“All higher than eighty-two,” Sam pointed out.
“Granted. I can’t grant, though, direct application to the main question before us.”
“Which is that you think the Trojan lied?” Sam asked bluntly.
“That is certainly the most serious aspect of the case.”
Sam reflected swiftly. “Well, sir,” he said, “I’m sure he didn’t lie, and I believe some day we can prove he didn’t. But, meanwhile, we’ve got to figure on what he can do. That zero will smash his term-stand. As he isn’t to be allowed to recite with the class in Latin, he’ll have no chance to pull it up; so, even if he came in for the final and did mighty well, he’d probably be flunked.”
“It might be.”
“Well, I—we—his friends, I mean—don’t want to have him flunked. We’d do anything to prevent it. And that brings me to something we’d like to have arranged and understood. If the Trojan keeps up in his Latin by outside work, and this—this other thing is cleared up, and he passes the final, what can be done about his term marks?”
It was plain that the principal, if not persuaded of the Trojan’s innocence, was impressed by Sam’s earnestness.
“If your hopes can be realized, Parker, and if we can be shown that Walker is a victim of circumstances—I warn you, it’s a difficult task you appear to have set yourself—if you can clear his record, you can depend upon me to give him fair play.”
“Then you’ll fix the term-stand part of it?” Sam insisted.