At half-past ten the next morning Mr. Daley hurried into the class-room where French IV was already assembled, stumbled over the edge of the platform—the boys would have gasped with amazement had he neglected to do that—and took his seat. On one corner of the table in front of him was a pile of blue-books. He drew it toward him and ran a hand along the edges of the books.

"Has everyone handed in his composition?" he asked.

There was no reply and he seemed surprised. "I—er—I am to understand, then, that you have all turned your books in?"

Still no dissenting voice. Mr. Daley's gaze travelled over the class until it encountered Steve at the rear of the room. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, cleared his throat and finally pushed the pile of books aside.

"Very well," he said. "I shall mark these this evening. You will—er—kindly get them to-morrow. Now then, 'Le Siege de Paris'; we left off where, Upton?"

At a few minutes past twelve Steve knocked at Mr. Daley's door, and, obeying the invitation, entered. The instructor was seated at his desk, a litter of blue-books in front of him and a pipe in his mouth. The latter he laid aside as the boy appeared.

"You said you wanted to see me, sir," said Steve.

"Er—yes, Edwards. Sit down, please." The instructor took up his pipe again, hurriedly put it aside, seized a pencil and jotted nervously on the back of a book. Finally,

"I—er—find your composition here," he said. "When did you write it?"

"Between half-past ten last night and two o'clock this morning."

"Hm!" Mr. Daley swung around in his chair, viewed the oblong of landscape framed by the window for a moment and swung back again. There was a faint smile about his eyes. "Edwards, you—er—are a bit disconcerting. I presume you know that the rules require you to be in bed with lights out at ten-thirty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm! And you—er—deliberately transgressed that rule?"

"I didn't see anything else to do, Mr. Daley. You said I must turn that in by noon and there wouldn't have been time this morning to do it."

"Logically reasoned, my boy, but——" The instructor shook his head. "You mustn't expect me to compliment you on your performance, Edwards. To perform one duty by neglecting another is hardly—er—commendable. If it were not that you had transgressed a rule of the school, Edwards, I might compliment you quite highly. Your composition—I—er—I've been glancing through it—is really very good. I don't mean that you have not made mistakes of grammar, for you have, lots of them, but—er—you have written a well-constructed and—er—well-expressed narrative. What I—er—especially like about it is the subject. You have written of something you know about, something close at home, so to say. I—er—I am not much of a swimmer myself, but I presume that the instructions you have laid down here are—er—quite correct. In fact, Edwards, I'll even go so far as to say that I fancy one might take this composition of yours and—er—really learn something about swimming. And—er—if you have ever tried to learn anything of the sort—golf, rowing, tennis—from a hand-book you will realise that that is high praise."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"I had decided to mark your composition with a B, Edwards. Perhaps the many mistakes in grammar would ordinarily indicate a C, perhaps even a C minus, but the—er—other merits of the exercise are so pronounced that, on the whole, I think it deserves a B."

"Thank you, sir."

"Er—just a moment." The instructor held up a hand. "I said that I had decided to give you a B, Edwards. That, however, was before I had learned when this was written. I shall now give it a D minus. You—er—you understand why, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry, but I—er—must take into consideration the facts in the case. And those facts are that you neglected your work until the last moment and then disobeyed one of the well-known rules of the school in order to perform it. There is one other thing I might do. I might credit you with a B on your exercise and report you to the Office for disobeying the rules. But—er—I think, on the whole, that the first method is the more satisfactory. You understand, of course, that anything under a C in this test is equivalent to failure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm; exactly. Therefore, Edwards, you will be required to make up nearly a month's work in French. I shall have to ask you to prove to me that you are in line with the rest of the class. But you will have a full week to do this and I—er—I suspect that you will not find it very difficult." Mr. Daley took up a blue pencil and marked a large "D—" on the corner of the blue-book. "You might as well take this now, Edwards. Bring me another composition not later than a week from to-day, please." The instructor fluttered the leaves of a memorandum-pad and made a note opposite a future date. "I have not corrected it, but, as you have it to do over, that is not necessary."

Mr. Daley leaned back in his chair and gazed for a minute at the table. Then,

"There is one other thing, Edwards," he said hesitantly. "About last night, you know; the—er—the misappropriation of Upton's blue-book. Have you—er—thought that over?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Hm! I should like to ask you one question and receive an absolutely truthful reply, Edwards."

"Yes, sir."

"When you took that book to your room did you intend to—er—make a wrong use of it?"

