Final examinations were now impending, and the preparation for them engaged our earnest attention night and day. The pressure upon Ray Wendell was particularly severe; for, being a Senior, his examinations took place during the first week in June. Ray, moreover, was determined to obtain a high rank in his class, and one of the honorary orations to which such a rank would entitle him. These orations were allowed to the first ten men in the Senior class, and as they were delivered on Commencement Day in the town hall before all the college faculty, trustees, and assembled guests, they were coveted and striven for as positions of marked distinction.
The valedictorian was selected by the faculty, and for the oration they chose the best speaker among the first six men in the class. It was this particular position that Ray desired; and in the estimation of his fellow students, his securing it depended solely upon him winning a place amongst the first six, for Ray was well known to be one of the best speakers in his class.
The week after our return from Berkeley, therefore, was one of steady, arduous work for Ray; and with the exception of the regular hours of baseball practice and meal time, he was to be found in his room, bent over his text books and lecture notes. And late at night, as I would retire, I could see his windows over in Warburton Hall shining brightly long after the rest of the building was darkened.
On one of these occasions I could not resist the temptation to run over for a few moments and break in on his loneliness; so, slipping on my coat, I crossed the quadrangle, and ascended to his room.
“Hullo, Harry,” he said, opening the door for me. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour of the night?”
“Well, to tell the truth, Ray, I came over here to ask you the very same question. I saw this one solitary light burning, and I was drawn to it like a bug on a summer night.”
“Come in and sit down,” he answered heartily. “I was pegging away at mathematics, and you know how I hate it. I was just wishing that some one would stroll in and vary the monotony when I heard your step.”
“How are you making out with your preparation?” I asked, sitting down on the sofa.
“Very well. I am losing no time—at it every minute, and I think I will win my place. Mathematics is all that troubles me. You know they examine us on the past two years’ work, and I find myself dreadfully rusty in my Junior year studies.”
“I pity you heartily,” I answered, “and I know how you feel, for I am looking forward already to my own examinations three weeks from now. Why, that looks like a trigonometry,” I added, pointing to the book that lay on the desk before him.
“It is,” he answered. “I am brushing up my Junior year work, and, as I said, I find myself very rusty.”
“Well, I’m not,” I said, rising quickly, “for that is just what I am studying now. Here, let us tackle it together. I can help you along faster, for I have it all fresh in my mind. Besides, it will serve me for preparation for my own examination.”
“Will you do that?” asked Ray.
“Why, certainly. I don’t want to waste your time talking. Let us put our heads together, and I will help you finish up your Junior year work.”
“All right, Harry, that’s a capital idea. Make up your mind to stay here tonight, and we will do up the whole thing while we are at it. Throw off your coat, and draw up your chair. Here is a pencil and some paper.”
I joined him at the desk, and we were soon deep in our work. So absorbed were we that we scarcely noticed the flight of time. It was therefore with a start of surprise that I looked at the clock as we finished our work.
“Well, who would have thought it!” I exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have believed that I had been here more than two hours, and yet look at the time. It is nearly four o’clock.”
I rose and went to the window. Off in the east, the first gray streaks of dawn were appearing. Over our work we had sat the night nearly through. Ray was leaning back wearily, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed.
“See here, Ray,” I suddenly exclaimed, “have you been at your books this late every night?”
He did not answer me. Approaching him and looking more closely into his face, I discovered that he had fallen sound asleep, sitting bolt upright in his chair. This, in itself, was answer enough to my question. I shook him gently by the arm. He started and looked up.
“I said it was very late, Ray. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Why, no,” he answered. “I didn’t hear another thing after you closed the book.”
“Ray, you must be careful,” I said. “Four o’clock is bad enough for one night, but it doesn’t pay to repeat it, as I am sure you have. You will make yourself sick, and then you won’t be any good, either for playing baseball or speaking honorary orations—you notice I put playing baseball first,” I added with a laugh.
“Oh, don’t you fear. I won’t get sick,” he answered. “I own I am tired, for I have been keeping late hours—or early hours you might call them, for a week, but then I had to in order to get in shape for examinations. All I need is some sleep and I will be as fresh as ever. This is Friday night; after tomorrow these late hours will be over, and then I can get plenty of rest.”
“Well, see that you do, for you evidently need it,” I said. “Come on and get to sleep now without more delay.”
“Oh, by the way,” said Ray, as he rose and picked up a letter from the floor. “Here is a matter that I was just going to speak about when you suggested working together. It is a letter from Berkeley which Tony Larcom handed to me this afternoon. He has been writing the Park men about the date for the deciding game. Tony, according to my suggestion, has urged as late a day as possible. They have examinations over there almost the same time that we do, so they seemed to be quite agreeable to a delay. There has been some little correspondence concerning the matter, and this is their final letter, in which they agree to the date suggested by Tony; that is, the 21st of June.”
“Why, that is the day before Commencement,” I said.
“Yes,” answered Ray, “and all the better on that account. It will mean a large crowd of visitors and friends. This, of course, will swell the receipts of the Baseball Association, and will give us a strong and enthusiastic backing. There will be a great many graduates here to rejoice with us if we win the championship.”
“It will be a great day, and we must not fail to do ourselves proud,” I responded. “Tell me frankly, Ray, which would you rather do: win the championship, or secure the valedictory oration?”
“Now don’t try to catch me that way,” laughed Ray. “I shall not express any preference. I want both, and I intend to get both if possible.”
“All right, old fellow,” I answered as we retired. “I sincerely hope you will.”