“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.”