Ruminating dolefully on this uncertainty about a most important matter, Sam reached home in time to catch a caller who was just turning from the door. It was Bruce, a good-looking fellow of the ruling oligarchy—likewise captain of the track team. He had been pointed out to Sam on the first day of school.
“Hello!” called Bruce. “Do you live in this entry?”
“Yes,” responded Sam, “in Number 7. My name’s Archer.”
“Then you’re the fellow I’m looking for. Where’s Duncan Peck?”
Sam opened the door for his caller. “He hasn’t come yet. I’ve just been to the office to see about it. They didn’t seem sure that he’d come at all.”
“I’m awfully afraid that he won’t, myself. He wrote me that he had to make twelve points to get back. I don’t believe he can get twelve points in twelve years.”
“Won’t you sit down?” asked Archer, politely.
“No, I thank you. I’ve got to get home.” The visitor gave a glance at Sam’s lanky figure. “—Do anything in athletics?”
“Not much,” replied Sam, modestly. “I played football and baseball in the high school, but our teams wouldn’t be called anything here. I ran the high hurdles too.”
“Did you?” The track captain’s interest became keen immediately. “What time have you made?”