Winning His "W": A Story of Freshman Year at College

by Everett T. Tomlinson

"Was it Mott?" interrupted Will.

"Yes, that was his name. You know him too, I see. He seems to be a very fine young man. He told me that Peter was one of the leaders in his class, and that everybody in the college knew him. He said too, that he had won his numerals—though I don't just understand what that means."

"It means that he has the right to wear the number of his class on his cap or sweater," said Will. "That's more than I've won." He had not the heart to undeceive the unhappy man, though both he and Foster were aware that Mott had been overstating the facts in his desire to comfort Peter John's father.

"Well, I hope he'll get well," said Mr. Schenck with a heavy sigh, "though it does seem as if such things always happened to the brightest boys. I'm going to stay here for a few days till I know he's better or—" The sentence was not completed and for a time there was a tense silence in the room.

At last the men departed, Mr. Schenck to go to his son's room where he was to sleep while he remained in Winthrop, and Mr. Phelps to the station where he was to take the train for his home. Will accompanied his father, but the subject that was uppermost in the mind of each was not referred to for there are times when silence is golden.

In the days that followed, Will Phelps worked as he never had worked before in all his brief life. His distaste for the Greek and dislike of the professor were as strong as before, and at times it almost seemed to him that he could no longer continue the struggle. His sole inspiration was in the thought of his father and in his blind determination not to be mastered.

An additional element of gloom in those days were the reports that came from the infirmary of the condition of Peter John. All the other patients appeared to be doing well, but the daily word from the watchers by Peter John's bedside was that he was worse. A pall seemed to be resting over the entire college. The noisy songs and boisterous shouts were not heard in the dormitories nor upon the campus.

A part of the general anxiety was gone when as the days passed there were no reports of new cases developed, but the fear of what was to be the issue in the case of Peter John was in every heart—even with those who had not exchanged a word with him since he had entered Winthrop.

Will Phelps found himself even wondering how it was that the "old grads" when they returned always spoke in such enthusiastic terms of their own college days. How they laughed and slapped one another on the back as they recalled and recounted their exploits. It was Will's conviction that those days must have been markedly different from those through which he was passing, for he was finding only hard work and much trouble, he dolefully assured himself. He was too inexperienced to understand that one is never able to see clearly the exact condition of present experiences. There is then no perspective, and the good and evil, the large and small, are strangely confused. It is like the figures in a Chinese picture wherein the background and foreground, the little and the big, are much the same in their proportions. Only when a man looks back and beholds the events of the bygone days in their true perspective is he able to form a correct estimate of the relative values. Even Will Phelps would not have believed that there might come a day when the very struggle he was having in mastering his Greek would be looked upon by him as not unpleasant in the larger light in which all his college days would be viewed.

Mr. Schenck still remained in Winthrop, and his face every morning when Will went to inquire about Peter John was a sure indication of the report which was to be made even before a word had been spoken. Steadily lower and lower sank the freshman, who was desperately ill, until at last the crisis came, and with the passing of the day the issue of life or death would be determined.