He had never been boastful about his strength and powers as an athlete, yet when put to the test he easily took first place.
He had told no tales of the superb power he possessed as a swimmer, and yet when matched in a race showed what he could do.
It was the same in a boat race, for though he had a fine, strong stroke, he only drew upon his hidden powers when victory demanded it.
In his class he stood well in his studies, always knew his lessons, no more; but would he not surprise all when it came to the tug of war?
At last the time came round for this much mooted question to be answered, and when the honor man of the fourth class was called upon to come to the front, his name was Mark Merrill.
“I told you so! it was honors easy for Merrill,” Byrd Bascomb had muttered to Nazro, who whispered:
“Look at Clemmons.”
Opposite the name of Scott Clemmons stood “Number Two;” but the look upon his face was such as a man might wear who had dropped from hope to despair.