“Gordon—Clark—Hamlin—Raleigh,” shouted the crowd.
“Yes,” said Reed, thoughtfully, “they’re the only ones that have the ghost of a chance.”
“But they can’t take ’em all,” somebody suggested.
“Well, the girls have a go at two of them. Aren’t you going to give the girls a chance?” said Dixon.
“We didn’t say that those fellows would accept the scholarships—but they’ll win ’em sure.” This from Barber.
“Yes,” said Reed, with one eye on St. John’s angry face, “they’ll win ’em sure, and they ought to. They’ve worked hard enough for them, and they deserve all they’ll win. The rest of us must play second fiddle this year. Not but what second fiddle is pretty fair, when it puts a chap up in the nineties.”
“Here comes Bobby!”
The word ran through the crowd, and the group dissolved like magic, leaving St. John free to enter the class-room.
Of course he knew that the boys had only been trying to tease him, for his high rank in the class could not be denied; but all the same it made him furiously angry to be ranked with the “second fiddles,” and counted out entirely in the prize competition.
All but one of the six scholarships were to be given to the pupils having highest averages in all or in certain studies, during the three years’ course; but one, and that the highest prize—or the one so considered in the school—was offered to the boy who should rank first in the classical course during the senior year, and should also write the best Latin essay. If, as had sometimes happened, two or three boys should stand equally high on the year’s average, then the quality of their essays would decide to whom the prize should go. But if one boy should stand first in the class, and another not ranking as high should hand in a better essay—for any boy who chose was free to compete—then the prize would not be given at all that year.