the players were appearing, and Brantwein and his arts were -forgotten. - -“That’s Owen, the solid fellow with the white sweater, and the mask on -his arm,” cried Duncan; “and the tall fellow behind him is O’Brien, the -Hillbury man. The one just going out to left field is Latter. He played -on our nine last year.” - -He paused to watch the men taking their positions for practice. - -“There come the Yale fellows!” exclaimed Sam, whose gaze was wandering -over the field. “Now, which is McPherson?” - -Duncan hesitated for some time; the unfamiliar uniforms confused him. -“I think that’s McPherson over by third base,” he said. The man at -third took a short bound and shot it underhand to a companion. “Yes, -that’s Mac. I should know that twist of the shoulder in California. -Isn’t it a shame!” - -“What?” - -“Why, that he should be playing under Coy against Bob Owen. In the -Hillbury game last year Coy came near assaulting Mac for tagging him -too hard at second. Now they’re pals.” - -“I don’t see anything strange in that,” rejoined Sam. “He’s playing for -his college as Owen’s playing for ours.” - -So they chattered on, till the Harvard men took the field for the game -and a businesslike pair of blue-stockinged legs appeared beneath a -bat at the plate. Then they watched with straining eyes, their talk -running to brief exclamations, sighs for the discouraging gains of the -visitors, vain cries of exultation when the Harvard men made promising -plays. - -Three innings passed without a run on either side. Then Coy, the first -man up in the fourth, hit a bounder which the Harvard third baseman -found too hot to handle, and Coy beat the ball to first base. The next -man waited while O’Brien tried to tempt the runner to steal, and thus -got his base on balls. His successor hit to third again, and while -Manning hesitated and tried to touch Coy, likewise made first. Number -four went out on a long fly to right field, but the speedy Coy got -safely across the plate on the return throw, with score number one. -McPherson now made a lucky single over shortstop’s head, which brought -in a second run. Then O’Brien caught the Yale man playing off too far -from second, and the next batsman struck out. - -[Illustration: “THAT’S OWEN.”--_Page 255._] - -“Bad!” said Duncan, sadly. His unhappiness was not relieved when the -three Harvard men went out on a fly and two easy infield hits. - -“They’re finding the ball, anyway,” remarked Sam, trying to be -courageous; “the game’s young yet.” - -“It’s nearly half grown,” rejoined Duncan, gloomily; “and you can see -what kind of a beast it’s going to be. Two runs is an awful handicap.” - -He was depressed still further in the fifth inning, when the first ball -pitched yielded a hit that put a Yale man again on first. The Yale -coachers took a risk and bade their man steal second. It was a poor -risk, for Owen shot one of his perfect throws down ahead of the runner, -and Williams, the Harvard shortstop, thumped him with the ball as he -slid gallantly into his fate. - -“What a daisy throw!” cried Sam, ecstatically. - -“He can do those by the dozen,” remarked Duncan, airily. “He has a -special wire to second base.” - -Manning now captured a foul off third, and Latter took a long fly in -left field. A Harvard man got as far as second base and was left there. -The sixth inning profited neither side. - -The seventh began with another shock to our friends’ nerves. Bryant -made a two-bagger. His two successors, however, went out on hits to -O’Brien, and presently Bryant himself, working too far from his base, -was cut off by a sudden throw to second, and run down ignominiously -between second and third. - -“Now, Mr. Owen, do something!” muttered Duncan, as the Harvard -catcher came to the plate. Owen responded to the unheard appeal by -a hot bounder over second which the Yale centre fielder allowed to -bounce past him, thus helping the runner to second. Williams drove -a troublesome ball into McPherson’s hands, and while the old Seaton -second baseman was struggling to get hold of it, Owen reached third and -Williams crossed first. The Harvard freshies now tried a squeeze play, -and Manning not only met the ball, but made a pretty little hit over -Bryant’s head, that would have brought Owen in, if he had not already -crossed the plate. A sacrifice now advanced Williams and Manning to -third and second. Then Gooding, the Yale pitcher, got three balls on -his first three pitches to Silverton, and the Harvard man, waiting for -his good one, drove a long single out between right and centre fields -that let in Williams and Manning with scores two and three. Two easy -outs followed. - -“Three to two!” cried Sam, joyfully. “Two more innings!” - -“It’s too close for comfort yet,” said Duncan, nervously. “I’d give a -month’s allowance to see the game end now. That’s Coy up, isn’t it?” - -But Coy swung three times in vain at his old pitcher’s curves. One of -his successors reached first, but two others went out and left him -there. The Harvard men fared no better. - -“Three more outs. It ought to be dead easy,” muttered Sam, as the ninth -began. The first Yale man at the bat drove a ball into left field that -looked good for two bases. But Latter got in front of it and sent it in -to second in season to scare the runner back to first. A big bony chap -followed at the plate. - -“That’s Kleindienst. He used to play with Hillbury. He can hit. They’re -going to do us right here. I feel it in my bones.” Duncan jerked out -his words in curt explosives. “There! he’s done it!” he groaned, as the -batsman drove the ball in a long sweep over third base. - -“No, it struck outside the foul line!” cried Sam, eagerly, as the -applause on the Yale side died suddenly away. “See! he’s gone back to -the plate!” - -“And got a strike for it, too,” said the reviving Duncan. “That’s where -the foul strike rule hits ’em.” - -While he spoke O’Brien sent in another pitch. Kleindienst hit another -foul. This time the