“But they may spring something on me in the mental tests that I’m not ready for,” mused Tom. “So I’m going to buck up.”
With this end in view he went to his high school principal, and had him map out a course of extra study that would bridge our hero over several rather shaky places. This was about the middle of May, so Tom had nearly a full month in which to prepare.
He heard indirectly that Clarence Hawkesbury was doing the same thing, but Clarence made rather a secret of it. Tom met him one evening in town, after a moving picture show given under the auspices of a high school society.
“Well, what’s the good word?” asked Clarence, with an appearance of good-fellowship Tom knew did not exist. Clarence blew out a cloud of highly-scented cigarette smoke as he put the question.
“Oh, everything’s lovely,” Tom answered, easily.
“Hear you’re going to West Point with me, as alternate,” went on Clarence, speaking in unnecessarily loud tones.
“I thought it was the other way around,” responded Tom, slowly. “I understand you are the alternate.”
“Pooh, you didn’t beat me more than five points on the average,” boasted Clarence, and this was true enough as far as the mental examination went. It was not true with the physical, however. “And I’ll lay you odds of two to one that I stay at West Point and you come back,” went on Clarence, sneeringly.
“Thank you. I don’t bet,” replied Tom. “But that needn’t stop you,” he added, for he did not want to be thought a prig.
“Oh, don’t worry! it won’t!” declared the youth, who had more money than was good for him. He swung off down the street with some cronies, spenders like himself, and a little later Tom and a chum or two passed them standing in the door of a poolroom, whence came the click of the ivory and colored balls.