“There’s something queer about him,” said Joe.
“How’s that?”
“Why, if he’s only a Soph. this year he must have been a Freshman last. And yet he pitched on the ’varsity I understand.”
“Weston’s is a peculiar case,” said Ricky. “I heard some of the fellows discussing it. He’s classed as a Soph., but he ought really to be a Junior. This is his third year here. He’s a smart chap in some things, but he got conditioned in others, and in some studies he is still taking the Soph. lectures, while in others he is with the Juniors. He was partly educated abroad, it seems, and that put him ahead of lots of us in some things. So, while he was rated with the Freshmen in some studies last year, he was enough of a Sophomore to comply with the intercollegiate rules, and pitch on the ’varsity. He did well, so they said.”
“I wish fate handed me out something like that,” mused Joe. “If I had known that I’d have boned away on certain things so as to get a Sophomore rating—at least enough to get on the big nine.”
“Why, don’t you intend to stay at Yale?” asked Ricky. “A year soon passes. You’ll be a Sophomore before you know it.”
“I wish I was in Weston’s shoes,” said Joe softly.
Since that meeting on the campus, when the Sophomore had not recognized Joe, the two had not encountered each other, and Joe was glad enough of it.