“And the Latin essay,” added the professor.
“Yes. That, of course, decides one prize.”
“St. John going to win there?” questioned the professor.
Mr. Horton shook his head doubtfully:—
“I’m afraid the lad is not well,” he said. “I notice that he doesn’t think as quickly as he did, and one of the others may write a better essay. His will be couched in elegant Latin, but the matter of it may not be equal to some one of the others. There’s no telling; anyhow, it is going to be a very close contest, and I shall be glad when it is over.”
“Yes, so shall I,” responded the professor. “There’s always more or less ill-feeling, and too great strain in these prize competitions.”
A carriage stood before the schoolhouse gate when school was dismissed that day. A lady and little girl sat within it, watching the throng of boys passing down the steps.
“There’s Charlie, Mamma! Charlie! Charlie!” called the child’s clear voice, as Reed, with Hamlin and Clark, came down the steps.
Reed hurried to the carriage, but his mother was looking not at him, but at one of the other two.
“Who is that boy, Charlie—the one that you were talking to?” she cried breathlessly.