graphed that brownish slip. It was a check. He swung his head away, but the photographic vision persisted. It was a check made payable to Carlos Dix for $1500—and the name signed to it in a heavy, easy-read hand was that of Mr. B. B. Ballinger.
The interruption of the telephone had broken the thread of discussion. When the lawyer presently swung around to the boy, Praska's chin was again squared and set. The man seemed to feel a vague hostility. Somehow, to go on arguing now seemed futile. There was a period of constrained silence.
"Well," the lawyer said, "we don't have to settle this to-day. There's another point, though: when you go out from Northfield, you'll wear the Northfield stamp. Your success or your failure will be, in some respects, a Northfield success or failure. You owe it to yourself to equip yourself for success, and you owe it to Northfield. If you won't think of yourself, George, think of the school. Northfield demands your best. Northfield will be satisfied with nothing less."
And in Praska's mind, as he listened, was a satiric picture of that $1500 check. B. B. Ballinger's money—for what? Was that Carlos Dix's idea of giving Northfield one's best—or one's second best! To the boy, at that moment, all this