ball careened over towards the stands opposite -first base. Owen tipped off his mask and ran headlong in pursuit. He -took the descending ball with hands outstretched; and while the howl -of applause was yet at its beginning, he turned sharply and threw to -first base. The Yale man scrambled wildly back, but the ball was there -before him. Williams fielded the next man out at first. - -“Come on! Let’s find him!” sang out Duncan, and dashed down the aisle -before the rising crowd got under way. Sam followed. They rushed out -into the field and made for the close circle gathering rapidly round -the catcher. - -“I’ll wait for you,” said Sam. “He won’t care anything about me.” - -“Won’t he!” cried Duncan. “Come and see!” And dragging Sam along behind -him, he screwed his way into the cluster at the centre of which Owen -was fighting off the vehement attentions of admirers. At the sight of -Duncan he broke through the circle and pulled the boy in. - -“Duncan Peck! I was wondering whether you were here. Didn’t we have -luck! Glad to see you, Archer. How are things at Seaton?” - -But before the question could be answered, the questioner was rushed in -another direction, and Sam and Duncan found themselves whirled to the -outside of the circle. - -Sam looked at his watch. “There’s just forty-five minutes before the -train leaves. We’ve got to hustle to catch it! We promised to take it, -you know.” - -“I suppose we did,” sighed Duncan. “I hate to leave now. I haven’t seen -Don at all. Go ahead!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -JUNE TO DECEMBER - - -It was well for our young men that they could share Owen’s victory, -for Patterson, their school captain, gave them none of their own to -enjoy. A pitcher cannot win a game alone; and Patterson’s cleverness -availed only to keep the Hillbury score down; his followers balked his -efforts with errors, and only O’Toole hit the Hillbury pitcher with any -readiness. - -After the Hillbury game, Sam focused his interest on the college -examinations. Mr. Alsop had at the last moment, with much misgiving, -granted him a provisional recommendation in French; and Sam, eager no -less to vindicate himself than to get rid of the troublesome subject, -hammered away at it during the last few weeks with a determination -worthy of a great cause. He was sure of his history and mathematics, -and reasonably confident in Greek and Latin; but English, the -crank-ridden, and French, the elusively easy, mocked him with promise -of failure. - -Duncan likewise yielded himself to the spirit of industry which was -turning 7 Hale into the workshop of scholastic cyclops. The latch was -kept down perpetually during these days of preparation. Only Duncan’s -tutor, the useful Moorhead, and occasionally the irresistible Bruce -found entrance. Duncan was at last serious; actually confronted by the -alternative of passing certain examinations and going to Harvard, or -failing and going to work, he understood that the time for trifling was -past. It is safe to say that Sam Archer’s example and encouragement, -and Moorhead’s patient readiness to explain and help, were of more use -to Duncan in his weary battle than class instruction or tutor’s drill. - -Duncan did pass his examinations,--he fell sprawling, but across the -line,--and Archer got every point he had worked for. He missed an honor -which he had hoped to get, but he triumphed in Mr. Alsop’s subject with -a C, which, boy-like, he regarded as a decision awarded him against the -teacher’s doubts, not as a proof of good instruction. There followed -for Sam an untroubled summer of loafing and tennis, rowing and sailing; -of reckless squandering of time on pure play; of reading books that -were not required and dreaming dreams of triumphs that would never come -to pass. He took back with him to school greater physical vigor and -clearer comprehension of his own personal problem. - -Sam settled with Moorhead very comfortably in his old room, and entered -upon the tasks of his senior year with the quiet purpose of making it -count. To accomplish this, he understood vaguely but sufficiently that -he must keep himself, physically and morally, under good control, must -work steadily rather than frantically, and pursue a sane ambition. This -sane ambition, so far as athletics were concerned, lay along the hurdle -path. Unless some phenomenon unexpectedly appeared, he could reasonably -count on becoming the school champion in the high hurdles. To be school -champion, however, was but a half-success. The Seatonian grudges honor -to a man who leads merely because there happens to be no one better. -The Seaton champion must prevail over the champions of other schools, -if he is to have the credit of achievement. - -Sam knew this quite as well as any one else; he appreciated its -personal bearing as no one else could. In the background of every -picture called up by a hopeful imagination, hovered the figure of -Kilham of Hillbury. Wherever Sam foresaw a chance of distinction, there -was Kilham to contest it with him. At the winter competition in Boston, -at the interscholastic games, in the Hillbury-Seaton dual meet, he must -struggle against this quick-starting, strong-running rival, who was at -least half a second better on the high-hurdle course. Should he ever -be able to beat that fellow? Sam considered his own vain endeavors to -put speed into his long legs, and confessed frankly that the odds were -heavy against him. But none the less, being of the smilingly persistent -kind, he went on with his practice undaunted, as if he had battles to -win instead of to lose. He also gave close attention to his school -work. Birdie Fowle informed him one day that he was no good any more; -Moorhead had made a grind out of him. Sam’s laughing comment was that -he wanted to get into college decently if possible, with a point or -two to the good. This was true, but it was not the fundamental reason -for his devotion to his studies. - -During the summer