Peter was encouraged, and his eloquence increased. The freshman class, he declared, was in many ways the most important of all. Its contests on track, field and river were watched with interest second only to that given to the struggles of the varsity teams and crews. The class that attained honor in its freshman year established a stable basis for future glory. Those whose privilege it was to make possible that honor, either by labor or by financial support, should deem themselves fortunate.
Morris was now groaning impotently. Peter brushed a stray wisp of red-gold hair from his brow and went on, his eyes transfixing his victim. There were many in the class, he said, who could afford to contribute but little to the cause. There were others so fortunate as to be in position to give generously. It was the duty, the privilege of every fellow to give according to his means. In the case of Morris——
The clock chimed the half-hour. Morris gave a deep sigh and yielded.
“Goldie, for heaven’s sake cut it out!” he begged. “Let me up and I’ll write you a check for fifty dollars.”
“Ninety,” corrected Peter, firmly.
“Well, ninety.”
Peter rose and untied several knots. The result was not quite what Morris had expected. He found only his right arm free.
“Where’s your check-book?” asked Peter.
“In the desk. Aren’t you going to let me up?”