One morning, St. John, on his way to the class-room, stopped before a bulletin-board on which had been written the names of the institutions offering scholarships to the pupils of the high school.  
He had overheard an occasional word about these scholarships, but really knew very little about them. So he stood there reading the list.
 
Then up the stairs behind him came half a dozen boys of section D. As they caught sight of St. John, they, too, stopped to see what he was reading. St. John, who seemed never to want any boy within a yard of him, turned to go, but, with a mischievous glance at the other, Reed stood still, and the others pressed closely together, penning St. John in to the little space between them and the board. Seeing their purpose, St. John’s face took on its haughtiest expression, and leaning against the board, he waited in angry silence for them to move aside and let him pass. But they, enjoying his discomfiture, stood laughing and chaffing one another, but never saying a word to him.
 
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More and more boys joined the group, and, each one taking in the situation, stood there as if he had no intention of going farther that day.
 
Finally Dixon called out:—
 
“Say, boys, who’s going to take these prizes?” glancing at the board.
 
“Gordon—Clark—Hamlin—Raleigh,” shouted the crowd.
 
“Yes,” said Reed, thoughtfully, “they’re the only ones that have the ghost of a chance.”
 
“But they can’t take ’em all,” somebody suggested.
 
“Well, the girls have a go at two of them. Aren’t you going to give the girls a chance?” said Dixon.
 
“We didn’t say that those fellows would accept the scholarships—but they’ll win ’em sure.” This from Barber.
 
“Yes,” said Reed, with one eye on St. John’s angry face, “they’ll win ’em sure, and they ought to. They’ve worked hard enough for them, and they deserve all they’ll win. The rest of us must play second fiddle this year. Not but what second fiddle is pretty fair, when it puts a chap up in the nineties.”
 
“Here comes Bobby!”
 
The word ran through the crowd, and the group dissolved like magic, leaving St. John free to enter the class-room.
 
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Of course he knew that the boys had only been trying to tease him, for his high rank in the class could not be denied; but all the same it made him furiously angry to be ranked with the “second fiddles,” and counted out entirely in the prize competition.
 
All but one of the six scholarships were to be given to the pupils having highest averages in all or in certain studies, during the three years’ course; but one, and that the highest prize—or the one so considered in the school—was offered to the boy who should rank first in the classical course during the senior year, and should also write the best Latin essay. If, as had sometimes happened, two or three boys should stand equally high on the year’s average, then the quality of their essays would decide to whom the prize should go. But if one boy should stand first in the class, and another not ranking as high should hand in a better essay—for any boy who chose was free to compete—then the prize would not be given at all that year.
 
“I’ll win that scholarship if it kills me to do it, just to make that crowd mad. It would make them mad enough to see their precious four worsted in the fight. And they shall see it, sure as fate!”
 
So ran St. John’s thoughts during that morning’s exercises. From that day, this one thought and purpose ruled him. He had never cared for athletic[238] sports, and riding and driving were all the exercise he ever took, but now, the time spent in going to and from school was all that he was out of doors; and almost every moment of his waking time was given to study. Long after midnight he worked, going over and over what he already knew, lest possibly, some point might have been forgotten or slighted.
 
The other four boys were working hard too, but they were so accustomed to out-of-door sports and exercise, that it never occurred to them that they could give them up. So they kept their brains and bodies in good working order, while St. John grew, week by week, more worn and weary.
 
“His royal highness looks rather seedy—eh,” Reed said one day to Clark, and the latter answered:—
 
“I think he’s working too hard.”
 
St. John’s ears, sharpened by his nervous anxiety, caught both question and answer, and resented anyone’s thinking that he needed to work harder than any of the others. Up to this time he had been coldly indifferent to his classmates, but now he began to hate them all. He told himself that they were all banded against him, and that not one of them wanted him to win. And this was true. He had made not the slightest effort to gain their friendship, while the others were all prime favorites.[239] Even Clark was happily conscious that the boys were friendly to him now; all except St. John and Lee. Lee’s Southern prejudice had not yet died away, and in his heart he still regarded Clark as a coward.
 
