Junior sat down carelessly, and leaning back, watched the games casually until he decided that he would play poker. By midnight he had swept up most of the stakes, and when the other men insisted that he should give them a chance to retrieve their money, he laughingly explained: “I’ve got to get home early to-night. To-morrow’s a final examination.”
“What difference does that make to you?” exclaimed Anthony Jones, a schoolmate of Junior’s. “You know perfectly well you can’t pass in two or three branches unless you cheat.”
Junior stood under a swinging lamp, lighting a cigar. He glanced at the boy, a smile on his handsome face.
“My father has given old Dobson his job for the past four years,” he said, “and so far as I know, Dob wants it for four more. Why should I have to do anything but go through the motions? I ought to get something out of it, oughtn’t I?”
“You ought to have to dig in and work for your grades like the rest of us do!” retorted Anthony.
Junior expertly ringed his first puff of smoke toward the ceiling.
“Oh, I’ll work all right when the time comes. I do a whole lot of thinking and scheming and planning right now that nobody knows anything about. I’ll work, all right. But the trouble with you will be that you won’t know when I’m working and when I’m not, because when I work it does not always show on the surface.”
“Well, there’s one thing certain,” said Anthony, “you’ll work the Superintendent for a diploma; you’ll work your father for all the money you want.”
Junior stuck his hands in his well-filled pockets and sauntered to the door. Just as he passed through it, he leaned back so that the full light fell upon his face and figure, and he laughingly inquired: “How about working you fellows once in a while?”