Mr. Middleton dropped his head upon his chest and mused.  Meanwhile the audience were curious and impatient to know what on earth could be going on around the examiner’s table.  Those only who were nearest had heard the words of Walter Middleton when he first got up to disclaim all right to the gold watch.  But after he had gone forward to the table no more was heard, the conversation being carried on in a confidential tone much too low to be heard beyond the little circle around the board.

After musing for a few minutes, Mr. Middleton lifted his head and said: 

“I will follow your advice, my son.”  Then, raising his voice, he called out: 

“Ishmael Worth come forward.”

Ishmael, who had half suspected what was going on around that table, now arose, approached and stood respectfully waiting orders.

Mr. Middleton took the thesis from the hands of Walter and placed it in those of Ishmael, saying: 

“Look over that paper and tell me if it is not the first rough draft of your thesis.”

“Yes, sir, it is,” admitted the youth, as with embarrassment he received the paper.

“Have you a fair copy?” inquired Mr. Middleton.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is it? anywhere in reach?”

“It is in the bottom of my desk in the schoolroom, sir.”

“Go and fetch it, that we may examine it and fairly test your abilities,” commanded the master.

Ishmael left the drawing-room, and after an absence of a few minutes returned with a neatly folded paper, which he handed to Mr. Middleton.

That gentleman unfolded and looked at it.  A very cursory examination served to prove the great superiority of this copy over the original one.  Mr. Middleton refolded it, and, looking steadily and almost sternly into Ishmael’s face, inquired: 

“Was the rough draft sent to the examiners, instead of this fair copy, through any inadvertence of yours?  Answer me truly.”

“No, sir,” replied Ishmael, looking down.

“It was done knowingly, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For what purpose, may I ask you, did you suppress the fair copy, which most assuredly must have won you the watch, and substitute this rough draft, that as certainly must have lost it?”

Still looking down, Ishmael remained silent and embarrassed.

“Young man, I command you to reply to me,” said the master.

“Sir, I thought I had a right to do as I pleased with my own composition,” replied Ishmael, lifting his head and looking straight into the face of the questioner, with that modest confidence which sometimes gained the victory over his shyness.

“Unquestionably; but that is not an answer to my question, as to why the substitution was made.”

“I wish you would not press the question, sir.”

“But I do, Ishmael, and I enjoin you to answer it.”