Archer had run across a Hillburyite named Denton, -at the seashore. When he inquired of this Hillburyite what kind of -a fellow Kilham was, Denton declared him the very finest sort of a -fellow. Later Sam chanced to ask how Kilham did in his studies, and -Denton returned a report distinctly favorable; he was not the very -best, of course, but much better than the average. Sam considered these -facts a full week. At the end of that time he had made up his mind -that if he had to run second to Kilham in the hurdles, he wouldn’t -fall behind in the classroom, too. This secretly nourished ambition -to maintain a rank that he need not be ashamed to have compared with -that of his Hillbury rival, increased rather than diminished as the -year slipped away. Certain teachers who grew from month to month more -complacent over their stimulating influence on Archer, would have been -much surprised to learn that the steady up trend of his rank line was -due to an unacknowledged, unreal competition with a student in another -school. - -Sam’s fall hurdle practice was interrupted by the summons to class -football. Before the season was far advanced, the captain of the -senior team was promoted to the first eleven squad, and Sam was chosen -captain in his place. With the care of his eleven and the class games -and the duty of punting to practise the school backs, Sam found small -opportunity to play with his pair of hurdles. - -The season was a fortunate one for the school eleven, and still more -fortunate for Mulcahy, who stepped in mid-season into the shoes of -a big tackle who had ignominiously succumbed to the measles; and he -kept his place through half the Hillbury game. He was thus a member -of a victorious school eleven, in a position to reap the glory of the -successful efforts of others. As a matter of fact, the game was won by -Kendrick, or by Kendrick and Illerton, the new end, together, after the -line had been ignobly crowded to and fro, up and down the field, for -three quarters of the playing time. But a victory is a victory, and -Mulcahy retained his good share of the prestige which the members of a -winning team enjoy. - -He made immediate use of this prestige to attain a long-cherished -ambition. In the fall of the previous year, and again in the spring, -he had been balked in his efforts to become president of the Laurel -Leaf, largely through the influence of Duncan Peck and his following. -Duncan Peck was now gone and many new fellows had come. This time -Mulcahy adopted less open methods of soliciting. Swan was his manager, -a natural politician who loved the excitement of a campaign. Swan cared -nothing about Mulcahy, but was down on Archer, who had scorned an -invitation to join the Mu Nu, Swan’s fraternity, which ranked as the -“yaller dog” of school societies. Sam and Moorhead tried to persuade -Kendrick to run for the Leaf, and failed. Then they fell back on -Blankenberg, a substitute on the eleven, who possessed solid qualities -and would have filled the office with dignity. Then it was that Swan -whisked into the field to the support of the candidate whom Archer -opposed. - -The contest was uneven. On the one side Mulcahy, football player, -editor of the “Seatonian,” ready-tongued, of imposing personality, -offering a fine show, both of talent and of school spirit; on the other -Blankenberg, plain, honest, conscientious, modest. Mulcahy triumphed -with votes to throw away. He came over to Blankenberg after the affair -was over with a very pretty display of personal sympathy. - -“I’m sorry you didn’t get it, really I am,” he said. “I shouldn’t take -it if so many hadn’t voted for me.” - -“I’m glad you won, if the majority want you,” returned Blankenberg, -honestly. - -“I think your manager lost you votes,” Mulcahy went on, pretending to -joke, but avoiding Sam’s eye. “I wouldn’t trust him again.” - -Blankenberg and Sam walked out together. “Isn’t he the limit,” exploded -Sam, when they were alone, “for pulling the wool over people’s eyes! -He’s got everybody on the string from the faculty to Dunbar Hall, and -he hasn’t a principle to his name. The school’s training that fellow -for a political boss.” - -“He didn’t need to be unprincipled to win to-night,” remarked -Blankenberg. “It was too easy. I rather think he’ll find some way of -getting ’most anything he wants.” - -Sam struggled with an impulse to quote Mulcahy’s statement that his -supreme ambition was to win the Yale Cup; but the feeling that Mulcahy -had spoken in confidence prevented his mention of it. It seemed quite -reasonable now that this ambition should be attained. - -“There’s one thing he can’t get,” he said with pardonable bitterness, -“class day offices. The class knows him too well.” - -But therein Sam was mistaken. The Omega Omicron clashed with the Alpha -Beta Gamma over the election of President of the Day, neither being -willing to give in to the other. As a result, the unfraternified, -moulded into a temporarily coherent force through the influence of the -vengeful Swan and the despised Mu Nu, united on Mulcahy and swept him -into office. - -“There seems to be nothing that that fellow can’t rake in if he tries,” -Sam grumbled to himself, as he swung moodily homeward from the class -election. “Of course you’d expect the faculty to be fooled, but here’s -half the class voting for him when nine out of every ten know he’s a -rotten fakir. Think of our bringing all our relatives to class day, and -that fellow sitting up on the platform as the representative man of the -graduating class of Seaton Academy! The Yale Cup?--Mulcahy, of course! -Anything he wants. He’s our color-bearer, sure enough! Rah, rah, rah, -Mulcahy!