Back in Clarke, Dan and Gerald spread out their books on opposite sides of the table for an hour or more of study. Gerald was keeping his promise to Mr. McIntyre, and was really doing the best he was capable of at algebra. But it did seem as though Fate was against him, for, in order to do full justice to mathematics, he had to give less time to his other studies, with the result that his French had been suffering of late, and Mr. Von Groll had once or twice showed impatience. It seemed desperately hard to please everyone, thought Gerald.
Across the table Dan browsed through his morrow’s Latin, and then settled down to geometry. Now and then Gerald interrupted to ask assistance, and once Dan reached over for the younger boy’s book and puzzled out a line in Cæsar’s Gallic War for him. Nine o’clock struck, and Gerald looked up from his book with a sigh, glanced hopefully at Dan, found that youth still absorbed, and, with another sigh, went back to work. But ten minutes later Gerald pushed his book resolutely away, yawned, stretched, and spoke.
“I wish this universal disarmament they talk about nowadays had been a fact about 50 B. C.,” he said regretfully.
“Yes? Why?” asked Dan, looking up.
“There wouldn’t have been any Gallic War, and I wouldn’t have to read about it.”
“Well,” said Dan, “you’d better not let Collins hear you put the date of the Gallic War as 50.”
“Oh, well, it was around there somewhere,” answered Gerald indifferently. “What’s the good of being particular about the date of a thing that took place thousands of years ago? I never could remember dates, anyway. I guess I’m only sure about three.”
“And what are those?” asked Dan, closing his books and piling them in place.
“My birthday, the day they fired on Fort Sumter, and the date of the Third and Fourth Class baseball game.”
Dan laughed. “You want to be careful and not overtax that brain of yours, Gerald,” he said. Then: “That reminds me,” he said more seriously. “There’s going to be a good debate Saturday evening. Want to go along?”