The middle of it is a little queer, but we'll fix that
up all right. Who says you're not a Cicero?"
"Bobbie, if I thought for one moment that there was any danger of my
becoming a Cicero or any other Latin worthy I'd go drown myself!"
Van cried, startled at the mere thought. "I'm not so worse, though,
am I? I'd no idea I could reel it off like that."
"Of course you can do it. Why, Van, you could do all kinds of things
if you'd only go at them. The trouble with you is that you always
study with one eye out the window. If you'd only get down to your
job with all your might you'd not only get your lessons better but
you'd learn them in half the time."
"I 'spect that's so," drawled Van lazily. "I ought to duff right in
on all fours. I acknowledge it. But it is not so easy to make your
mind go where you send it."
He broke off, shifting the subject to athletics, and was in the
highest spirits the rest of the day; but underneath all his fun and
banter the question constantly arose in his inner consciousness: How
could he elude his roommate's watchfulness and on the coming
Saturday escape to the great game?
Strangely enough Fortune seemed to smile upon his plot, for Friday
morning Bob was taken to the infirmary with a sore throat, which,
although slight, isolated him from the rest of the boys. No longer
was he at Van's elbow to watch, warn, or censure.
The coast was entirely clear.
Van formulated his plans.
Directly after luncheon on Saturday he would start for the city,
hugging the edge of the campus and afterward cutting across the
adjoining estate to meet the car line where it forked into the main
road.
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