"No, sir. I saw the book on your table, Mr. Daley, and—and it did occur to me that it would be easy to copy it out in my own writing and—and turn it in as my work, sir. I read a little of it and put it back on the table. But I don't at all remember seeing it again after that, sir, and that's the truth. I haven't the slightest recollection of having it in my hand when I left this room or of putting it on the table upstairs. And—and I'd like you to believe me, sir."

"I want to, Edwards, I want to," replied Mr. Daley eagerly. "And—er—to-day your story sounds much more plausible. I can imagine that, with the thought of your own composition in mind and doubtless worrying you, you might easily have—er—absentmindedly picked that book from the table here when you went out and taken it to your room without being conscious of the act. I believe that to be quite possible, Edwards, and I am going to think it happened just that way. I have never observed any signs of—er—dishonesty in you, my boy, and I don't think you are a liar. We will consider that matter closed and we will both forget all about it."

"Thank you, sir," replied Steve gratefully.

"But, Edwards, this seems to me a good time to tell you that—er—that your attitude toward—er—your work and toward those in authority has not been satisfactory. You have—er—impressed me as a boy with, to use a vulgar expression, a grouch. Now, get that out of your system, Edwards. No one is trying to impose on you. Your work is no harder than the next fellow's. What you lack is, I presume, application. I—er—I don't deny that possibly you are pressed for time when it comes to studying, but that is your fault. Your football work is exacting, for one thing, although there are plenty of fellows—I could name twenty or thirty with whom I come in contact—who manage to play football and maintain an excellent class standing at the same time. So, Edwards, the fault lies somewhere with you, in you, doubtless. Now, what do you think it is?"

"I don't know, Mr. Daley." Steve shook his head hopelessly. "I want to do what's right, sir, but—but somehow I can't seem to."

"When you study do you put your mind on it, or do you find yourself thinking of other things, football, for instance?"

"I guess I think of other things a good deal," replied Steve.

"Football?"

"I guess so; football and—and swimming and—lots of things, sir."

"There's a time for football and a time for study, Edwards. You will have to first of all—er—leave football behind you when you come off the field. Swimming, the same way. It won't work. I've seen it tried too often, Edwards. You—er—you wouldn't want to have to give up football, I suppose?"

"No, sir!" Steve looked up in alarm.

"But it might come to that, my boy. You're here to learn, you know, and we would not be treating your parents fairly—or you either—if we allowed you to waste your time. Football is an excellent sport; one of the best, I think; but it's only a sport, not a—er—profession, you know. All the knowledge of football in the world isn't going to help you when you leave here and try to enter college. By the way, I presume you intend to go to college, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then keep that in mind. Remember that you're getting yourself ready for it. Perhaps that will make your work seem better worth doing. How are you getting on with your Latin?"

"Very well, sir, just now."

"Better see that 'just now' becomes 'all the time,' Edwards. Why, look here! You can do the work set you and play football or baseball or anything else if you'll make up your mind to it. You're a bright, normal fellow, with the average amount of brains. Systematise, Edwards! Arrange your day right. Mark down so many hours for recitations, so many hours for study, so many hours for play, and stick to your schedule. You'll find after awhile that it comes easy. You'll find that you—er—you'll miss studying when anything keeps you from it. When you go out of here I want you to do that very thing, my boy. I want you to go right up to your room, take a sheet of paper and make out a daily schedule. And when you've got it done put it somewhere where you'll see it. And stick to it! Will you?"

"Yes, sir; that is, I—I'll do my best."

"Good!" Mr. Daley held out a hand, smiling. "Shake hands on it, Edwards. You may not believe it, but half of—er—doing a thing consists of making up your mind to it! Well, that's all, I think. Er—you'd better look me up this evening and we'll settle about that French. Good-bye. Hope I haven't made you late for dinner."

Steve drew a deep breath outside the door, puckered his lips and whistled softly, but it was a thoughtful whistle; as thoughtful as it was tuneless, and it lasted him all the way upstairs and into his room. Tom had gone, evidently having wearied of waiting for his friend to accompany him to dinner. Steve's own appetite was calling pretty loudly, but, having slipped the blue-book out of sight under a pile on the table, he dropped into his chair, drew a sheet of paper to him and began on the schedule. It took him almost a half-hour to complete it, and he spoiled several sheets in the process, but it was finally done, and, heading it "Daley Schedule," with a brief smile at the pun, he placed it on his chiffonier and hurried across to Wendell.