So Lester took the theme and the rough draft, turned out the light, and went back to his room. On looking over the rough draft he was disappointed to find that it contained nothing that did not appear in the typewritten copy. He set to work then to try to write a theme of his own, using the material that David had treated; but after an hour of effort, having written several pages and then having read over what he had written, he was in despair. He realized that any one who examined the two themes would say that one was merely a paraphrase of the other, and that the two could not have been written independently of each other.
Lester was tired, sleepy, and disheartened. There was no use in his making further effort that evening; that was certain. If he got up early the next morning and could only think of something to write about, perhaps he could get the theme done. He had a class from ten o’clock to eleven that he must not cut, but if he could write from eight until ten, and then from eleven to twelve, he might fulfill the requirement. But it would have to be a good theme; a poor or even a mediocre piece of work would not save him.
As he undressed he meditated gloomily on his situation. For two weeks he had toiled nobly, had accomplished scholastic miracles, had displayed the best he had in him of mind and character; and yet it might all be of no avail—nullified by his inability to get done a single piece of writing that, given a little more time, he could satisfactorily do. Indeed, he could have done it that evening if David had not balked him by anticipating him, using the thoughts and ideas that they had exchanged, and so making it impossible for him to use them. If he missed this theme, he should be put on probation in spite of all his good work in the other courses; he should be declared ineligible to play on the nine; and probably he should lose the marshalship, which he felt was otherwise within his grasp.
And the theme lay there on his desk. It was typewritten; all he had to do was to remove the covering page bearing David’s name and to substitute a covering page bearing his own. David would never know. And David would really not suffer by the loss; his standing in the course was assured anyway; he was not trying for honors in English, and even if he were trying for them his missing one theme would not, in view of his excellent record, be likely to count against him. No one would suffer, and it would be a means of escape for a fellow who really deserved to escape. Besides, thought Lester, the theme was almost half his anyway. David could hardly have written it if they had not talked the thing over together so much.
It would not do for Richard to see the theme when he came in. Lester put it and the rough draft into a drawer of his desk and locked the drawer.
He would not decide the question now, anyway. He was played out; a good night’s sleep would rest him mentally, and probably he would get up in the morning and find himself able to write a theme without any trouble. In fact, of course he would. It was foolish to think of anything else. So he tumbled into bed and instantly fell sound asleep.
CHAPTER XV
THE TORN PAGE
When Lester awoke and looked at his watch, he was horrified to find that it was nine o’clock. He leaped out of bed and dressed frantically. Why hadn’t Richard wakened him! Richard had gone—feeling, no doubt, that he could best display his consideration for his overworked roommate by letting him sleep as long as he could.
“Two hours—less than two hours—to write that theme!” muttered Lester, as he slipped into his clothes. “I’ll have to go without breakfast, at that.”