Brady, whose dislike for Carpenter was well known to most of his classmates, gave a highly unflattering portrait of the man, whose aspirations to lead the class in scholarship Jim Phillips seemed likely to block.
“Was this Carpenter in the habit of coming to see you?” he asked Jim then. “Was he a friend of yours?”
“No, I wouldn’t say he was a friend of mine,” said Jim, manifestly unwilling to say a bad word of one of his classmates. “I always supposed he hadn’t much use for me. He doesn’t go in for athletics, and goes around saying that they’re a waste of time. I think, too, he got rather sore when he wasn’t at the head of the class in two or three courses he’d worked specially hard in.”
“Oh, go ahead and say it, Jim,” cried Brady impatiently. “He’s had it in for you all year, and he and Shesgren and that crowd of grinds have been telling every one who would listen to them that all the professors here thought more of athletes than of students, and would favor them in examinations every time.”
“Is that so?” asked Dick gravely, of Jim.
“It’s a bit exaggerated, I guess,” said Jim, smiling, “but I have heard something of the sort. I’ve never taken much stock in it, though. Fellows are apt to talk that way when they’re a little excited, but they don’t usually mean more than half they say.”
“Well, there’s no light here, anyway,” said Dick. “We’ll go down and make sure of that registered-letter receipt. Come along, Bill. You know Jim’s handwriting, too. But keep cool, and don’t start any trouble with this fellow Chetwind. He’s a pretty poor specimen, but he’s convinced himself that he’s doing the right thing—and, so far as I can see, I think he’s right.”
The receipt, when Jim and Brady examined it, left no room for doubt. It had certainly been signed by Jim. Brady recognized his writing, and Jim himself, without the slightest hesitation, identified it.