Peter had gone to school with him at St. Matthew’s, but their acquaintance was only of the nodding kind. Armitage had told Peter that Morris was “good for a hundred at least.” Fortune had apparently played into the collector’s hands at the very beginning of his canvassing, for, crossing the yard in the morning he had encountered Morris, and had, not without a struggle with his diffidence, stopped him and asked for a subscription.
“We, that is, Armitage and the others, you know, thought that about one hundred dollars would be—er—enough,” he had announced. Whereupon Morris, who was plainly in a hurry to reach the square, had grinned and replied:
“Really? That’s very modest of them, isn’t it? Don’t you think they’d rather have a thousand?”
The tone had made Peter feel a bit uncomfortable, but he had managed to give audible expression to the belief that a hundred would do very nicely; upon which Morris had again grinned down upon him from his six feet two inches, and had started away.
But Peter had trotted after him. “Then we—then I may look for one hundred, Morris?”
“You may,” the other had answered. “Oh, yes, you may look for it. There’s my car.”
It was a hard race to the square, but Peter sprinted desperately and swung himself up on the rear platform a second after Morris.
“You—you promise?” gasped Peter.
“Oh, yes, confound you! Get off or you’ll break your neck!”
Peter did not break his neck, but he afforded much amusement to a group of students by rolling riotously over the street for several yards. To-day, as he skirted the yard toward Morris’s room, he recalled that hard-bought promise and was comforted. Another hundred would bring his list up to the sum of three hundred and sixty-four dollars, far removed from the fabulous amount predicted by Armitage, but, after the ill success of the past four days, something over which to rejoice. During the bitterest moments of his laboring, Peter had comforted his soul with thoughts of that one hundred dollars.