“I have an announcement to make,” he said. “I have chosen this time and place because it deals with something more or less directly connected with the work of this class in English. And to go straight to the point, the announcement deals with a very desirable prize, to be awarded in a competition open to all of you, and in which I hope many of you will take part.”
A rustle ran through the assembled class. Everybody was interested, with the exception of the despondent Poke, who merely slumped a little lower in his seat.
The principal cleared his throat, and went on. A friend of the school, who was engaged in local historical research, was ready to pay one hundred dollars to the pupil who should produce the best essay on the settlement and early days of the town. Industry in the collection of facts would be given quite as much consideration as the style and finish of the essays.
“In short,” the principal added, “the conditions will be such that all of you will find this a fair field of rivalry. It is not the intention to limit any contestant rigidly in the matter of space; though I must warn you that waste of words will count adversely. You can have room for all the facts you gather, but this means room for concise statement. The contest will close on the first of April, when the essays must be handed in; and the winner will be announced as soon thereafter as possible. A detailed statement of the conditions of the competition will be posted at once on the bulletin-board.”
Then the principal walked out of the room, and the class broke discipline for a little to discuss this great news in eager whispers. A hundred-dollar prize for a composition! That was the way most of them put the matter. And a hundred dollars seemed to be most inviting. Besides, there was hardly a boy or girl there who didn’t feel convinced that in some old aunt or uncle, or, better yet, grandfather or grandmother, was possible source of just the information that would win the competition. And style and finish were not to determine the result—there was a condition much to the general liking; this wasn’t to be a contest practically limited to the half dozen Juniors with a known knack for writing. Even the Shark wagged his head approvingly, though he had no notion of entering the lists, white paper used for composition instead of figuring being more or less wasted, to his way of thinking. Only Poke remained indifferent, and sunk in gloom.
The teacher, presently, called the class to order, and the recitation proceeded. At its close came recess, and the Juniors, flocking into the corridors and out to the school yard, fell to discussing the contest in all its bearings. Sam and his chums happened to be standing near the foot of the stairs when the principal came down from his office on the second floor, accompanied by a youth at whom the boys stared in surprise. For the youth was Paul Varley.
Paul stopped to speak to the boys, and the principal checked his pace, as if waiting for the visitor to have his little talk with the others.
“Maybe I’ll be with you fellows,” Varley said. “Some things I want to brush up on. I’ve been going over the business with Mr. Curtis”—he glanced at the principal—“and he thinks he can fix it for me.”
“But we’re Juniors, and you’ll be a Senior,” Sam remarked.
“No; more of an unclassified special student. I’ve had a pretty ‘spotty’ preparation, you know; and it struck me it would be a good thing to look after some of the weak spots while I’m here. So I made up my mind to—— I beg your pardon, madam!”