Chapter 16 - Page 2

very lenient with him, knowing that he was having trouble in the classical courses. But writing an original composition in French was a feat that filled Steve with dismay. What the dickens was he to write about? Mr. Daley had announced that the composition must contain not less than twelve hundred words. That approximated six pages in a blue-book. Steve sighed, frowned, shook his head and finally shrugged his shoulders. After all, there was no use worrying about that yet. There still remained three days for the composition, and the most important thing now was to make a showing in Latin. French could wait. If he didn't find time for the composition--well, Mr. Daley was easy! He'd get by somehow!

So Steve pegged away hard at his Latin for several days and made a very good showing, and Mr. Simkins, who had been contemplating harsh measures, took heart and hoped that further reports to the principal would be unnecessary. But what with Latin and Greek and mathematics and history and English, that French composition was still unwritten when Thursday evening arrived. It had been a hard day on the gridiron and Steve was pretty well fagged out when study hour came. He had told himself for several days that at the last moment he would buckle down and do that composition, but to-night, with a hard lesson in geometry staring him in the face, the thing looked impossible. Across the study table, Tom was diligently digging into Greek, his French composition already finished and ready to be handed in on the morrow. Steve looked over at him enviously and sighed. He hadn't an idea in his head for that composition! After a while, when he had spoiled two good sheets of paper with meaningless scrawls, he pushed back his chair. There was just one course open. He would go down and tell Mr. Daley that he couldn't do it! After all, "Horace" was a pretty reasonable sort of chap and would probably give him another day or two. In any case, it was impossible to do the thing to-night. He glanced at his watch and found that the time was ten minutes to eight. Tom looked up inquiringly as Steve's chair went back.

"I'm going down to see 'Horace,'" said Steve. "I can't do that French composition, and I'm going to tell him so. If he doesn't like it, he may do the other thing."

Tom made no reply, but he watched his chum thoughtfully until the door had closed behind him. Then he dug frowningly for a moment with the nib of a pen in the blotter and finally shook his head and went back to his book.

When Steve was half-way between the stairwell and Mr. Daley's door, the latter opened and Eric Sawyer came out. Steve was in no mood to-night to pick a quarrel and he passed the older fellow with averted eyes, dimly aware of the scowl that greeted him. When he knocked at the instructor's door there was no reply and, after a moment, Steve turned the knob and entered. At the outer door Eric had paused and looked back.