“I think you’re all right then, though Splinter is a hard proposition.  Just imagine him talking like this man this morning.”

Will laughed, and then becoming serious, he said, “Wagner, I’ve a classmate who is bothering me.”

“Who is it?”

“Schenck.  Peter John everybody calls him.”

“What’s he doing?  What’s the trouble with him?”

“Well, to be honest, he’s drinking hard.”

“Wasn’t he one of the fellows who was down, with the typhoid when I had it?”

“Yes.”

“An awkward, ungainly, redheaded fellow?”

“That’s the one.”

“What have you been doing for him?”

“Everything I could think of, but nothing seems to hold.  He made all sorts of promises when he was sick and he hasn’t kept one of them.  He goes around with Mott and you know what that means.”

“Yes,” said Wagner thoughtfully.

“He’s a queer chap.  I was in school three years with him and in some ways he was absolutely idiotic.  For a while he’d work all right and then without a word of warning he’d break out and do some of the most absolutely fool things you ever heard of.”

“Not very much to appeal to, I fancy.”

“There might be if a fellow knew how, but I confess I don’t.”

“You think it would do any good for me to see him?”

“Yes, I do,” said Will eagerly.  “You know he might stand a show for the track team—­”

“Is he the fellow that won the half-mile in the sophomore-freshman meet?” inquired Wagner eagerly.  “Is he the one?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see him.  I’ll go right over there now.  You’re not letting up any in your own work for the team are you, Phelps?”

“I’m doing a little all the time,” Will admitted, “but I don’t suppose it will amount to much.”

“Yes, it will.  You never can tell till you try.  If Mott does not do better he’ll find himself out of it.  We’ll need you and every one we can get.  You know I can’t go in this year.”

“Why not?”

“The typhoid.  Doctor won’t let me.”

“Then Peter John can’t go in either.”

“That’s so.  I hadn’t thought of that.  All the more reason then why you ought to do your best, Phelps.  I’ll see this John Henry anyway—­”

“You mean Peter John.”

“All right.  Have it your own way.  I’ll go over to his room and look him up anyway.  Good-bye, Phelps.”

“Good-bye,” responded Will, as the senior started down the stairway.

Several days elapsed before Will heard anything of Wagner’s interview with Peter John and then all that Wagner told him was that the freshman had promised faithfully to do better.  But Will had already had so much experience with Peter John’s promises that he was somewhat skeptical as to results.  His classmate he knew was not essentially vicious, only weak.  He was so weak and vain that he was eager to gain the favor of whatever person he chanced to be with, and his promise of better things to Wagner was as readily given as was his response to Mott when the latter happened to be his companion of the hour.