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.