The competition for the prize scholarships was not confined to section D. There were two girls’ sections, and one other boys’ section in the senior year, and in each of these there were scholars who were quite as eager to win the prizes as were the boys in section D.
 
And in section D also there were other competitors besides the five who stood highest in the class. These were what Reed had called the “second fiddles,” and their chance lay in the fact that neither St. John, Gordon, nor Hamlin would accept the scholarships, should they win them, as all three of them were planning to enter some of the larger and more prominent colleges. They wanted the honor of winning the prizes, but it was generally understood that the prizes themselves would go to the next lower in class, while the whole class to a boy, always excepting St. John, was now determined that D should be the banner section this year. None were more eager for this last than Crawford and Freeman. Both of them were trying to live down the previous year’s record. They could hope to win no prizes, but they could do their share[240] towards raising the general record, and this they were trying to do.
 
As the sunny May days slipped away and examination time approached, the strain of the competition began to tell upon many of the pupils. Four in section D stood so nearly together that Mr. Horton himself could not see that one had any better chance than the others.
 
“I never had four such students in one class,” he said to Professor Keene one day. “So far as perfect recitations go, there is nothing to choose between them. When St. John first entered, he was away ahead in Latin, but the other three have been steadily overtaking him, and now it all rests on the examinations.”
 
“And the Latin essay,” added the professor.
 
“Yes. That, of course, decides one prize.”
 
“St. John going to win there?” questioned the professor.
 
Mr. Horton shook his head doubtfully:—
 
“I’m afraid the lad is not well,” he said. “I notice that he doesn’t think as quickly as he did, and one of the others may write a better essay. His will be couched in elegant Latin, but the matter of it may not be equal to some one of the others. There’s no telling; anyhow, it is going to be a very close contest, and I shall be glad when it is over.”
 
“Yes, so shall I,” responded the professor. “There’s[241] always more or less ill-feeling, and too great strain in these prize competitions.”
 
A carriage stood before the schoolhouse gate when school was dismissed that day. A lady and little girl sat within it, watching the throng of boys passing down the steps.
 
“There’s Charlie, Mamma! Charlie! Charlie!” called the child’s clear voice, as Reed, with Hamlin and Clark, came down the steps.
 
Reed hurried to the carriage, but his mother was looking not at him, but at one of the other two.
 
“Who is that boy, Charlie—the one that you were talking to?” she cried breathlessly.
 
Reed paused, with his hand on the carriage door.
 
“That’s Clark—Stanley Clark. You’ve heard me speak of him times enough,” he answered, wonderingly.
 
“Oh, Charlie, that is the boy that saved Nellie’s life. Don’t let him get away. Bring him here quick. I must speak to him.”
 
With a mixture of delight and amazement on his face, Reed raced after the two boys, and seizing Clark by the arm, cried:—
 
“Come, Clark, my mother wants to see you. You must come,” he added imperatively, as Clark held back, unwillingly. “I’ll tell you what it’s all about to-morrow, Hamlin”; and he began to pull Clark toward the carriage.
 
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Clark knew why he was wanted, for he had recognized the two, but he would far rather have risked his life again than to have been marched up to that carriage. But there was no help for it, so he submitted with the best grace possible.
 
Mrs. Reed seized both his hands, and her eyes were dim as she said:—
 
“To think that it was you who saved my little girl, and all this time we have never suspected it! You must have seen our advertisements?”
 
“Oh, yes,” said Clark, looking mightily uncomfortable, “but I didn’t want any more thanks, you know. Any fellow would have done what I did on the impulse of the moment. If I’d stopped to think, I should probably have stood still.”
 
“Not a bit of it,” said Mrs. Reed promptly. “A boy who acted on such an impulse as you did, couldn’t be a coward. It is not in him. B............