Mulcahy threw the stub of his fourth cigarette into the fireplace and lighted another. “That’s a prize worth having,” he went on, “for it means that the winner is a superior, all-round man. I’m going in for the Merrill compositions too, and perhaps for the speaking. They’re cash prizes, you know; but as honors they aren’t in it with the Yale Cup.”
“Did Owen get it last year?”
“No, he wasn’t a good enough scholar. He did well enough in athletics, but he was only about a C man in his studies.”
“That would be a perfectly bully thing to take home with you, wouldn’t it?” broke forth Sam, in honest enthusiasm. “Your father and mother would be tickled to death with the scholarship part of it, and the honor of the athletics would make you feel like a prince. I’d rather get a thing like that than have an auto of my own.”
Mulcahy smiled complacently. “I really don’t care much about athletics. I only go in for them because it’s at present the thing to do.”
A light step was heard in the entry, followed immediately by a knock at the door. Mulcahy put his cigarette on the edge of the table, and shoved his chair away; Sam turned his half round. “Come in!” he cried.
The door opened to admit Mr. Alsop. “Good evening,” he began, as both students rose, and Mulcahy retreated still farther from the table. “I came to inquire the result of your election.”
“I was badly beaten,” said Mulcahy, with charming frankness. “They wouldn’t have me. Underwood was the honored man.”
“I’m glad to see that you take it so well,” said Mr. Alsop. “That’s the spirit I like in school politics.” He stopped short, suddenly aware of the thick atmosphere of smoke and the pungent, penetrating odor of cigarettes. “Why, Archer!” he exclaimed, turning sternly on Sam, “you told me the other day that you did not smoke at all!”
Sam flushed to the roots of his hair; his look glanced from the reproving countenance of the teacher to the calm face of Mulcahy. He did not answer.