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.

Sam forged ahead, clearing every obstacle just in front of his rival.—[Page 284].

PHILLIPS EXETER SERIES

Copyright, 1908, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
Published, March, 1908.

TO THE MANY
PLEASANT YOUNG FRIENDS
WHO, CONSCIOUSLY OR UNCONSCIOUSLY, HAVE
ASSISTED IN THE MAKING OF
THIS BOOK

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

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.”

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!

“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—”