"'Be ready at any time for instructions from the Secretary of the Navy to report at Annapolis. Sincerely yours,
Jacob Bland.'"
"What do I care for that?" said Forsythe. "I suppose I've got a letter in there, too. Let's see."
While Denman waited, Forsythe entered the post-office, and soon emerged, reading a letter.
"Same thing," he said. "I failed by three points in my special study. How is it, Bill?" he demanded, fiercely, as his disappointment grew upon him. "I've beaten not only you, but the whole class from the primary up, in history, ancient, modern, and local, until now. There's something crooked here." His voice sank to a mutter.
"Crooked, Jack! What are you talking about?" replied Denman, hotly.
"Oh, I don't know, Bill. Never mind. Come on, if you're going home."
They walked side by side in the direction of their homes—near together and on the outskirts of the town—each busy with his thoughts. Denman, though proud and joyous over the prize he had won, was yet hurt by the speech and manner of Forsythe, and hurt still further by the darkening cloud on his face as they walked on.
Forsythe's thoughts were best indicated by his suddenly turning toward Denman and blurting out:
"Yes, I say; there's something crooked in this. I can beat you in history any day in the week, but your dad and old Bland are close friends. I see it now."