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -JANUARY TO MAY - - -The hurrying weeks brought Sam once more face to face with his rival of -Hillbury. Again one of thirty-odd numbers, he mingled with the confused -throng of candidates near the starting line of the forty-yard hurdles -in Mechanics’ Hall. - -“Who’s that fellow with the blue stripes across his shirt?” asked a boy -at his elbow, who wore the colors of a Boston school. - -Sam gave his benighted neighbor a sharp glance of surprise. “That’s -Kilham of Hillbury!” - -“Any good?” - -“Good enough to beat me!” returned Sam. - -“I guess it lies between Sage of Worcester and Doane of Noble’s,” said -the lad. - -Sam smiled grimly. He knew that it lay between Kilham of Hillbury -and--somebody else. - -The first heat was run: Kilham led at the tape; Sage of Worcester fell -out. In the second heat Number Eighteen was at the fore,--the programme -showed Number Eighteen to be Archer of Seaton. The third went to Doane -of Noble’s; the fourth to Jessop of Boston Latin; the fifth--but why -detail the process of sifting? The final heat was called. In it stood -Kilham, Archer, Doane, Whelan of the Boston High, and a nameless white -shirt from a small school, who by luck and good natural ability had -squeezed through the early heats. - -Kilham gave Sam a nod of recognition. “We’ve been up against each other -before.” - -Sam smiled assent. “Twice.” - -“And shall be again, probably. Don’t let those small school fellows -beat us, anyway. If I can’t win, I hope you will.” - -“The same to you,” answered Sam; but his voice was lost in the -starter’s call. - -On the “set” Doane tried to beat the starter, and was put back a foot. -All hung well on the next trial, and the pistol shot sent them away. -Doane flashed into the front rank at the outset, but he was clumsy on -the second hurdle and lost his advantage. Kilham and Archer rose from -the start together. Kilham reached the first hurdle a foot ahead, but -Archer gained on the hurdle jump. It was the same on the second. At the -third hurdle, four runners seemed to sweep the air abreast, but Doane -and Whelan lost a fraction of a second in clearing, and fell a foot -behind Kilham and Archer. On the final stretch the Hillbury man drove -himself to the front. Sam strained at his sluggish muscles with every -power of nerve and brain, but Kilham was the faster. Sam’s frantic -efforts, though insufficient to carry him past Kilham, at least enabled -him to hold a place ahead of his pursuers. He crossed the line second, -adjudged to have the better of Whelan by a few inches. - -“What do you honestly think, Collins?” demanded Sam, as the two talked -over the day’s happenings on the train that evening. “Shall I ever be -able to beat that fellow, or is he going to do me right along for the -next four years?” - -“I don’t know,” returned Collins, frankly. “Kilham’s a mighty good -hurdler for a schoolboy, but he isn’t the best there ever was. I’ve -seen him weaken a good bit on the last thirty yards of the one-twenty. -You’re about even on starting, and he’s faster, but you’ve got the -staying power. It’ll depend on how you learn to take the hurdles. -You wouldn’t have the ghost of a show on the low ones, but on the -high--well, I’ve seen a lot of good men beaten on the last twenty yards -of the high hurdles.” - -Such was the dubious form which Collins’s encouragement took. Collins -believed thoroughly in the efficacy of work; he was also convinced that -Archer was slowly “coming,” but he was not one to raise false hopes. - -“Then you really think I can improve on the hurdle work?” pursued Sam. - -“Of course. You jump too high, and that first stride when you come down -is too long. You bring your outer foot around well, but it goes out too -far. You ought to better that a good bit in the spring practice.” - -Whatever Collins may have expected from the spring training, he had -no reason to complain of Sam’s diligence. The average boy will work -with great zeal for the first and last weeks of his preparation for -an important contest. He usually starts with enthusiasm, allows his -ardor to ebb under the tiresome monotony of the daily drudgery, and -warms to his work again as the crisis approaches. And not infrequently -does it happen that the loss by this middle period of neglect proves -so serious that the candidate drops out discouraged before the test -arrives. It was one of Collins’s strong points as a trainer that he -tried to carry his charges all the way. He did not trust all reports -or accept every excuse. He strove to know what his boys were doing, -how they were spending their time, what they ate and drank, where they -went. He made no apologies for searching closely into the lives which -the boys were leading. Unless they lived properly, played honorably, -worked faithfully, he would have none of them. - -If Collins had possessed a magic wand by the touch of which slow -muscles could be endowed with marvellous speed, he certainly would -have given Archer the benefit of the first application of it. Sam took -the privations of training, as well as the regular drill, as parts of -his normal day. While he longed to win, and still dreamed of the happy -moment when he should show his back to Kilham on the hurdle path, he -could laugh good-naturedly at his ambitions, and speak frankly of the -likelihood of failure. He did not worry and did not lose courage. He -played tennis, enjoyed his friends, did his school work as well as he -could, got good hours of rest, shunned the things that weaken,--and -grew hard of muscle and sound of wind, living his life with happiness -and zest. - -Toward the end of May he was sent with a batch of Seatonians to take -part in the inter-scholastics in Cambridge. In the final of the -one-twenty hurdles, he fell in once more with Kilham and Doane of -Noble’s. - -“Hello, Archer!” called Kilham, cheerily. “We meet again. It’s your -turn to-day.” - -“I wish it was,” said Sam. - -But luck turned against him. The starter held them a long time on the -set, and Sam fell over before the trigger was pulled. He was put back -a yard. On the next attempt he erred through overcaution, and lost -another yard on the start. Always slow in getting into his stride, he -saw his two rivals dash well ahead