The Yale Cup

by Albertus T. Dudley

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.