“You’re only three years older than I am, but I couldn’t do that kind of thing if I were fifty.” Sam did not say exactly what he meant, which was that he couldn’t do that kind of thing under any circumstances.
“I just mentioned it to show what hanging on will do. I don’t really care anything about this Laurel Leaf office except as a help to something else.”
“What is that?”
Mulcahy looked at his host doubtfully under the rising twists of smoke. “You won’t speak of it to any one?”
“Certainly not, if you don’t want me to.”
“You know what the Yale Cup is?” he asked.
“Never heard of it.”
“The Yale Club of Boston gives a cup every year in three or four big schools to the senior who ‘combines the greatest excellence in athletics with good standing in his studies.’ That’s the way it reads in the catalogue. It’s awarded at Commencement, with a whole batch of other prizes. In June of our senior year I want that cup. The greatest difficulty is about the athletics. I’m going to try hard for the football team next fall, and I’ll do something with the pole vault this year. With the ‘Seatonian’ and the presidency of the Laurel Leaf, and good rank in studies, and the favor of several influential profs, which I’m working for, I ought to have a good show.”
“Do you apply for it?” asked simple Sam.
“No, foolish! The faculty picks out the man.”