of him for the first two hurdles. As -Sam was topping the third, Kilham and Doane were close to the fourth. -Hopeless though the race seemed, he pressed on, taking his jumps in -his best form, driving himself in the inter-hurdles paces, as if each -were the finish of the race. And lo! he gained! With every hurdle he -drew up on the leading pair. At the eighth he was at Doane’s heels. The -tenth he crossed abreast of the second man and beat him out through -greater strength in the final dash for the line,--but Kilham as usual -was first, this time by only two feet. - -For a time Sam was disheartened. When he compared the two feet -advantage which Kilham had over him at the finish with the two yards -lost at the start, and realized that he had plenty of reserve force on -the last stretch while Kilham was running weak, he felt that fate was -indeed against him. But Collins soon got hold of him and altered the -hue of his thoughts. He had never before been put back in a race; it -wouldn’t happen again; he had run a yard farther than the victor and -finished but two feet behind him. He would have another chance at the -Hillbury meet; let him but keep up his courage and work hard, and he -would win out yet! - -Yes, keep up your courage and work! That had been Collins’s song these -two years. But what availed courage and work against fate and a better -man? - -“He’ll probably beat me,” thought Sam, as the day of the Hillbury meet -approached; “he’ll probably beat me, for he always has beaten me, but -I’ll run him harder than I’ve ever done before!” - -On the day before the meet, Sam dropped in at the Sedgwicks’ to offer -two tickets to the games, which his father had written that he could -not use. Margaret clapped her hands with delight at the prospect. “We -must go, mother, and see Sam win. It’s our last chance. Do go!” - -“It’s my last chance, all right,” said Sam, “but don’t go expecting me -to win. I always lose.” - -“You’ll have to win, if we go. And we are going, aren’t we, mother?” - -“We’ll see,” answered the cautious mother. “Sam had better stay to -dinner and talk it over with your father.” - -“Invite me next week, and I’ll come with joy,” answered Sam, ruefully. -“You have too many good things to eat for a fellow in training.” - -Mrs. Sedgwick and Margaret were on the Seaton special that carried the -school to Hillbury. Sam sat in the seat opposite them, and for the time -enjoyed complete relief from anxious thoughts of the contest. They -parted at the station, when Sam went forward to join the other members -of the team in the barge that was awaiting them. - -“You must show me your gold medal when we go back,” said the girl, -gayly, as she bade him good luck. “You know we’ve come on purpose to -help you win it.” Sam lifted his cap and ran smilingly away to quiet -the barge-load of impatients who were clamoring for Archer to quit his -“fussing” and get aboard. Miss Margaret’s blind confidence had driven -Sam’s fatalism to cover. Could it be his day after all? - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -ARCHER _versus_ KILHAM - - -It was clear, two events before the high hurdles came, that Hillbury -was to win the day. In four races Seaton had been beaten by feet and -inches in desperate finishes. It may have been luck that the leaders in -these four contests were Hillbury men; luck certainly had nothing to do -with the fact that in each of the four the third prize went to a wearer -of the blue. Kilham had taken the two-twenty hurdles; Hillbury with -Kilham in the lead had swept every place in the broad jump. Mulcahy -could crawl no higher than third in the pole vault. Collins took the -issue philosophically, as a man might well do who had toiled early and -late to work second-class material into a first-class product, and -who, incidentally, had accomplished more than any three members of the -faculty toward establishing throughout the school a standard of right -living and honest striving. - -But stoically as Collins took the issues of fate, his real feelings -broke through the mask of calmness when the one-twenty hurdles -were called, and Sam and Pearson, wearing Seaton colors, took the -places assigned them and dug their starting holes. Defeat may have -its consolations; and to Collins no consolation could be quite so -satisfactory as a victory for his long-legged pupil, who had done his -work month in and month out like a man of years and responsibilities, -and had come up smiling after every knockdown, with determination -unquenched. Miss Margaret, on the Seaton benches near the finish line, -strained her eyes to see the starting, oblivious to the fact that -her pulse was beating ten counts faster than it had any right to. -Sam himself, having something definite to do, and something definite -to think of, was less agitated than Miss Margaret, or even Collins. -The something definite to think of was the uncommon solidity of the -Hillbury hurdles. If he struck one, it would throw him--or at least -so he feared. He must be sure to clear, even at the waste of a few -inches; and unnecessary inches in the rise meant, he knew full well, -a fraction of a second in total loss. On the full extent of this -handicap he did not dwell. It was enough that he must keep well above -the hurdles. - -The start was even--at least for Kilham and Archer. They sprang for the -first hurdle in step together, like well-matched horses. Sam’s leap -was needlessly high; Kilham gained thereby a small advantage, which he -increased to a yard as the third hurdle was passed. Then Sam, becoming -less fearful of the rise, brought his jump down nearer the top of the -hurdle and began to regain lost ground. On the fifth they were together -again. After that Sam forged ahead, clearing every obstacle just in -front of his rival. As he struck the ground after the tenth he realized -that his hopes depended on his holding his advantage against a faster -sprinter for a distance of less than fifteen yards. He had been running -at full tension throughout the race; he could do no better now. - -As the runners swept past the seats where sat Mrs. Sedgwick and -Margaret, the girl uttered a trembling scream of joy which was drowned -in the disorderly cries of the Seaton followers. Archer was ahead! -The blue hurled shouts of encouragement at their struggling champion, -who tore along after his rival. Seaton yelled congratulations and -encouragement, and Hillbury encouragement and congratulations, for -Kilham did close up on Archer. The Seatonians thought they had it, and -then feared that they had lost it; while the Hillburyites feared loss, -and later exulted in the thought that they had won. It all happened in -the shortest possible time, and at first nobody knew the result, not -even the judges. Collins, who stood on a line with the finish, said it -was very close, but it looked like Archer; Bruce declared that it was -Archer by six inches; the Hillburyites capered about, shouting that -Kilham had it by a foot. One judge said Archer; the second Kilham; -the other wasn’t sure. Kilham ran off to his rub-down straightway; -Sam lingered, panting on Collins’s shoulder, to hear the decision. -Of course it was not for him to judge the race, but he had felt the -worsted thread tighten against his breast, and he knew that a beaten -man never brushes the finish cord. - -The judges conferred and reported to the announcer, who bellowed -forth the news: a tie! Whereat all hands applauded, except the special -friends of either contestant, who agreed in considering it “a steal,” -but disagreed as to the party whose rights had been stolen. Sam’s first -emotion was one of grievous disappointment. Kilham had beaten him -often--but this time! After all, it might have been worse. The judges -might have given the first place to Kilham, and adjudged him second. -Judges are but mortal. The thought of the fate escaped comforted him in -a measure for the disappointment. At any rate, he was not a loser. He -had won the race as much as Kilham had. - -An official appeared with the medals in his hand, pretty shining -things, one gold, the other silver, bedded on heavy ribbons marked with -the colors of the two schools. - -“You’ll have to toss for these,” he said in a businesslike way. -“Where’s the other fellow?” - -The other fellow had disappeared. Richmond Noyes, the Hillbury baseball -captain, pushed forward. “Kilham’s gone to get his rub-down,” he said. -“I’ll toss for him.” - -The official hesitated a moment as if uncertain as to the propriety of -the substitution, but a colleague reassured him. “All right! You call, -Archer!” he said, and his practised hand sent a coin spinning in the -air. - -“Tails!” cried Sam, who had drawn an induction from several experiences -that tails were luckier for him than heads. - -The official stooped and picked up the coin. “Heads it is!” he -announced cheerfully. - -Noyes clutched the gold medal and scurried away in quest of Kilham. -Sam took his portion of the spoil, and dodging alike compliments and -condolences, went his leisurely way toward the Seaton quarters. Could -anything be more symbolic than that toss! When after two years of -uphill work he was at last wholly ready to meet Kilham in a square, -even race, those heavy, clumsy hurdles had to turn up and lose him -three or four feet; of course! Kilham, actually beaten by some inches, -was considered by the wall-eyed judges to have led; of course! With -equal chance to draw the gold medal, he must needs get the silver; of -course! Did ever any one have such luck! - -“Archer! Oh, Archer! Hold on!” - -Sam turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice and beheld trotting -toward him a bareheaded youth, whose chief article of attire was a bath -robe. Behind the bath robe strode Noyes, his blue-ribboned hat tilted -back on his head, wearing upon his face an expression of desperate -disgust. - -“Look here, Archer,” began Kilham, eagerly, while still a dozen feet -away, “I don’t want this thing. It belongs to you.” - -The “thing” in question was the gold medal, which Noyes had carried -off in a burst of delight but a few minutes before. “Give me the other -one and take this,” Kilham went on, holding out the first prize to the -astonished Seatonian. - -“Why?” asked Sam, blankly. - -“Because I won’t take it, because it doesn’t belong to me, because Rich -here had no business to butt in and get it. I didn’t want to toss for -the thing.” - -A look of eager joy flashed into Sam’s face, only to fade away again as -the character of the offer which Kilham was making came home to him. It -was generous of Kilham, who had lots of prizes, to refuse to deprive -his rival of the only good one which he had ever won. It was a fine -thing to do; but Sam could not profit by the pitying generosity of a -kind-hearted rival. - -“It didn’t make any difference who tossed for it,” said Sam. “We -accepted Noyes as your representative. The judges gave the race a tie, -and we tossed for prizes. That settled it.” - -“It didn’t settle anything,” returned Kilham, warmly. “Noyes had no -more authority to toss for me than that kid there. I didn’t win the -race and I’m not going to take the prize. You won the race. I almost -got you at the finish, but not quite. You touched that thread before I -did. I’m sure of it.” - -Sam stared and pondered. “The judges declared it a tie,” he said at -length. - -“Then it will have to be a tie so far as the official record goes. We -can’t dispute the judges, but we can divide the prizes as they ought to -be divided. I won the second prize. I’ll have that or none!” - -“Then I’ll take the gold one,” decided Sam, in a subdued voice. When -the exchange was effected, he held out his hand to his old rival, who -seemed to him at that moment more unreachable than ever, and blurted -out, “If there are many fellows like you in Hillbury, I wish I had gone -there!” - -So it happened that Sam Archer really did have a gold medal to show -Miss Margaret when he met her again at the train, and with it a little -tale to tell of schoolboy honesty and generosity.