“Of course you will,” responded his father quietly, though his eyes were shining.  “It isn’t so hard for you as it is for Mr. Schenck.”

“Is Peter John worse?” inquired Will quickly.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t there something we can do?” said Will eagerly.

“No, nothing,” said Mr. Schenck.  “My boy is very sick, but all we can do is to wait.  He is having good care.  The only comfort I have is what they tell me about him and what he has been doing since he came to college.”

Both boys looked up quickly, but neither spoke and Mr. Schenck continued.  “Yes, there’s a young man I have met since I’ve been here who has told me many things about my boy that comfort me now very much.”

“Was it Mott?” interrupted Will.

“Yes, that was his name.  You know him too, I see.  He seems to be a very fine young man.  He told me that Peter was one of the leaders in his class, and that everybody in the college knew him.  He said too, that he had won his numerals—­though I don’t just understand what that means.”

“It means that he has the right to wear the number of his class on his cap or sweater,” said Will.  “That’s more than I’ve won.”  He had not the heart to undeceive the unhappy man, though both he and Foster were aware that Mott had been overstating the facts in his desire to comfort Peter John’s father.

“Well, I hope he’ll get well,” said Mr. Schenck with a heavy sigh, “though it does seem as if such things always happened to the brightest boys.  I’m going to stay here for a few days till I know he’s better or—­” The sentence was not completed and for a time there was a tense silence in the room.

At last the men departed, Mr. Schenck to go to his son’s room where he was to sleep while he remained in Winthrop, and Mr. Phelps to the station where he was to take the train for his home.  Will accompanied his father, but the subject that was uppermost in the mind of each was not referred to for there are times when silence is golden.

In the days that followed, Will Phelps worked as he never had worked before in all his brief life.  His distaste for the Greek and dislike of the professor were as strong as before, and at times it almost seemed to him that he could no longer continue the struggle.  His sole inspiration was in the thought of his father and in his blind determination not to be mastered.

An additional element of gloom in those days were the reports that came from the infirmary of the condition of Peter John.  All the other patients appeared to be doing well, but the daily word from the watchers by Peter John’s bedside was that he was worse.  A pall seemed to be resting over the entire college.  The noisy songs and boisterous shouts were not heard in the dormitories nor upon the campus.

A part of the general anxiety was gone when as the days passed there were no reports of new cases developed, but the fear of what was to be the issue in the case of Peter John was in every heart—­even with those who had not exchanged a word with him since he had entered Winthrop.