He seated himself at his desk, but his mind was too panicky to respond to his need. He filled a page and a half with commonplace narrative, read it over, and realized in despair that, even though he went on in that manner for the prescribed number of words, it would do him no good. He must turn in a piece of work that had some merit if he was to escape failure.
Taking a fresh sheet of paper, he began an essay on athletics. But it seemed impossible for him to write anything on that subject without substantially duplicating David’s work; moreover, it became all too apparent that, even though his thoughts should flow smoothly, he would not have time to complete the task. The clock struck ten; he cast his papers aside, caught up his notebook, and hurried away to a lecture on fine arts.
Although he took a few notes during the lecture, he gave little attention to what the professor was saying. His mind was busy trying to find justification for an act that he contemplated with aversion. “It isn’t as if it were going to hurt anybody,” he kept saying to himself. “It won’t affect David’s standing in the least.” The thought of it became more tolerable when he decided that at some time in the future he would tell David the whole story. “He’ll understand, when I make a clean breast of it all,” Lester assured himself. Somehow the determination to confess the truth eventually to David, who would be the only sufferer—except that he wouldn’t really suffer!—seemed to Lester to minimize very much the seriousness of the offense, to make it almost pardonable. He rehearsed, of course, the various other excuses that had insinuated themselves into his mind—the exhaustion, mental and physical, following his sustained and successful efforts in his other courses, the fact that he and David had so often talked over the ideas embodied in the theme and that he could not therefore be really charged with taking something that was not altogether his own. They were flimsy excuses, yet he was not ashamed to get some comfort and encouragement from them.
After the lecture on fine arts Lester returned to his room, took the typewritten theme out of his desk, and copied off in longhand the last half-page of it, which bore David’s name on the back. Then he substituted his copy for the typewritten page and wrote his name on it. He tore up the page that he had removed and threw it into his waste-basket. David had not given the theme a title; Lester wrote in the heading, “The Place of Athletics in College Life.” And above this title he wrote, “Please do not read in class.” The instructor, Professor Worthington, frequently read some of the best themes to the class, but had announced that he would respect the wishes of any one who did not care to have his theme so read.
Having thus safeguarded himself against detection, Lester decided to dispose of David’s first draft. He took the pages, crumpled them up, and put them into the fireplace and then touched a lighted match to them. In a few minutes they were ashes.
Lester was reading a magazine when his roommate entered. “Hello, Lester,” said Richard. “You seem to be taking things easily for a change. Have you got that theme done that’s been worrying you?”
“Yes,” said Lester, “it’s all done.”
“That’s fine. It would have been a shame to be stumped by that after all that you’ve put through in the last two weeks.”
There was a knock on the door, and David entered. Lester instinctively put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat to make sure that the theme was hidden.
“How are you coming along, Lester?” David asked. “Get your theme done all right?”