[1] - -[1] If this incident of the medal sounds like the invention of an -unpractical moralist, the author pleads innocent to the charge. It -is a fairly accurate account of an actual occurrence at a recent -Exeter-Andover contest. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE YALE CUP - - -With the passing of the Hillbury meet, Archer’s career as a school -athlete was at an end. He played tennis and scrub ball, but this -was play, not work. His training now was for quite another kind of -contest--the final wrestling match with the college examinations. He -shared as a helpless onlooker in the disaster of the annual ball game, -when Noyes’s nine after a hard fight took the Seatonians into camp. -The football men were the only victors of the year, since even in -tennis honors were divided. Sam smiled to himself somewhat grimly as he -considered how fortune had cooperated with Mulcahy in his ambitions for -the Yale Cup. Against the background of defeated teams, the football -men bulked large as athletes. - -Mrs. Archer came up to be present at the festivities of graduation -week. With Mrs. Sedgwick and Margaret, she started early for the -chapel exercises with which the school year formally closed. As they -crossed the yard, the seniors were forming in a long, uneven double -line that extended from the steps of the main school building across -the lawn toward the outer fence. Late risers were scurrying from the -dormitories, struggling, on the run, to work their arms into the -sleeves of their gowns and at the same time to keep their mortar-boards -safely balanced on their heads. The marshals were zealously and more -or less effectually ordering the jeering battalion. Sam, looking like -a giant in the ample gown that covered his bony length, raised his cap -over a face glowing with satisfaction as the three visitors passed the -head of the line, hurrying to reach their places before the procession -took the right of way. “He’s a dear boy,” thought the mother with -pride, “if he is not a genius. He does the best he can.” - -They were given seats on the side aisle, well to the front; the middle -section was reserved for the class. Before the platform stood a heavy -table. On it were the score of prizes to be assigned, piles of books, -impressive envelopes containing the money awarded, and in the midst, -towering in cold stateliness above two minor brethren, the shining -form of the Yale Cup. Solemn faces of benefactors and famous graduates -looked down disapprovingly from the walls; there had been no such -lavish display of prizes in the simple old days when they were members -of the school, reciting Latin and Greek by candlelight to austere, -dignified gentlemen who revered Cicero as the model for all language -and ignored French and German as the lingo of dancing-masters and -fiddlers. Flanking the platform and facing the audience, ran a long -line of chairs--“for the faculty,” whispered Mrs. Sedgwick, who had -been present on such occasions before. - -Presently the tramp of feet was heard, and the seniors filed in for -their last chapel service. They stood, when they reached their places, -waiting for the dignitaries, who were not slow to appear. The principal -entered with the president of the board of trustees, two clergymen -from abroad, others of the trustees who were in town, and a venerable -alumnus or two to whom the school would do honor. These took places on -the platform, in the alcove behind the reading desk. After them came -the faculty, a motley line, in which staid elderly men, of the wisdom -which is born of long intercourse with boys, touched shoulders with -youths fresh from the university--in whom self-confidence and zeal -must still do duty for ripe experience and sound judgment. When all -were placed, the visiting clergymen conducted the simple devotional -exercises, the hymns rolling with resonant vigor from two hundred -masculine throats. Then the president of the board of trustees, -encumbered by many typewritten sheets, came forward beside the desk for -the formal business of the day. - -He began by addressing certain neatly worded compliments to the -graduating class. In this task, which was in the line of his daily -work as an advocate before important courts, he acquitted himself with -dignity and impressiveness. When, however, he came to the reading -of the list of those entitled to diplomas, his experience in public -speaking availed him little. He waded on, undaunted, through fourscore -names, pronounceable and unpronounceable, drawn from all races and -all lands. As each name was read or attempted, its claimant rose in -response, until every wearer of a gown was on his feet. Then the -diplomas were passed out in bunches to chosen delegates, who delivered -them to their proper owners. - -With a feeling of relief the president laid aside the catalogue of -seniors, and took up the short list of honor men. After this he passed -to those of the school who had earned “honorable mention,” finding new -pitfalls in untried combinations of letters which stood for certain -deserving members of lower classes. With the next sheet began the -announcement of prize-winners. - -Here was the climax of the day. Many were the boys who listened with -quick-beating hearts, hoping to hear the sound of their names; and many -there were who listened in vain. The president announced the prize and -the award; the secretary of the faculty took the prize from the table -and handed it to the principal; the principal delivered it into the -hands of its owner. As one and another came forward, flushed with -happy embarrassment, and received the reward of his labor, the school -gave abundant applause, those who had nourished no hopes and those who -had hoped in vain uniting in generous congratulation of the victors. -So went the Latin prizes, the Greek prizes, the prizes in English -composition, in