Sam nodded agreement. “I guess,” he answered thoughtfully, “I’ll write and see what Mr. Langham says. I suppose, though, he will tell me I’m too young.”
“How would it do,” asked Tom, “to say nothing about your age? He didn’t seem particular about that, you know. Just tell him you’re in your senior year at high school and are captain of the nine; and that you think you could hold down the place to the King’s taste, and so on!”
“I might, only—I’d feel pretty cheap if I got up there and he told me I wouldn’t do. Besides, it wouldn’t be quite honest, I guess.”
“I suppose not. No, you’d better tell him you’re nearly eighteen.”
“But I’m not,” objected Sam gravely. “I won’t be until December.”
“Then tell him you’re well over seventeen,” laughed Tom. “Anyway, make yourself out as old as you can, you fussy old chump! And don’t be too modest. I don’t know but that I ought to see that letter before you send it, Sam.”
Sam shook his head. “I’ll do it all right,” he said. “And you write to him, too, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll do it this evening. So long. You ought to get an answer by Friday, I should think. I hope it comes out all right, Sam.”
“So do I,” said Sam soberly. “It would be a dandy job if I could get it. Good night, Tom, and thank you for telling me about it.”