Part 23 (1/2)

”And I am not?” Mr. Daley smiled sadly. ”And so you thought you'd trust to my--er--good-nature, eh? Really, Edwards, you are asking a good deal, you know. You've had nearly ten days for that composition; a scant twelve hundred words on any subject you liked; and it seems to me that if you had really wanted to do it you could have found the time. I don't want to be hard on you, but--er--I'm afraid I shall have to insist on your handing in that composition not later than to-morrow noon. I have been very lenient with you, Edwards, very. You--er--you must see that yourself. But--er--this sort of thing can't go on all the term. You really must get down to work.”

”If I could have another day for it,” begged Steve, ”I could get it done, sir.”

”You have had ten days already; to be exact, nine and a half, Edwards. I don't think I should make any exception in your case. I'm sorry.”

Steve stared at his shoes, a somewhat mutinous expression on his face.

After a moment, ”It isn't fair to say I'm not trying,” he broke out. ”I _am_ trying, but things are too hard here. They ask too much work of a fellow. Why, if I was to get B's in all my courses I'd have to study eight hours a day! A fellow wants to do something beside stick in his room and grind, Mr. Daley. He wants to get out and--and play sometimes.

If you're on the football team you don't have any time in the afternoons and then, when evening comes, you're tired and sleepy.”

”But you have time between recitations in the morning, Edwards, to do some studying, do you not? Other boys manage to both work and play. Why can't you? Look at your room-mate. I believe that he is--er--on one of the football teams. He seems to get his lessons fairly well. I presume that he has written his composition?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Of course. It is probably here somewhere.” Mr. Daley's eyes inspected the pile of books at his elbow, and the corner of a blue-book met his gaze. ”This is doubtless it.” He drew it forth. ”It doesn't look such a herculean task, Edwards. Here are seven pages, rather more than required, I'd say, and----”

Mr. Daley ceased abruptly, and, after a moment, Steve, who had been gloomily regarding the floor, looked across. The instructor was observing him strangely.

”Do you know whose book this is, Edwards?” he asked.

”I suppose it's Tom's. It isn't mine,” he added moodily.

”It is Carl Upton's.”

”Carl----” Steve stared bewilderedly.

”It seems that you must have--er--taken it after all, Edwards.”

”But I didn't, sir! Tom will tell you that----”

He faltered, and a puzzled look came into his eyes as he regarded the book in the instructor's hand.

”Well, really, Edwards,”--Mr. Daley spoke lightly, but his countenance was grave--”you mustn't expect me to put it down to a miracle. If you didn't put the book here on your table, who did? Unless Hall knows something about it? Was he in my study this evening?”

There was a bare instant of hesitation. Then, ”No, sir,” replied Steve steadily.

”Er--you are sure? He might have called on me when you were out.”

”We were together all the evening, Mr. Daley.”

”Then----” The instructor cleared his throat nervously.

”I guess--I guess it's up to me, sir,” said Steve.

Mr. Daley sighed. ”I think it must be.” There was silence for a moment.

Then, ”Why?” asked Mr. Daley gently.

”I don't know, sir.”

”You couldn't have thought of--er--making unfair use of it?”