Although Watson could never understand the reason, it was nevertheless true that no matter how earnest his efforts were to make his classmates take a more serious and sober view of life, the effect was usually simply to make them laugh at him. They did so now, fairly exploding, and half a dozen of them formed a ring and danced around him, singing a mocking song, the words of which they seemed to make up as they went along.
Jim Phillips was an idol, almost, with his classmates. It was seldom, indeed, that any man reflected so much credit in his class as the famous pitcher. He was sure, too, to be a star on the football team in the following fall, and they were proud of him. But some of the class, although these were very much of a minority, and seldom made their opinions public, were far from proud. For one reason or another, but mostly because, having failed to win any such measure of success and popularity for themselves, they were jealous of Jim; not a few men in Yale, unworthy of the college as they thus proved themselves to be, would have secretly rejoiced had some disaster overtaken Phillips. Once or twice they had thought that their secret desire was about to be realized, but each time Jim, with the aid of the astute and resourceful Dick Merriwell, had emerged more popular than before.
“Listen to those silly goats,” said one of these disgruntled ones, Carpenter by name, as the dance about Watson continued. “I don’t see why they raise such a fuss about this chap Phillips. He gets all the praise, and fellows who are just as clever as he don’t get a fair chance. If you want to get along here at Yale, you have to be an athlete. Otherwise you can’t accomplish anything.”
Carpenter wore glasses, that made his staring eyes very prominent. He was thin, and there was certainly nothing athletic about his appearance. He usually had a book with him, and it was his boast that before he was graduated he would earn the title of the best student in his class. And he resented bitterly the fact that, so far, Jim Phillips was the principal stumblingblock in his path toward the honor he coveted.
Jim was as good a student as he was an athlete; but Carpenter, who was more concerned with bare facts and figures than with reasons why things he learned were so, had convinced himself that the reason that Jim consistently outshone him in the classroom and after examinations was that the professors displayed favoritism as a reward for Jim’s successes in athletics.
“I think you’re right, Carpenter,” said the man he had addressed, one of his own type.
In college, such men are known as grinds. For them the college life has no meaning. They devote themselves entirely to their books, doing nothing to improve themselves by association with other students, and taking no part in the athletics that would give them a healthy body—quite as important a part of college training as that of the classroom, did Carpenter and his kind only understand it.
“But I don’t see what you’re going to do about it,” added Carpenter’s friend.
“I’d like to put something over on Phillips,” said Carpenter viciously. “He needs something to take him down a bit. He thinks now he’s the biggest man in Yale. If you ask me, I think he puts on an awful lot. I know he’s a good pitcher, but he poses as a saint, too, that would never do anything wrong. I’d like to try him on that—see if he’s really as good as he’s made out to be.”
“You’re a fine pair,” said a new voice. “Loyal to a classmate—that’s real Yale spirit.”