Archer came in from French next morning feeling depressed. Mr. Alsop had caught him on an unmastered point in the lesson, and had then made him the subject of pleasantries which, though they seemed to the teacher merely casual examples of his innate cleverness, cut the sensitive boy to the quick. Of course the boy was foolish to be sensitive; one of the incidental advantages of the Seaton system is that while it may develop in the pupil a precocious sharpness and suspiciousness, it also accustoms him to hard knocks. Sam, however, could not avoid the impression that he was paying the penalty for Mr. Alsop’s defeat of the evening before. As he felt himself innocent of wrong-doing, his pride and his sense of justice were both offended.

He closed the door behind him and let the catch down; to keep the door locked seemed the easiest way to avoid trouble. As he turned, he was startled to see in the doorway of the second bedroom a coatless lad gazing at him with critical chilliness.

“Scared of burglars, or is some one after you?” asked the stranger, scornfully.

“Neither!” retorted Archer. “Who are you?”

“Peck! I suppose you’re the fellow this wise faculty has seen fit to tie me up with.”

“I’m Archer,” said Sam, curtly, resenting the contempt latent in Duncan Peck’s words.

“That’s a pretty name. It’ll look well on a card on the door. What’s your other name? Reginald?”

“No—Sam.”

“Sam! That’s a come-down after Archer. I’ll call you Archer; you call me Peck. I’ll take one side of the room, you the other. You’ve turned me out of my bedroom, I see.”

“Yes. I thought you weren’t coming. You can change again if you want to.”

“It isn’t worth the trouble. What do you want to lock yourself in for?”

“Some fellows came in here last night and raised a row. I wanted to be let alone.” Sam gave a short account of the experiences of the evening before.

“They won’t try that again now that I’ve got here,” Peck made complacent answer. “It’s foolish to get us into trouble with Alsop,” he added, his tone hardening. “He’ll be down on the room the whole year. It’ll take a lot of soft soap to make him feel right again.”

Sam was silent, convicted of having brought the room into suspicion by unwise conduct, yet puzzled to see wherein his error lay. He was disappointed, too, by the coldness and unfriendliness of this room-mate whom everybody had described as jolly and agreeable.

Peck put on his coat and went to the door. “I guess we can get along together if we let each other alone. Only don’t keep the door locked; I may sometime want to come in.”

Duncan went his way to the house which his fraternity made its headquarters, a little ashamed of his ugliness, but firm in the opinion that this new Archer was a “fresh guy” who would require repression to make him endurable. If Duncan had been forced to give grounds for this dislike, he could in honesty have advanced but two. With the first, Archer was in no way concerned: Duncan did not want a dormitory room-mate at all; he wanted to room with his friends of the Alpha Beta Gamma at Knowles’s. His father, however, who saw in this scheme but an additional incentive to waste time, had vetoed it at once, and written privately to the office to make sure that his son should receive a “good, quiet, studious room-mate” who might help him to become in his turn good, quiet, and studious. By what method of induction the office arrived at the conclusion that Samuel Wadsworth Archer was such a boy is not worth investigation; the office has its whims, and they are not always wrong.

Duncan’s second objection was personal. In moving him out of the bedroom which he had occupied for two years, calmly putting his household goods on the sidewalk, as it were, and taking possession, Archer had shown himself to be a fellow of a consummate and incurable insolence. Duncan didn’t care for the bedroom,—at least, so he assured himself,—but with a fellow of that stamp he wouldn’t even condescend to quarrel.

Duncan did not appear again until just before his afternoon recitation; the evening also he spent elsewhere. During the next day he was at home for hardly two of his waking hours, and during this time he was either dressing or undressing in his bedroom, or talking with fellows who came in, or working at his desk. He was not impolite, and he spoke pleasantly enough when he found occasion to speak at all; but he indulged in no unnecessary conversation and asked no favors, while his general manner indicated clearly his purpose that community of room should not involve community of life.

Sam, though inexperienced, was not wholly dense. He understood that his room-mate meant to have nothing to do with him, and at first felt both humiliated and hurt. But pride soon came to the rescue. If he was not good enough for Peck, neither was Peck good enough for him; he had no reason to be ashamed either of himself or of his family. If Peck did not want his society, he certainly could dispense with the companionship of Peck. This appeal to pride gave him a certain peace of mind and stayed him also against discouragements from another source.

In his high school Archer had been considered athletic. He had played on the eleven and on the nine, and still held the school record in the high hurdles. At Seaton he found himself judged by different standards. When he drifted out on the Seaton campus with twoscore football candidates, he confessed to himself sadly that he belonged in the lower third. He possessed too much length and too little breadth and weight ever to be a factor in the Seaton games. The only advantage which he could surely claim over the average impossible who enlivens the playing fields during the first fortnight with brand-new trousers and awkward zeal, was that, being long-legged, he could kick. The Seaton coaches wanted men who could kick, but they didn’t want men who could do nothing else. The best that could come within Archer’s reach was a place on the second, or on his class eleven.

The failure to make good in football had been in a measure anticipated. In the hurdles, however, Archer had permitted himself certain ambitions, which, though unexpressed, represented warmly cherished hopes. Now Collins, the trainer, who had got him out to display his paces, told him bluntly that he must learn to sprint before he could do anything worth while. It wasn’t enough to pace his distance properly and clear the barriers; he must mount in better form and get speed into his three strides between the hurdles. Archer, being strongly of the opinion that sprinters are born, not made, took this exhortation as an adverse judgment,—especially as it was coupled with the information that Fairmount’s regular racing time was a second under his record, while Kilham of Hillbury was good for at least one-fifth better.

Sam thought the whole subject over as he sat alone in his room after dinner on the day of the experiment with the hurdles. It was clear that he must accustom himself to an entirely new point of view. The sooner he was reconciled to being classed with the mediocrities, the better it would be for him. Duncan Peck’s conduct indicated that his personality was not especially taking; his recitation work was not brilliant, and he suspected that his conversation gave no assurance of great mental gifts; his only hope in athletics was to plod along the trail after the leaders and pick up what they might leave. The outlook for distinction was not promising—but why must he win distinction? Was it not better to acknowledge in all humility the commonplace character of his endowment, and go cheerfully forward doing his best all round, and letting results take care of themselves? He might play football for fun on the class team; he might take hurdle practice for exercise and amusement, without hope of silver cups and gold medals and the sight of his portrait in the Boston papers. He could certainly meet Duncan Peck like a polite and self-respecting fellow who courted nobody’s patronage and understood a sentiment expressed in manner quite as well as one voiced in rough words.