Mathematics, in Bible study, in History; the prize for -general excellence in studies and that for physical development. Sam’s -interest was keen in the result, for he hoped to see his room-mate -honored as a Latinist. He chuckled with delight as Moorhead was called -a second time to the gift table, and brought back a sample from the -pile of twelve large volumes of Shakespeare as a prize in English. - -There were but three or four awards still to be made when Sam, seeing -the secretary reach for the big three-handled cup that mounted guard -over the remaining envelopes and books, knew that the time for -Mulcahy’s prize had come. He glanced backward curiously over his -shoulder at the astute strategist who sat a few seats away, and marked -with amused interest the artful mask of indifference which the young -man wore. So fascinating was this study of Mulcahy the expectant, and -Mulcahy the ready-to-be-surprised, that Sam very impolitely kept his -eyes on the face in the row behind until the president had finished -the long description: “The Yale Cup, given by the Yale Club of Boston -to the Senior who best combines proficiency in athletics with good -standing in his studies.” As the reader paused, Sam faced front and -prepared to applaud the name of John Joseph Mulcahy,--but the name the -president read was “Samuel Wadsworth Archer”! - -The applause thundered forth sudden and sharp, no perfunctory service -of courtesy, but a burst of enthusiastic approval that swept the whole -student company. It rose and fell and rose again, vehement and long -drawn out. The boys in front twisted their heads around as they strove, -still beating their palms, to catch a glimpse of the winner; those in -the seats behind craned their necks with the same laudable design. -And Sam sat with downcast eyes and glowing cheeks, hearing but not -believing, stupidly delaying the exercises, yet hardly daring to answer -the summons; until Westbrook, who sat beside him, stopped clapping -long enough to dig him in the ribs with a sharp elbow and enjoin him: -“Go and get it, you fool. Don’t you see you’re keeping the whole -business waiting?” To this exhortation Sam gave heed. - -During the remainder of the exercises Sam sat with the precious cup -clutched beneath his gown, ecstatically demanding of himself again -and again how it could possibly be, and pitying the unfortunate whose -deep-laid plans had gone so wholly wrong. When the audience was -dismissed, he was at once overwhelmed by boys who insisted on shaking -his hand and slapping his shoulder and telling him that the award was -“just right,”--and, of course, handling the cup. - -Mrs. Archer, on her side, was a general target for congratulations. -She received them with the composure of a mother who is never wholly -surprised at any honor bestowed upon her son; but in her eyes burned -a light of happiness and excitement that belied her quiet manner, and -her gaze would wander to the group of gowns that thronged her tall son -and hid the white gleam of silver from the sight of the unprivileged -curious. - -“How did he happen to get it?” she asked Dr. Leighton, as the teacher -came to offer his compliments. “I’m sure he hadn’t the slightest -expectation of its coming to him.” - -“Of course he didn’t expect it,” returned Dr. Leighton. “The boy who -deserves such a prize rarely expects it. I can tell you how it came to -be awarded to him, because I was on the committee. He won it by good -honest work. It was what he accomplished, not what he chanced to do, -that turned the scales in his favor.” - -Mrs. Archer’s look indicated that she was not quite sure that she -understood; but before she could ask further, her son broke through -the circle of students, and came, sheepishly dangling the cup by one -of its heavy handles, to greet his mother. Sam was not sufficiently -experienced in prize-winning to take his honors easily, especially -when Margaret Sedgwick roguishly assumed a clean record of A’s as a -part of his title to the cup, and insisted on knowing all details. He -managed to escape these embarrassing attentions by calling up Moorhead -and presenting him as the banner prize-catcher of the class; and -presently, on the pretext of helping his room-mate carry home his load -of Shakespeares, he succeeded in getting safely away. - -The next morning when Sam called at the Sedgwicks’ to see his mother, -he found her on the garden piazza, with a Boston paper on her lap. - -“There’s a whole column here about the Commencement,” she said, as Sam -sat down beside her. “Don’t you want to see it?” - -Sam laughed contentedly. “I don’t need to read about it; I was there.” - -“And beside it is a report from the Hillbury Commencement, too. Prizes -aren’t so plenty in Hillbury. There seem to be hardly half as many as -are given here.” - -The prizes at Hillbury possessed small interest for Sam. He was -satisfied to lounge quietly in the comfortable chair, let his eyes -wander over the profusion of gay flowers in the old-fashioned garden, -and gloat in silence on the fact that school recitations were, for him, -forever finished. All at once he straightened up in his chair and -demanded:-- - -“Who got the Yale Cup down there? I wonder if it’s any one I know?” - -“In Hillbury?” answered Mrs. Archer, taking up the paper again. “Let -me see--the Orton prize, the Harper prize, the--oh, yes, the Yale Cup: -Winthrop Joy Kilham.” - -“Kilham!” cried Sam, in a sudden accession of spirit. “Kilham! That’s -great! The judges hit the bull’s-eye that time, for sure!” - - -[Transcriber's Note: - -Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yale Cup, by Albertus True Dudley - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YALE CUP *** - -***** This file should be named 54996-0.txt or 54996-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/9/9/54996/ - -Produced by Wayne Hammond and The Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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