Vexed at the slur at his simplicity implied in Duncan’s words, yet half inclined to acknowledge that the senior was right, Sam took his geometry and departed for the Academy. It lacked still fifteen minutes to the time for recitation, but he hoped to find among the few steadies who often came early either Phipps or Entstein, the sharks of the section, and get an idea from one of them as to the last original in the lesson. He had solved four out of the five.
No sooner was he seated at a desk than Mulcahy came in, glanced round the room, made quick estimate of the possibilities offered, and slipped into a seat beside Archer.
“Hello, Archer!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing with cordiality. “I haven’t seen you for a week. How’s the pole-vault going?”
“Not very well,” responded Sam, coldly.
“If you’re doing no better than I am, you’re rotten!” went on Mulcahy, amiably. “I can’t make nine feet any more—seem to have lost the knack. I hear you did nine four the other day.”
“Nine three,” corrected Sam.
“I can’t touch that. I see where I come out at the bottom in the Shield Meet. How many originals did you get to-day?”
“Four.”
“You’re a shark! What kind of figure did you have for 213?”
Sam opened his papers and showed a neatly drawn diagram with his proof carefully indicated beneath. Mulcahy studied it silently for two full minutes. “That’s the way I did it,” he said. “I wasn’t sure it was right. Did you get 214?”