The jumping took a course discouragingly uncertain. Almost every day Dick began his practice with the feeling that he had reached his limit. Sometimes, as he dropped an inch or two below previous records, he was convinced of it. Then, on the next day, perhaps, or the day after, when he had concluded that there was no great jump in him, and that he must be satisfied with a moderate achievement, he would surprise himself by going a half inch higher than he had ever attained before. And there were times, when he had enjoyed a particularly long and restful sleep, or his physical condition was exactly right, at which he really felt like jumping. Then his ambition went wild, and he told himself, exultantly, that the limit was still far away. Such days came rarely. Should he have one on the twenty-third, or more important still, on the thirtieth?
On Tuesday evening Dick and Varrell and Phil went together to the chapel to hear the Prize Speaking. Curtis joined them at the door, and all four took seats near the front. It was a long performance, but the boys listened with interest, and amused themselves by guessing on the merits of the contestants, as speech followed speech in close succession. Curtis voted for Planter, Melvin for Durand, Varrell for Todd, and Phil for a boy who delivered an extract from a speech by Henry Clay. When the judges returned the award of first prize to Planter, second to Von Gersdorf, and honorable mention for Todd and Durand, each flattered himself on his critical judgment.
Varrell said good night at the steps of Carter, and went on to his own dormitory. Curtis, who was in a talkative mood, proposed to “go up for a minute.” When he had settled himself in an arm-chair, Phil, who distrusted such “minutes,” gathered up his Greek books and retreated to a classmate’s room across the hall.
“Do you know, Dick, Planter is the kind of fellow I admire. He ranks well,—almost as well as you do,—and he’s an editor of the Seatonian and on the Lit., and is always to the fore on an occasion like this. Fletcher is a better scholar, I suppose, but he’s nothing else; Planter can write and speak as well as get marks; he has good manners too, and is always a gentleman.”
“I didn’t know you admired gentle qualities,” said Dick, amused, “and as for marks, why, it’s only this year that you’ve been on friendly terms with any kind of school-books.”
“Better late than never. I’ve had a lot of new ideas this year.”
“Are you going back on athletics?” asked Dick.
“They are all right in their place. I wouldn’t exchange my football experiences for anything this crank factory ever gave to Daniel Webster or any other great genius who got his first ‘call down’ on our benches. But I don’t want to be always John Curtis the football player. I want something better than that.”
“John Curtis the Harvard freshman?” suggested Dick.
Curtis smiled grimly. “That’s what I’m going to be, if it’s possible for the possessor of my brains. I’m making headway, too. If I’d only begun last year, I might have been somewhere now.”